Chapter 210: THE LETTER FROM THE SOUTH
Dawn broke over the royal encampment in shades of grey.
Leonardo still stood beside the body of Sir Harlan when the first light touched the eastern horizon. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t moved. The white cloth covering his friend’s face remained exactly as it had been the night before—clean, neat, and bearing no reflection of the chaos raging within his chest.
In the distance, footsteps approached. Quick, light—not the heavy tread of a soldier.
An envoy arrived at a jog, carrying a parchment scroll sealed with gold. His uniform was caked in dust, a testament to an unrelenting journey from Sol-Regis. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he forced himself to kneel with proper etiquette before the Crown Prince.
"Your Highness. Orders from King Edward."
Leonardo took the scroll without a word. He broke the golden seal—a seal bearing the Sun of Aethelgard that he once viewed with immense pride, but now felt like nothing more than cold metal against his fingers. He unfurled the scroll and read in silence.
The letter was brief. Only a few lines.
"Withdraw. Enough. We shall attempt a peaceful approach."
There were no long explanations. No words of gratitude for the sacrifices made. Only an order. Leonardo folded the paper slowly, tucking it into the pocket of his cloak.
"Withdraw," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Inform all commanders. We depart in two hours."
The envoy bowed and departed.
Leonardo’s command tent was still cluttered with maps and reports when Alistair burst inside. The Duke of Highgarden’s face was still ghostly pale—blood loss and lack of sleep made him look years older than his actual age. His shoulder was still heavily bandaged, and every step he took seemed to radiate pain. But his eyes—those eyes still burned with the same unquenchable fire.
"I heard you’re retreating." It wasn’t a question.
Leonardo didn’t look up. He was busy rolling up the maps on his desk. "You heard correctly."
"This is madness." Alistair stepped closer, slamming his hand onto the table. The maps shifted. "We still have forces. We can still win. Why are you—"
"Because this is an order from the King." Leonardo finally looked at him. His eyes were cold, but it wasn’t a threatening coldness. It was the coldness of exhaustion. "Not a discussion. Not a negotiation. An order."
Alistair clenched his fist. "So you’re going to crawl home like a beaten dog? After everything we’ve sacrificed?"
Leonardo didn’t answer immediately. He stared at Alistair—at the wound on his shoulder, at the devastation in his eyes, at the remnants of pride still clinging to his dented armor.
"I have no choice," Leonardo said finally. "And neither do you."
"I always have a choice."
"Then choose." Leonardo walked past him toward the tent flap. "Go home to Highgarden. Or stay here and die alone. It’s up to you."
Alistair turned, staring at Leonardo’s back. "You’re a coward."
Leonardo stopped at the threshold. He didn’t turn around. "Perhaps." Then he stepped out, leaving Alistair alone in the tent that was rapidly turning into an empty shell.
Two hours later, the royal army began its retreat.
There were no drums. No trumpets. Only the sound of heavy footsteps, the creak of wagon wheels, and the coughing of soldiers still nursing their wounds. They marched in a long column—not a combat formation, but an evacuation. Their faces were hollow. No one cheered. No one cried. Only a fatigue that had seeped into their very bones remained.
Atop a small hill, Leonardo halted his horse. He turned back, gazing at Torshavn one last time. The city still stood. The tanks were still on guard. The people inside were still alive. He didn’t know if he would ever see this city again. He didn’t know if he even wanted to.
"I will return," he whispered to himself. But this time, even he wasn’t convinced.
That afternoon, an envoy from the royal camp arrived at the gates of Torshavn.
He carried a white flag—a universal symbol that required no translation. The gate guards detained him, searched his belongings, and escorted him to the makeshift command room where Riven and Rianor were located.
The room was a former grain warehouse. Its brick walls were cracked in several places, and the roof leaked whenever it rained. But it was enough to house the large table and the maps that were now no longer necessary.
Riven stood near the window when the envoy entered. Rianor sat in a chair, his crystal tablet glowing with the latest casualty data. Thorne stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching intently.
The envoy—a young officer in a faded royal uniform—gave a brief salute. "A letter from Prince Leonardo."
Riven took the scroll. He broke the seal and read the contents in silence. It was short, only a few sentences.
"We are withdrawing. A ceasefire. This war should never have begun."
Riven stared at the letter for a long time. Then, he handed it to Rianor. Rianor read it, his face as stoic as ever. He made no comment. He simply placed the letter on the table.
"They are leaving," Rianor said.
Riven walked to the window, staring south. From here, he could see the dust rising in the distance—the dust of a retreating army. "We won."
Outside, voices began to rise. Not the sound of drums or trumpets, but the sound of people—soldiers beginning to realize what was happening. Some shouted, waving their hands, hugging the comrades beside them. Others just sat in silence, staring blankly ahead, not knowing what to feel.
Inside the warehouse, Thorne let out a long sigh. "Finally."
But not everyone was celebrating.
In a corner of the room, a young officer—Lieutenant Farrow, who had carried the peace letter to Leonardo’s camp the day before—stood with a rigid face. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t crying. He just stared at the wall, his fists clenched at his sides.
Riven noticed him. "Farrow."
The lieutenant started. "Yes, sir?"
"What is it?"
Farrow hesitated. "My brother, sir. He... he was in the Sky-Hunter that went down yesterday. I only found out this morning."
A heavy silence hung in the air. Riven said nothing. He simply walked over, placed his hand on Farrow’s shoulder, and gripped it firmly. No words. None were needed.
Farrow lowered his head, his shoulders trembling. But he didn’t cry. Not here. Not now.
Night fell. Bonfires were lit throughout Torshavn—not for guard duty, but for celebration. Soldiers gathered, sharing food, sharing stories. Some laughed. Some cried. Most did both.
In the command room, Riven and Rianor sat opposite each other. Between them, the crystal tablet displayed the numbers they had recalculated dozens of times.
"One thousand two hundred infantry," Rianor read from the report. "Eighty tanks. Seven Sky-Hunters."
Riven nodded. "How many can be repaired?"
"Tanks: maybe thirty. The rest are too damaged—better to melt them down for spare parts. Sky-Hunters: out of the seven that went down, three can still be salvaged if we send technicians. The rest... are scrap metal."
"Infantry?"
Rianor sighed. "We need new recruitment. At least two thousand men to fill the gaps. And that’s not including training."
Riven leaned back. "How long?"
"For recruitment and basic training? Three months. To get them battle-ready like before? Six months. Maybe more."
Riven didn’t answer. He stared at those numbers—one thousand two hundred names that would never return home. Eighty tanks that would never grind the earth again. Seven helicopters that would never fly again.
"We won," he said softly. "But the price..."
"Was steep," Rianor finished the sentence. "But we are still standing."
In Iron Hearth, the night felt colder than usual.
Lucian Sudrath stood before his bedroom window, staring south. A light snow was falling—not enough to cover the ground, but enough to serve as a reminder that winter wasn’t over. In his hand, a crystal pager still glowed with Riven’s last message.
"Enemy retreating. Ceasefire. Our casualties: 1,200 infantry, 80 tanks, 7 Sky-Hunters. We are still standing."
Lucian had read the message many times. Each time, he stopped at the final words. We are still standing.
The door opened softly. Aurelia entered, carrying two cups of warm tea. She handed one to her husband, then stood beside him, staring in the same direction—south, toward their children who were still in Torshavn.
"Will they come home?" she asked.
Lucian took a sip of his tea. "Yes."
"When?"
"In a few days. They still have to handle logistics. Count the casualties. Ensure the city is secure."
Aurelia nodded. She didn’t ask anything else. She simply leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder, letting the warmth of the tea and each other’s presence ward off a chill that nothing else could touch.
"We are still standing," Lucian whispered.
Aurelia squeezed his hand. "We are still standing."
In Torshavn, the bonfires began to fade one by one.
Rianor stood atop the watchtower, alone. The night wind blew, carrying the scent of smoke and damp earth. He stared south—toward the empty horizon, toward the enemy that had departed.
He didn’t know when they would return. He didn’t know if they would return at all.
But for tonight, it didn’t matter.
He gazed at the stars above—thousands of pinpricks of light that didn’t care at all about the wars of men. Then he closed his eyes, letting the wind brush against his face.
They were still standing.
For now, that was enough.