Ash and Orders
1091 Words
The cold marble halls of the King's fortress stretched endlessly before Kenneth Valdros as he walked, his footsteps echoing like whispers from a distant battlefield. Tall obsidian columns lined the walls, their shadows long and ominous beneath the flickering silver torches.
The young Prince had barely stepped past the throne room’s towering doors when the heavy scent of blood, sweat, and steel hit his nose.
His brothers were already there.
Seated at the base of the elevated thrones were the King’s older sons—each one weathered by war, dressed in their worn battle armor.
Kenneth’s sharp blue eyes quickly scanned them. Darien and Lucien, now both sixteen, stood tall but weary, their armor scorched and scratched from recent combat. They were flanking a large tactical map stretched across the stone table.
Sevrin, now fourteen, was sitting off to the side, one leg stretched stiffly before him, wrapped in a fresh dressing soaked lightly with blood. His pale face was impassive as always, but Kenneth could see the strain in his eyes.
Marek, just twelve, sat hunched beside a pillar, his hands stained with dirt and dried crimson. His cheek was bruised, and a strip of linen was tied around his upper arm. His posture was still defiant, but his eyes flickered with exhaustion.
Aurelius stood apart from them all, as if the room bent itself around him. He was seventeen now, broader in the shoulders, sharper in the jaw, and more commanding than ever. His once-pristine silver armor was dented and darkened, his crimson cape dragging slightly as he turned to look at Kenneth.
> “So the runt arrives,” Aurelius said flatly.
Kenneth blinked, unfazed. “Hello to you too, Aurelius.”
Darien offered a quick nod. “Kenneth.”
Lucien smiled faintly from across the map. “Didn’t think they’d pull you in for this meeting.”
> “I was summoned,” Kenneth said, walking forward calmly. “You all look like you lost a war.”
> “We didn’t,” Marek muttered from his corner. “But we didn’t win either.”
Before Kenneth could respond, a door to the side of the throne creaked open. Every son stiffened immediately.
The King had entered.
His towering presence filled the chamber with an invisible weight. Dressed in his ceremonial black robes laced with silver thread, the King’s crimson gaze swept across his sons like a storm cloud surveying its lands.
No crown adorned his head—he did not need it. His aura alone was the crown.
> “Report,” he commanded.
Aurelius was the first to bow, stepping forward to the war table.
> “Father,” he said, voice low and formal. “We’ve held our ground in the Southern Front—but the werewolves are advancing faster than expected. Their numbers have increased exponentially. Their formations have changed. They’ve become... coordinated.”
> “Coordinated how?” the King asked.
> “They’re using arcane formations. Symbols. Curses. We suspect the witches are aiding them.”
A chill passed through the room.
Even Kenneth, still barely trained in the depth of warfare, knew what that meant.
> “You’re sure?” the King asked slowly.
> “Positive,” Darien stepped in. “We saw it with our own eyes. Purple flames. Runes on the battlefield. Spells that ripped entire squads apart.”
The King stroked his beard thoughtfully, staring at the map. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then his voice cut through the silence like a blade:
> “The Western District. That is their weakest link.”
Aurelius looked up sharply. “That’s weeks away on foot, months with our current supply lines. The warplanes are down. The war vehicles will never survive that terrain.”
> “You will go,” the King said coldly, “with 3,000 knights.”
Aurelius frowned. “Father, I don’t mean to disobey, but—”
> “You question me?” the King’s voice dropped, not in volume, but in tone.
The room turned to ice.
A heavy silence descended. Aurelius stiffened, his jaw clenched, but he slowly dropped to one knee.
> “No, my King. Forgive me.”
> “Do not forget who you are speaking to,” the King warned, his eyes blazing. “You are not above the throne.”
Kenneth stood quietly, watching his brothers’ expressions. Even Lucien looked unnerved. Marek stared at the ground. Sevrin didn’t move at all.
> “The Western District must fall,” the King continued. “Break their front line. Cut their supply chain. Disrupt whatever magic they're wielding. Do it swiftly, and do not return until the enemy is in pieces.”
Then the King turned to Kenneth.
His eyes—sharp, piercing, ancient—softened just a little.
> “And you…” the King said, voice low but certain, “you’re progressing. Your instructors speak highly of your strength. Your speed has surpassed the records of our High Generals.”
Kenneth bowed slightly, unsure how to respond. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
> “Continue. Do not slow down. You are more important than you know.”
The King’s eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat too long, then returned to his elder sons.
> “Aurelius, gather your men. Leave before nightfall. I don’t care if your bones are tired. The kingdom does not wait for the weary.”
Aurelius, still kneeling, bowed lower. “Yes, my King.”
> “Darien, Lucien — reinforce the eastern trenchlines. Take Sevrin if he can walk.”
> “I can,” Sevrin said quietly, already rising to his feet.
The King nodded once and turned, his black robes whispering behind him as he strode toward the throne room exit.
The moment he left, the tension snapped like a pulled string. Everyone exhaled.
Aurelius rose slowly, face pale and jaw locked. Without another word, he turned on his heel and began storming toward the exit.
> “He’s going to break something,” Lucien muttered.
> “I hope it’s not one of ours,” Darien said dryly.
Marek sighed and wiped his brow. “I hate when he gets like that.”
Kenneth stared after the King, thoughtful.
> "More important than you know."
Those words echoed in his chest.
Whatever the King suspected, Kenneth could feel it — a storm was coming.
He just didn’t know yet if he was at the center of it… or the one destined to end it.
- Writer
