The wind carried smoke and steel as the war camp came into view.
Rurik sat upright on his horse, his back straight despite the long ride. It had been three days of near-constant movement down from the capital, across the frozen grasslands, through thick pine valleys, and over muddy riverbeds that carved deep into the land like claw marks. Now, at last, he saw it—sprawled across the flat basin like a beast at rest. Tents lined in perfect rows. Forges glowing. Soldiers drilling. It was a city of warriors.
He exhaled slowly, unsure what he'd been expecting. Maybe more shouting. More chaos. But this wasn't a mess—it was an engine. Cold. Focused. Relentless.
"Still want to turn back?" the man beside him asked with a smirk.
Rurik shook his head, then grinned. "I've come this far. If I turn back now, my brother would come back from the dead just to kick my ass."
The escort, a broad-shouldered warrior named Brynn, chuckled. "That sounds like Kyjell."
Brynn had fought with Kyjell during the Esmire campaign and had told Rurik more stories than he could count during the trip. Some were terrifying. Some funny. Most ended with someone bleeding. But all of them painted his brother like the unstoppable whirlwind Rurik remembered.
As they approached the gate, a guard stepped forward to block their path, eyeing them sharply. Then he spotted Rurik's cloak—the crimson thread, the black trim, the insignia sewn into the fabric.
"Open the way!" he shouted.
The wooden palisade creaked as the gate opened. Rurik's heart thudded harder. He was really here. He was about to walk into the world his brother had bled in.
The first thing that hit him wasn't the smell of iron or sweat—it was the silence. Not of absence, but of intent. Everywhere he looked, people moved with purpose. Some sharpened weapons. Others carried crates. A few sparred in open circles. No one wasted time.
This wasn't a camp. This was war.
Vayne, the sixteen-year-old from Squad Nine, met him near the command tent. He looked just as young as Rurik, though taller by a head and armed with twin short swords strapped to his back. He offered a lazy salute.
"You're the prince, huh?"
"Don't call me that," Rurik said automatically.
Vayne grinned. "Cool. I hate titles anyway."
That was the beginning of what would soon become the closest friendship Rurik ever had.
They were assigned the same tent—small, cramped, but dry. It had two sleeping rolls, a locked chest, and a single flickering lantern that bathed the canvas in soft gold. It wasn't the castle. It wasn't even warm. But it was good.
The next few days blurred together.
Each morning started before dawn. They trained with their squad in the central yard, learning how to fight in formation, how to rotate out injured members, how to adapt to terrain and enemy magic. Their squad commander, a seasoned sixth-realm warrior named Kael, didn't tolerate sloppiness—but he wasn't cruel. If anything, Rurik respected him immediately. The man was a brick wall in motion, using a broadsword the size of a door and shouting commands like thunder.
Rurik held his own surprisingly well. His swordsmanship wasn't perfect, but his footwork and balance made up for it. Kael didn't say much, but after the third day, he gave Rurik a nod during drills—a subtle gesture, but one that made the boy's chest swell.
Afternoons were for tasks. Some days he and Vayne delivered weapon racks to the southern quadrant of the camp. Others, they hauled armor to the blacksmith's tent, where sparks flew like fireflies and burly smiths grunted over heated metal.
"Hey! Don't drop that!" one of them barked as Vayne nearly let a breastplate slide.
"My bad," Vayne called, grinning. "Slippery fingers!"
"You break it, you wear it!"
"I'd look great in it."
Rurik laughed and kept moving.
Evenings brought meals—thick stew, hard bread, and bitter tea. Warriors gathered by the fire pits, swapping stories and sharpening their blades. Rurik always listened quietly, absorbing every detail. One day, he would have his own tales to tell. For now, he watched. He learned.
Some nights, he found himself lying awake in the tent, staring at the canvas above.
"Can't sleep?" Vayne asked once, rolling over.
"Not really."
"Thinking about your brother?"
"…Yeah."
Vayne didn't press further. He just nodded and said, "He's probably out there somewhere. Guys like that don't die easy."
Rurik didn't answer. But he hoped Vayne was right.
⸻
Nearly a week passed before Rurik was called to the command tent.
Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and tension. A large map lay across the central table, weighed down by metal markers. Soldiers representing battalions. Spotted lines for routes. Glowing ink for barriers conjured by enemy mages.
Erik stood at the head, arms crossed, his presence like a storm cloud waiting to break.
"Rurik," he said without looking up. "You've been training."
"Yes, Father."
"You've been watching. Listening. Fighting in drills. Delivering supplies. Eating with the men."
Rurik stood straighter. "Yes, Father."
Erik finally looked up, his gaze sharp as a knife. "That's good."
It wasn't warm. But it wasn't cold either. For Erik, that might as well have been a hug.
One of the commanders leaned in. "We didn't expect to see the prince here, sir."
Erik didn't blink. "He's a warrior now. Blood or not, he earns his place the same as any of us."
Rurik felt something stir in his chest. Not pride. Not yet. But maybe a seed of it.
They began to discuss strategy.
The enemy kingdom had fortified their border cities with enchanted walls reinforced by mage teams. Traps littered the roads. Scouts reported mobile units patrolling the flanks. The plan, so far, was to weaken the outlying villages first—cut supplies, create fear, draw soldiers out.
"We'll begin probing runs next week," one advisor said.
"Squad Nine will be one of the first," Erik added, not even glancing at Rurik.
Rurik didn't flinch. He simply nodded.
He was ready.