Spring, 1468 AD – The Southern Sea

  The sea water hit Alaric’s face, but he didn't flinch. He stood on the bow of the flagship Iron Will, looking out at the endless expanse of grey water.

  He adjusted his gauntlet. The armor felt different from anything he had worn before.

  It was a masterpiece of magic-engineering, forged in the fires of Ironhold based on his exact specifications. Unlike the bulky plate mail of the regular knights, this suit was sleek, comprised of interlocking plates of a dark, matte alloy.

  It didn't rely on thickness for protection. It relied on mana.

  Engraved into every outer steel plate was a complex Mana Dispersal Magic Circle, a collaborative design between Alaric and Lucia. Its function was easy, when any offensive magic touched the armor, the circle instantly destabilized the spell’s structure by scattering the mana in the spell into the air.

  Fireball? Dispersed, Wind Blade? Dissolved.

  Anything ranked Advanced or lower simply ceased to exist upon contact. Beneath that, he had layered twenty separate Null Magic Physical Barriers to absorb kinetic impact.

  The trade-off was the cost. The armor was a mana parasite. To keep the Dispersal Field and barriers active required a constant, draining flow that would kill an average mage in minutes.

  But Alaric wasn't average. He had a sea of mana, feeding the hungry metal without breaking a sweat. And if he did run low? He tapped the pouch at his waist. Inside were the Mana Potions that he made which restored 70% of his reserves instantly.

  Below deck, in the strategy room, the air was thick with tobacco smoke.

  Duke Thorne stood at the head of the table. To his right was General Alther, Vice Commander Selzer’s older brother. He shared Selzer’s sharp features but was broader, scarred, and radiated a veteran aura.

  Around them stood the Grand Captains and Army Colonels of the Southern Wing.

  "Review the numbers," Thorne commanded.

  General Alther pointed to the map with a baton. "Intelligence confirms the main engagement lines. The Northern Army and the Royal Forces are currently holding the Borderplains near the Larethin region. Our combined strength there is roughly 100,000."

  He slid the baton north. "The Buckland invasion force numbers 230,000."

  A murmur of unease rippled through the colonels. They were outnumbered more than two to one.

  Alaric studied the map, his eyes drifting briefly to the marker for the Capital. The Orphanage is safe for now, he told himself. But if the front line collapses, nothing will stop them.

  "A head-on collision is suicide," Alaric spoke up, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "They have the numbers and the defensive position. That is why we are here."

  Thorne nodded. "Precisely. While the King and Larethin keep their main force occupied at the front, we will be the dagger in their back."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The plan was a massive amphibious ambush.

  Through months of secret preparation, Thorne had requisitioned every merchant vessel and transport ship in the country. They had loaded 30,000 elite troops onto hundreds of ships.

  Their destination was the remote, treacherous mangroves of fallen Horsin.

  "No one has ever transported an army through the Horsin mangroves," a Colonel muttered nervously. "The terrain is a nightmare and lawless."

  "Which is exactly why they won't have a single troop posted there," Alaric countered. "Buckland’s supply lines stretch from the north down to the Borderplains. By landing in Horsin, we appear directly behind their rear guard."

  "We cut their food supply and reinforcements," Thorne growled, clenching his fist. "We force them to fight a two-front war inside territory they think they've already conquered."

  Alaric looked at the faces around the table. "We cannot afford a long siege. Prolonged war means famine. It means disease. It means the common people, the ones we are supposed to save will die by the thousands. We need to end this fast."

  He pointed to the specific crates marked with red paint on the manifest.

  "My unit will deploy the Special Weapons. We will push through and decapitate their command structure while the army engages the masses in one clean swoop."

  That night, the sea was calm. Alaric made his way to the lower hold, where the air smelled of incense.

  This was the makeshift quarters for the Church’s relief group.

  Lucia was sitting on a crate, organizing everything. When she saw him, her tired face broke into a radiant smile.

  "Alaric."

  He sat beside her. "We land tomorrow."

  "I know," she said softly. She reached out, touching the cold metal of his new armor. "The Dispersal Circles... they are holding stable?"

  "Perfectly. You did good work on the circle," Alaric said.

  They sat in silence for a moment, the ship creaking around them.

  "I'm scared," Lucia admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Not for me. For you, you're going to be at the tip of the spear."

  "I have to be," Alaric said. "But I have the best armor in the kingdom, and I have a Saintess praying for me. I’ll be fine."

  He didn't tell her about the rage burning in his gut or that landing in Horsin meant walking on the ashes of his parents. He just squeezed her hand, promising her victory.

  Seven days after departing, the fleet saw land.

  The coast of Horsin was not a welcoming sandy beach. It was a tangle of twisted roots, grey water, and dense fog. The mangroves.

  "Signal the fleet," Thorne ordered. "Drop anchors."

  It was a logistical leviathan. Over 500 ships emerged from the mist. Ramps were lowered into the shallow mud.

  Thirty thousand soldiers began the silent, grueling process of disembarking. Horses were led out, nervous and whinnying. Heavy crates containing Alaric’s "Special Weapons" were carried by reinforced squads.

  Alaric stepped off the ramp. His boots sank slightly into the wet earth of Horsin.

  It was desolate. There were no people here, only the ghosts of the past.

  By midday, the army was assembled on the drier ground beyond the tree line.

  "The ships," General Alther shouted. "Send them back!"

  The sailors immediately began to cast off. The 500 ships turned around, their sails catching the wind, heading back to Shersia.

  The soldiers watched them go. A ripple of anxiety went through the ranks. Their ride home was leaving.

  Duke Thorne rode to the front of the formation, his voice magically amplified.

  "Look at the sea!" Thorne roared, pointing his sword at the retreating ships. "Your escape route is gone! There is no retreat! There is no going back!"

  He turned his horse to face the North, toward the enemy.

  "Behind you is nothing but water. In front of you is the enemy who will burn your villages and threaten your families. If you want to go home, you must carve a path through them!"

  The anxiety in the air vanished, replaced by a cold, desperate resolve. Thorne had burned the bridge.

  "Forward!" Thorne commanded.

  Alaric drew his sword, the metal humming with mana. He looked North.

  "I'm home," Alaric whispered.

  The march began.