Last knight

Chapter Three: The Fortress at the Edge of the World

The nameless fortress stood at the northernmost edge of the empire, a forgotten sentinel wedged between two snow-capped mountains so tall even eagles struggled to cross them. The valley between the peaks was the fortress’s only approach, its only purpose. To the south lay Thebes, the nearest city, and a scattering of villages with names like “Six Acres” and “Seventeen Households”—places so small they barely registered on a map.

No general wanted this posting. Even mid-ranking officers preferred chewing stale rations in the capital’s barracks to rotting in this desolate, profitless outpost. But for a junior officer like Ares, it was an opportunity.

When Ares arrived with his four companions, he found the fortress surprisingly alive. A hundred households clung to its walls, and the Church had even built a small chapel. For Ares, this was more than enough.

His good mood was impossible to miss. Even Croitzner, who usually dismissed the other three as “lumbering oafs,” could see it. Ares was smiling.

Ares rarely smiled.

When he didn’t, the scar across his cheek lent him a rugged, almost heroic air. But when he smiled, the scar twisted, and the boyishness in his eyes made him look… different. Some might call it ugly. Ares claimed not to care about his appearance, but deep down, he knew better. He only smiled like this when he was truly happy.

The sun blazed overhead, its heat warping the air like a poorly cast illusion spell. Ares climbed the fortress walls, his limp barely noticeable. He kicked a dozing sentry awake, then made his way down the line, delivering a boot to each of the twenty-three men on duty.

As Ares inspected the ballistae, the veterans muttered among themselves. “What’s this kid think he’s doing? This place is just a glorified signal tower. Who the hell is he?”

The same question was being asked in the capital, in the opulent parlor of Lady Marisha. Her young lover, nursing a bruised face, demanded to know who Ares was.

Lady Marisha, her waist cinched to defy both age and logic, was not amused. The death of her husband, the duke, had done little to disrupt her lavish lifestyle. If anything, the lack of his gambling and brothel expenses had left her even wealthier.

She fanned herself, though the room was already chilled by blocks of ice in iron basins. “You’re asking this now?” she said, her voice colder than the ice. “When I secured this posting for you, why didn’t you ask then? Regardless, this is someone you do not cross.”

She left the room, and her lover was soon escorted out by the steward, never to return.

Lady Marisha knew the truth. The Prime Minister and the War Ministry had sent an envoy to Phrixus not out of respect, but because the three great families couldn’t agree on who should control the fortress. It wasn’t worth fighting over, but none wanted to cede it to their rivals.

Two years earlier, during the battle for Thebes, General Andoril had handed his banner to Phrixus with his dying breath, declaring, “If I fall, follow Phrixus.” This forgotten detail had resurfaced, and Phrixus—a protégé of Baron Hydra, the finance minister who owed no allegiance to the great families—had been chosen as a neutral candidate.

Lady Marisha was no fool. She wasn’t about to risk her position for a disposable lover, not when even her late husband had tread carefully around Baron Hydra.

Back in his castle, Phrixus turned to Oryphmus. “I wanted to send you.”

“I wanted to go,” Oryphmus replied with a grin.

They clasped hands, both knowing why Ares had been the better choice. He had no connections, no family name, and a disability that made him an unlikely candidate for advancement. This was his chance.

“But he’s so young,” Phrixus said, frowning. “He acts all serious, but I worry…”

“Says the man who’s only six months older,” Oryphmus shot back, laughing.

Before Phrixus could retort, Oryphmus shoved him toward the stairs. “Go on, someone’s here to see you.”

It was Moran, the doctor’s daughter. She had helped them during the war, and Phrixus had been smitten ever since. He descended the stairs awkwardly, his usual confidence replaced by nervousness. If not for Oryphmus pushing him, the hero who had faced down tens of thousands might have fled.

Oryphmus kissed Moran’s hand politely. “I’ll leave him to you. I have militia to train.”

As Moran and Phrixus walked through the garden, she asked, “Isn’t Ares usually the one training the militia?”

“Oh, Ares,” Phrixus said, snapping out of his daze. “He’s the fortress commander now. I can’t exactly ask him to handle the militia, can I?”

Moran’s face fell. She let go of Phrixus’s arm, tears spilling silently as she walked ahead. Phrixus, his usual laziness gone, followed in grim silence.

Soon, a clinic appeared in Ares’s fortress. Moran’s reputation as a healer spread faster than Ares’s as a commander. The hundred households within the fortress and the villagers nearby might not have known their new commander’s name, but they knew they no longer had to tithe a tenth of their income to the Church for healing spells. At Moran’s clinic, a cold or a broken bone cost no more than a loaf of rye bread or a bowl of cheese soup.