"The infantry stood in grim silence, lining the battlefield where the broken bodies of Verdune's soldiers lay scattered like fallen leaves. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a crimson haze over the blood-soaked ground.
We took our wounded back to Fort Gehena. Miraculously, no lives were lost on our side—but our armor told another story. A certain soldier ran his fingers over the deep gouges in his bronze breastplate, counting ten sword strikes. His hands trembled. He wasn't sure how he had survived—but he knew why.
Our prince.
Rhydher rode ahead of us, his dark silhouette framed against the setting sun. His light armor still stained with the blood of Verdune's fallen. His cape of red is heavier now as it absorb the blood of fallen warriors. Behind him, the prisoners followed—limping, defeated, their eyes hollow. The duke rode among them, hands bound, his head lowered in quiet rage.
One of the soldiers whispered, "How did we survive this?"
Another replied, voice trembling, "We didn't win the battle. He won it."
The sound of hooves on broken earth echoed through the evening air. Rhydher's gaze remained steady, his expression calm. Cold.
Ahead lay Verdune—its high walls standing untouched beneath the blood-red sky.
The prince smiled.
Time has come to collect the debt they owe us for Fort Gehena a decade ago."
I silenced, and my audience went wild with their reactions. They showered the archer with praises and applauded him as a hero—but more than him, they sang of the victory of their crown prince with all their hearts, showering him with admiration.
I let myself bask in the audience's shouts of joy. After a while, someone asked, "How was Verdune captured and what happened to the duke?"
And another, "What's a crucifixion?"
Many questions came in. So, once more, I made a gesture for silence and continued the tale.
"The prince ordered the cavalry to go around Fort Gehena and circle the enemy to cut off their escape. He also ordered two hundred of them to march toward Verdune and secure it. The cavalry looked reluctant—there was no way only two hundred of them could take Verdune alone, a fortified city as big as our capital, Helgrad. But they didn't dare to question the prince. He must have had his reasons. So they obeyed and rode off with the sun moving toward the west in the sky. They took caution not to be seen by the enemy.
They rode fast—hooves pounding against the hard earth as the city's high walls loomed ahead. The evening sun painted the horizon in shades of burning red and deep gold, casting long shadows beneath the towering gates of Verdune.
But the gates…
They were open.
Wide.
Unchallenged.
The lead rider slowed, raising his hand. The others followed suit, their horses restless beneath them. The open gates creaked slightly in the evening breeze—a sound too unnatural, too wrong.
Then they saw it.
The citizens of Verdune stood frozen in the streets. Eyes wide. Faces pale. Mothers clutching their children's hands. Fathers shielding their families.
All eyes were fixed on the gates.
The guards—Verdune's city guard—lay in twisted heaps at the base of the walls. Blood pooled beneath their broken forms, seeping into the cracks of the stone. Their heads were lined neatly along the road—facing the gates, eyes glassy and lifeless. Their mouths were frozen in expressions of shock and terror.
A woman screamed.
A child began to cry.
The crowd murmured in confusion and fear. A man stumbled forward, clutching his chest. His gaze darted toward the line of severed heads, then toward the open gates. His lips trembled.
"Wh… who did this?"
"No one saw anything," another voice replied, hollow and strained.
"Where are the guards?"
"Dead," someone whispered.
Another figure pointed toward the corpses. "Their eyes… they look… terrified."
The lead rider's horse snorted beneath him, restless from the tension in the air. His gaze swept across the crowd, then back toward the gates.
This wasn't a battle. This was… a statement.
A pulse of tension gripped the street. The riders shifted in their saddles, some reaching for their swords.
"No time to process this," the lead rider said coldly.
He raised his hand. "Formation! Ride! Secure the mansion and the city hall!"
The cavalry surged forward through the open gates, hooves splashing through blood as they thundered down the main street. The city was silent—eerily so.
They reached the market square—empty. Stalls overturned. Blood splattered on the cobblestones. But no bodies. Only silence.
They reached the duke's mansion—a towering stone structure that rose like a monument to dying pride. Its gates stood open. No guards. No resistance. Only the echo of the horses' hooves against cold marble.
The lead rider dismounted first, his boots hitting the marble steps with a heavy thud. He turned toward the others. His gaze hardened.
The cavalry didn't stop there. They rounded up the citizens—merchants, nobles, servants—and marched them toward the main plaza.
The people of Verdune stood in the square, trembling under the darkening sky.
The lead rider stepped forward, standing atop the marble platform in the center of the plaza. His voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"We claim this city under the name of Rhydher H. Drakseid, the Crown Prince of Drakseid," he said, his voice steady despite the tension in his chest.
"Verdune has fallen," he announced. His gaze sharpened. "This city now belongs to Drakseid."
The crowd murmured, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Some citizens fell to their knees. Others turned their heads away, eyes dark with disbelief.
"The prince's will be coming towards Verdune after defeating your duke," said the lead rider, his voice like iron.
From the edge of the square, a city guard body slumped to the ground—a fresh corpse missing its head. A gasp rippled through the crowd.
The lead rider's expression didn't change.
"Let this be a warning," he said, his voice steady. "Loyalty will be rewarded. Betrayal will not. Verdune will prosper more under the rule of Drakseid."
A long silence followed. Only the sound of the wind against the stone as the evening turns red with the sun above the mountain about to sink.
Verdune had already fallen.
Someone just delivered it to them on a silver platter.
Then came the sound of a trumpet.
The trumpet's cry faded into the cold evening air.
The prince's cavalry rode in tight formation through the city square. One soldier glanced toward the severed heads near the gates and muttered, "What kind of war leaves a gift like this?"
Another soldier chuckled darkly. "The kind that ends in one move."
The crowd parted as Rhydher approached the platform, dragging the Duke of Verdune behind him. The duke's once-pristine armor was dented and stained with mud and blood. His arms were bound, and his face twisted with pain and humiliation.
The minister and secretary stumbled behind him, their hands tied, their expressions hollow. The minister's eyes darted toward the surrounding cavalry, searching for an escape that didn't exist. The secretary's lips trembled—tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
Rhydher's boots echoed against the marble steps as he climbed the platform. His red cape—drenched with blood—dragged behind him, leaving a dark trail across the white stone. His leather armor was redden with blood and blood still drips from his mythril sword in its sheath. His expression was cold—empty.
The lead rider knelt low. His head bowed deeply.
"Your Highness," he said, voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
"The city of Verdune and its people are now yours."
Rhydher stood at the edge of the platform, his gaze sweeping across the square. Thousands of eyes stared back at him—some wide with fear, others dark with hatred. Mothers held their children tightly. The nobles in the crowd kept their heads bowed. The commoners stood frozen—waiting for his next words.
Rhydher's eyes narrowed. He raised his chin slightly, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.
"This city," he began, "will start a new chapter today alongside Drakseid."
The crowd shuddered. A murmur passed through the square.
"The war is over," Rhydher continued. His tone was calm—but sharp enough to draw blood.
"I have taken your walls. Your leaders kneel before me. Verdune's strength is broken."
He turned his head slightly toward the duke, who knelt at his feet.
"And the man who led you into ruin," Rhydher's eyes darkened, "will answer for it."
The duke's breath hitched. He lifted his head, his mouth twisting.
"You… you bastard," the duke hissed. "You think you've won?"
He laughed bitterly, his shoulders shaking. "You don't know who you are messing with. The Empire of Distia shall descend upon you. You—"
CRACK
Rhydher's boot struck the side of the duke's face, sending him sprawling onto the marble floor. Blood spilled from his mouth as he coughed and groaned.
"I don't think I've won," Rhydher said coldly.
"I know I've won. As for the Distia Empire, they look busy killing each other."
The minister whimpered. The secretary looked away, trembling.
Rhydher's gaze sharpened. "Lift them up."
Two soldiers stepped forward, dragging the duke and his aides to their knees. The duke's head lolled forward, his mouth slack with pain.
Rhydher's gaze swept across the crowd. "Verdune is the first city to fall under my banner. It will not be the last."
He stepped closer to the duke. "And I will make sure this lesson is not forgotten."
He turned toward the lead rider. "Prepare the crosses."
Gasps erupted from the crowd. A noble woman in the front row stumbled backward, covering her mouth.
The duke's eyes widened. His battered face twisted in disbelief. "You… you can't…"
Rhydher smiled faintly. "I can. Nail them on the cross and break their knees."
"Please… mercy!" the minister begged.
Rhydher's gaze darkened. "Mercy was offered when I opened Verdune's gates. You spat on it."
The cavalry dragged the prisoners away. Wooden crosses were already being raised at the edge of the square—dark silhouettes against the red sky. Hammer blows echoed through the square as the stakes were driven into the ground.
Rhydher's gaze remained cold as the duke and his aides were forced toward the crosses. The minister screamed. The duke thrashed violently, but the soldiers held him down.
"I gave you a choice," Rhydher said as the first nail was hammered into the duke's hand.
The duke screamed. The crowd flinched.
"You chose poorly."
Blood ran down the wood. The sun dipped beneath the mountains, casting the square in shadow.
Rhydher turned toward the crowd, his eyes sharp as glass.
"Let this be an example," he said, his voice like ice.
"Loyalty will be rewarded."
A second nail was driven into the duke's hand. His scream cut through the square like a knife.
"Betrayal will not."
The hammer rose again.
And fell.
"You could have walked away with your legacy intact."
The duke screamed as the nail was driven deeper into his hand.
Rhydher's eyes sharpened.
"But instead… you forced me to make a mockery out of you."
"As for the secretary…" Rhydher paused, turning to the pale-faced man. "You live."
The secretary's breath hitched. "Th-thank you, Your Highness. I—"
"But you'll deliver a message," Rhydher interrupted. "You will return to the Distia Empire. You will tell them that Drakseid does not forget... and we do not forgive."
The secretary bowed so low his forehead scraped the ground.
Rhydher turned back to the crowd.
"I will not punish you for your loyalty to a coward," he declared. "But you will remember this: Drakseid now rules Verdune — and under my rule, you will prosper."
His gaze hardened.
"But betray me…" He let the words hang in the air, heavy with intent.
"And you shall join your duke and his minister. I shall crucify all traitors."
The hammer's final strike echoed through the square. Blood dripped from the crosses, soaking into the cold stone beneath them.
The duke and his ministers were hung high on the cross. A soldier used a wooden to smash their knees.
The duke's broken body sagged against the wood, his head slumped forward. His minister's shallow breaths rattled in the heavy silence.
Rhydher stood at the edge of the platform, his crimson cape swaying gently in the cold breeze. He didn't move. He didn't speak. His gaze swept across the crowd.
No one made a sound.
A woman clutched her child tighter. A merchant lowered his head, trembling. A nobleman stumbled back, his face pale.
Thud.
A farmer fell to his knees, head bowed.
Thud.
A servant collapsed beside him, pressing her hands together in quiet prayer.
The tension in the air was suffocating.
Rhydher's eyes darkened. He turned toward the lead rider.
"Secure the square," he said calmly.
The lead rider saluted. "Yes, Your Highness."
Slowly, the crowd began to back away. Some hurried. Others moved stiffly, their eyes still fixed on the crucified bodies. Mothers whispered to their children. Nobles exchanged tense glances.
Rhydher descended from the platform. His boots struck the marble with a heavy finality.
The path before him cleared instinctively as he walked toward the mansion. His cavalry followed in silence, their armor glinting beneath the dying sun.
A noblewoman dared to look him in the eye as he passed. Her gaze flinched beneath his. She curtsied low.
"Your Highness," she whispered.
Rhydher said nothing. His cold gaze passed over her as though she didn't exist.
As he approached the mansion gates, two guards stepped forward. Their spears crossed.
For a brief moment, the tension sharpened.
The gates creaked open. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Rhydher's gaze didn't change. He walked through the threshold as though he already owned it.
He stepped into the grand entrance hall of the duke's mansion—a massive structure of polished marble, golden chandeliers, and red velvet banners. Servants stood frozen along the walls, their heads bowed.
A steward approached nervously, wringing his hands.
"Y-Your Highness, we've prepared the duke's quarters for you."
"You mean my quarters," Rhydher corrected coldly.
The steward paled. He bowed low. "Of course, Your Highness."
As Rhydher removed his bloodied gloves and handed them to a servant, a single drop of blood hit the polished marble beneath his feet.
The mansion seemed to breathe as if recognizing its new master. He turned towards the e staircase.
"I will dine in an hour and give my cavalry the best culinary Verdune has to offer," he said.
"Of course, Your Highness."
He climbed the stairs, his hand resting lightly on the dark iron railing. His crimson cape trailed behind him like a shadow.
At the top of the stairs, he paused. His gaze drifted toward the wide windows overlooking the city.
From the square below, the dark silhouette of the crosses stood stark against the blood-red sunset.
Rhydher's lips curled faintly.
"Verdune belongs to Drakseid now."
He turned and disappeared into the darkened hall.
And that concludes the tale of our prince first campaign and how he conquered a fort and a city in one day."
The crowd before gazes in silence for a while and they start chanting, "Long live! Prince Rhydher."
I exited and head for a tavern to fill my stomach as it's past lunch time now.