The forest was alive with sound — the crack of branches underfoot, the hiss of wind through the trees, the quiet voices of men and women trying to learn the art of war.
Aron moved among them, watching as Garron showed a farmer how to hold a spear without shaking. Lina taught a boy no older than twelve how to throw a knife straight and true.
They were not soldiers. Not yet. But they were trying.
---
That night, under the pale light of the moon, Aron sat sharpening his blade. The short sword, taken from one of the masked men, was chipped and worn — but it was his.
Mara brought him water and bread. "Eat, my prince. You need strength."
Aron took the food but stared at the steel in his hand. "A prince without a kingdom. A sword without an edge. And yet, they follow me."
Mara smiled gently. "Because they believe you'll lead them to a better end than the mask would."
---
Before dawn, Lina returned from scouting. Her face was pale, her voice low.
"Aron — riders. A force, maybe thirty strong. They come this way. No banner, but their masks mark them."
Aron stood. His heart beat faster, but his mind stayed clear.
"We can't run," he said. "Not with so many women and children. We fight — but smart. Garron, set traps along the path. Lina, take a few sharp eyes and find high ground. We'll make the forest our ally."
---
The camp moved like a living thing. Pits were dug, ropes strung between trees, stones piled to roll down on the enemy.
Aron stood at the center, blade in hand, waiting for the storm.
---
By midday, the masked riders reached the edge of the glen. Their leader raised a black banner, though no words were spoken.
Then, they charged.
The traps worked — horses stumbled, men fell, chaos spread through their ranks. Stones crashed from above. Arrows hissed from hidden bows.
Aron led his small force, striking from the shadows, vanishing before the enemy could strike back.
But the masked men were fierce, driven by the will of their master. They regrouped, pushing deeper into the trees.
---
The fighting was close, brutal. Aron's blade met steel and flesh. Garron's spear kept the enemy at bay. Lina's knives found weak points in armor.
One by one, the masked riders fell — but so did some of Aron's brave few.
Finally, as the sun began to set, the last of the enemy fled, leaving the glen to the prince.
---
The cost was clear. Blood stained the ground. Two farmers, a hunter, and a boy lay still, their lives given for this small victory.
Aron stood over them, his heart heavy. But the survivors gathered around him, faces filled with grim pride.
"You led us true, my prince," Garron said. "And we stood. We stood."
---
Far away, in the ruined palace, Jaren stood at his map table, fingers resting on the black token marking the forest.
A messenger knelt. "The attack failed. The prince lives. The men… lost."
Jaren's masked face betrayed no anger — only cold certainty.
"Good. Let him taste victory. Let him think he rises. The higher he climbs, the farther he will fall."
He moved the token closer to the prince's mark.
"The next blow will not miss."