The troops advanced slowly yet in a disciplined formation. Daemon rode his warhorse, adjusting his mindset. This was war, people would die. So before every battle, Daemon made sure to get himself in the right state. He'd seen people stronger than him die at the hands of weaker opponents. In his eyes, that was due to a loss of composure, leading to fatal mistakes. He didn't want to end up like that. He wanted to bring out the full extent of his power.
His warhorse was chosen after he got promoted to squad captain. Every squad captain was given their own warhorse, and under Uncle Joshek's guidance, Daemon had chosen a chestnut-colored one. These days, a warhorse was worth more than a human life. One such horse could easily trade for a full set of armor worth 80 Silver Stags, and even then, it was rare. When a soldier in armor died, the armor could be stripped and reused. But when a horse died, there was no easy replacement. That was why even though the baron had a cavalry squadron under him, only squad captains were assigned horses.
"Hyah! Hyah!" Daemon rode through the ranks of his squad, checking in. Before a battle, morale was critical. His appearance among the men was meant to show them that their captain was close by.
"Brother Daemon, when are we getting to Faircastle?" asked Gulas, a burly man with a thick beard and strong build. Among the people Daemon knew, only Uncle Joshek was physically more imposing. Gulas had transferred in from the First Squad, where he was already a squad leader. Now he led the First Unit of Daemon's squad. After a few days together, Daemon considered him a trustworthy companion.
"The troops are on forced march. At this pace, we'll arrive by dusk," Daemon replied after a brief thought.
"Ah, so the battle's not until tomorrow?" Gulas said, a little disappointed as he pouted.
Daemon glanced at him. "Obviously. We'll surround the city tonight, rest, and attack at dawn." He had figured Gulas was a battle junkie. That build of his wasn't just for show. Daemon was curious to see how he'd fight when things got real.
Daemon didn't mention another reason they weren't attacking tonight, they still needed to link up with Baron Kashir. Attacking the city with only one baron's forces would be too costly. Though they'd defeated the regular army of the Kingdom of Northwild, even a wrecked ship has a few nails left. Faircastle was a baron's territory after all.
By midday, hundreds of infantry were sitting in circles beside the forest road, organized by squads. Occasionally, cavalry rode past on the plank road. Baron Kenning and several squad captains sat atop a massive tree stump, discussing something. The dense rings on the dark yellow stump revealed the long life the tree once had.
A group of cavalry galloped over. The lead rider dismounted quickly before the baron and saluted.
"Well? When is Baron Kashir arriving?" Baron Kenning asked, clearly out of patience.
"My lord, Baron Kashir's troops will arrive in about half an hour," the rider reported.
The baron waved him off.
There was a hint of irritation among the others seated. "That guy again!" some grumbled. Those familiar with Baron Kenning knew that his current calm demeanor meant he was seething.
Clip-clop-clip-clop...
The sound of hooves approached. Finally, Baron Kashir's forces arrived.
"Everyone stand! Form ranks!" Squad leaders had received advance orders. They quickly organized their squads, regrouped into companies, and within minutes, a five-column formation stood ready. The cavalry also moved out under their officers' commands, roaring like thunder as they advanced.
Baron Kashir approached with a smile and greeted Baron Kenning, "Apologies, some refugees blocked the road. We're late." He smiled, but it hardly felt like an apology.
"No worries, we haven't waited long. We'll be relying on your strength for this siege," Kenning replied politely, all earlier anger vanished.
"Every time I see your troops, I get jealous. What a fearsome force," Kashir said, eyeing the cavalry more than anything.
Kashir did have cavalry, but only a dozen or so, his personal guard.
"Too kind, too kind," Kenning responded humbly.
The two started chatting idly, as if they weren't about to lead an army into battle.
Daemon noticed that most of Kashir's troops were infantry, over 600, with only a dozen cavalry acting as bodyguards. Clearly, both barons had brought out their best forces. Daemon had fought with Kashir before and roughly knew his strength.
Compared to Kenning's disciplined men, Kashir's troops looked sloppy. Some didn't even hold their spears properly, clearly new recruits. Others looked like peasants, hunched and dark-skinned. On their own, it might not be obvious, but side-by-side, the difference was glaring.
After their chat, Kashir still smiling, said, "It's getting late. Let's move out."
"Mm. Let's go," Kenning replied, then signaled for the officers to lead their troops along the plank road.
Kashir's forces also mobilized under their officers, somewhat clumsily. He noticed the difference in troop quality, but only frowned slightly, then went on chatting with Kenning as they walked their horses side by side, led by attendants.
Daemon's squad was at the rear, connecting with Kashir's troops. He couldn't hear what the barons were saying, but it was likely gossip about noblewomen in the capital or recent loot. "Nobles and their pastimes..." Daemon shook his head.
He saw many familiar faces among Kashir's troops, men he'd fought alongside. When they recognized Daemon's current outfit, they looked envious. He nodded in return. Most of these men were like him, commoners who had risen to squad leader. Not to be underestimated, they had earned their ranks. Daemon believed in making allies wherever possible.
As the setting sun dipped below the horizon, Faircastle fell into night. A small but once-prosperous city, its dense streets and packed houses now sat in disrepair. Yellowing leaves lined the roads. Refugees lay scattered across the streets. Shops were shut, some broken into. It was hard to believe this had been a flourishing city just a year ago.
In a dark alley of Faircastle, two black-cloaked figures moved quickly. One appeared bulkier, as if carrying someone.
"Miss, it's getting dark. We must hurry," came an old voice from the rear cloak.
The figure in front quickened her pace. Under the cloak was a pale-faced woman with golden hair, clearly of noble blood. She looked tired and carried a girl, about eleven or twelve, finely dressed but thinly clothed. The child's pale arm peeked from her sleeve. She clung silently to the woman.
They reached a wooden door. The older man knocked. A young maid peered out, then quickly opened up. Once inside, she shut the door tight. Darkness returned to the alley.
It was a small courtyard with only two rooms and a gatehouse. They hurried into the main room. The woman removed her cloak, revealing her face. A woman in her mid-twenties, with delicate features and a sickly beauty. The girl she held looked just as frail, her flushed cheeks hinting at illness.
"Miss, the young lord still refused us," said the old man, her butler.
"He can't even protect himself. Why would he send troops for us?" she replied. "Raffi, get some soup for Cynthea," she told the maid, gently placing the girl in a chair.
"Miss, we're almost out of food," Raffi said quietly.
"I just pawned my earrings and bracelet. That wasn't enough?" the woman asked, surprised.
"Food prices have risen again. Even with money, it's hard to buy anything," Raffi explained.
"Forget it... we'll last as long as we can. If things get worse..." She touched the sapphire necklace at her throat, her last and most precious possession.
The maid brought out a plain bowl of noodle soup, the only food left. None of the adults ate, only the sick girl. The servants, well-trained, showed no complaint.
The woman carefully fed the child. The girl drank quietly, enjoying it like a feast.
"Aunt, you eat too," said the girl softly.
"I already ate. You finish it so you get better," the woman smiled.
"Okay, I'll get better!" she nodded.
"Eat, Auntie~" the girl's voice echoed into the night.
The woman was named Gysella, not an ordinary woman, but the daughter of a marquis. Her father was Philip, one of the three great marquises of the Kingdom of Northwild. She had once been a jewel of the capital. Now, she was a woman pushed to the brink.
After feeding Cynthea, she sat by her side, unable to sleep. She remembered her father, once dashing, now an old man with white hair.
A month ago, he had summoned her. "The kingdom is at death's door," he told her. "Take Cynthea to your brother Willis. His territory borders the Morpheus Forest. Ask for soldiers to escort you through to the Evenstar Kingdom. I have estates there, you'll survive."
"Don't come back," he'd said. "The royal court is watching us like hawks. The men in the family have no chance. Only you and Cynthea are allowed to leave. Keep the bloodline alive."
She had fled with ten guards, only to find that her brother Willis, a child of their father and a maid, treated them coldly. He took her guards under the excuse of needing them for city defense and locked her in a remote courtyard.
"He wants the forest map and deeds to the Evenstar estate," Gysella thought. As a famed socialite, she saw right through him. He wanted to abandon them and keep everything.
Some city soldiers still respected her, so Willis had to use subtle soft confinement. No food, no help.
She hadn't eaten all day. She'd only managed two bites of cake during a brief meeting at city hall. Willis was pushing them to the edge.
That night, chaos erupted. Shouting and crying filled the streets.
"What's going on?" Gysella opened the door.
"Miss, it's bad! The Kingdom of Storm's troops are surrounding the city!" the butler shouted. "We must flee while there's still time!"
She grabbed Cynthea and fled with the butler and maid, blending into a stream of nobles fleeing the city.
Outside, Baron Kenning and Baron Kashir sat by a campfire, roasting a chicken.
"My guard Harvey caught this one. You're in for a treat," said Kashir.
"An honor to share a meal with you," Kenning replied.
Soldiers bustled around them. The plan had already been made, surround the city on three sides and leave one gate open. Kenning would cover one gate, Kashir two. The open gate offered an escape route.
That hope would prevent the enemy from fighting to the death. And that gate wasn't truly unguarded, Kenning's cavalry waited there to intercept fleeing merchants and nobles, guarded by knight Will, a high-level warrior.
As the roast chicken finished, the siege was complete. Nearly a thousand soldiers encircled the city. Even the open northern gate was lightly guarded by one of Kashir's units.
Soldiers ate and rested. The attack would begin at dawn.
Daemon's squad was assigned to the west gate. Their unit was set to attack this section. There were whispers that whichever squad entered first would be heavily rewarded.
Tomorrow, the third company would lead a probing assault to gauge enemy strength. Then the first and second companies would attack together, usually decisive. This was a small city, and previous victories had followed the same pattern. Daemon's squad was third wave, tasked with cleanup.
It sounded easier. Daemon was relieved. Though he'd seen countless battles in four years, death still scared him. Low-risk meant less loot, but he was content. Staying alive mattered more.