The sun hung in the sky like a molten, heavy circle of gold. Never had its light seemed so beautiful, and never had its heat felt so much like a benediction.

For three months, the Great Gate of the Bastion had been the maw between heaven and hell. It groaned now as it began to rattle upward, its heavy timbers scarred by the memory of a hundred desperate hours.

The princely cunts outside had thrown every nightmare they possessed at that wood. They had battered it with rams until the iron hinges shrieked; they had hacked at it with axes until the air was thick with splinters; they had even set it ablaze, and on fire it indeed took for it was only of wood.

The enemy had laughed when the outer layer finally crumbled into ash. They had rushed forward through a hail of arrows and stones, weaving through the white-hot spray of boiling sand and the oily dragon-breath flames of the defenders’ pots.

They had expected to find a broken city and easy slaughter. Instead, they had found only the cold, unyielding bars of an iron portcullis and a second, untouched gate of solid oak standing in the shadows behind it. They of course never sighted the second.

From that day on, the League had turned their fury toward the walls, but the results had been no kinder. The hummocks of rotting meat at the base of the fortifications were proof enough of their failure. The dead had served their purpose even in the afterlife; their hollow jaws, glassy eyes, and the sweet, cloying stench of their putrefaction had done more to rattle the minds of the new recruits than any arrow could.

But the time for huddled endurance was over. No man within those walls wanted to remember the shriek of steel or the monotonous, rhythmic thud of the catapults. They had given enough crimson water to the earth in repayment of the life it had given them which they squandered all but so easily.

High above the ramparts and now outside, the black falcon of Yarzat snapped in the wind, its wings fluttering like a dark, vengeful dancer. Beneath its shadow, the sight the defenders had dreamed of through every starving night finally materialized.

They did not look like the heroes of the old songs.

There were no shining knights in pristine plate, no silken favors fluttering from lances. Instead, the force advancing through the muck was a grim, monochromatic tide of iron and filth.

Their armors were caked in the grey clay of mud and forests, and their cloaks were tattered remnants of their former selves, dusty and torn. Thistle-burrs and needle-sharp briars clung to every inch of wool and exposed skin that wasn’t covered by scarred metal.

The garrison of the Bastion wouldn’t have cared if demons had crawled out of the mist to greet them; they would have kissed their cloven hooves and embraced them as angels.

The relief force bore the marks of the road as the defenders bore the marks of the wall. None could say the Bastion’s defiance was second to any, yet none could deny that those outside had bled their own steady tally to ensure this morning dawned.

It was only because of that shared labor that they could now breathe the sharp, cold air of autumn, standing away from the stone corridors that had served as both home and graveyard for three agonizing months.

Asag felt the weight of the world lift as the Prince of Yarzat approached. He was glad to be alive, yes, but above all, he was glad to be alive for this.

Alpheo dismounted, moving with the stiff, heavy grace of a man who had forgotten the feel of a soft bed. He stepped forward and embraced the Legate, mindful of the bandages beneath the iron. The Prince’s own ordeal was written across his face like ink on parchment; his eyes were ringed with deep, bruised circles of grey, and he wore a ragged beard that would have rivaled the desert philosophers of old. Yet, through the exhaustion, a fierce, quiet joy burned in his gaze.

"We truly need to stop meeting like this," Asag said, his voice a low rasp.

Those were the first words they exchanged, a soldier’s greeting to a soldier’s friend.

"I must apologize for the delay," the Prince replied, a smile dancing across his face that seemed to shame the very sun. "It has been a long, bitter labor, but Operation Titanfall worked to its perfection. None of this would have been possible without you doing what you did the way you did. Battered for months, under siege and under steel, and yet none of you cracked. You have made the Legions and the whole of Yarzat proud."

He stepped in and kissed Asag upon both cheeks, the scratch of his beard a rough, and yet craved comfort. "And above all, you have made me proud."

"Beneath the iron, there is hard blood," Asag replied, his voice thick. "I tried to impart that lesson to the runts outside but it seems they were a bit hard of hearing."

The two men laughed then, a hearty, childish, and utterly defiant sound. Three months of lost time, of missed moments and unseen horrors, were washed away in that single breath. It was the laughter of men who had watched the world collapse upon them and had shoved it back a peg. There was ecstasy mixed with a bone-deep weariness in that sound, a mirth that made the vastness of the Southern army that trudged through this lands not but a week ago seem small and inconsequential.

"I believe there are others you must bless," Asag muttered, blinking slowly against the glare of the most beautiful sun he had ever seen.

"I have not forgotten," Alpheo said, patting his shoulder. "I shall leave you to Edric. I’m certain he’s eager for a new ear to talk off; three months alone with me has frayed even that blabber-mouth’s spirit. And when you’re done, seek out Basil. The boy nearly bit his fingers to the bone worrying for you."

"Of this war, they shall say you were blessed with fine men," Asag smiled, his eyes drifting. "But If they impose upon me, I shall say it was I who was blessed."

With that he began to limp across the dew-bathed grass, his gait uneven but his spirit light. A few paces behind the Prince, he saw the familiar shapes of his inner circle. Xanthios stood like a pillar of salt-stained iron, his face a mask of stoic relief, while Arnold leaned heavily on a spear, his youthful face aged by a decade in a single season.

They stood in the golden light, waiting for their prince the ghosts of the siege finally retreating into the shadows of the past, which however for one of them would follow light a ghost for long.

The two men began to sink to their knees and one bent his neck, but Alpheo caught them by the shoulders before they could finish their motions.

"You shall never bow nor kneel to me again, my friends. From now on, you are family to me," the Prince declared "If the Lord of Bracum or the Lord of Mandie find themselves in need of anything, they need only write to the Crown. It would be my greatest honor to tend to such brothers as you."

He pulled each of them into a rough, soldier’s embrace, kissing their weathered cheeks. Arnold looked as though his very heart had been caressed, his youthful face flushing But the Wolf of Bracum, Xanthios, merely offered a toothy grin that looked more like a snarl.

"And is this the end of it, then?" Xanthios asked suddenly. His beard had grown into a great, white, fluffy thicket that sprouted from his jaw like wild gorse, stained here and there with the dried brown spray of old battles which he had not managed to kill for the meeting, unlike those to whom the blood belonged.

"The main host of the League has retreated across the Zauern," Alpheo answered, his eyes darkening. "But the Crownless Prince remains. He still sits in his camp with the remnants of the Oizenian host. Their time is short; they shall receive their bloody due before the first frost settles."

The news seemed to set a fire behind Xanthios’s eyes. While the siege had been a slow, starving hell for most, for the Lord of Bracum, it appeared to have been a jolly, intoxicating carnival of violence. He didn’t look like a man who had suffered; he looked like a man who had finally found his true calling in the shriek of steel and the scent of open guts.

"A fine enough fight so far, I suppose," Xanthios rumbled, his voice a low, manic growl that made the nearby horses shift uneasily. "But it lacked a certain... flavor. The only thing that soured the months for me was your absence, Your Grace. It felt like a wedding without the groom! I’ve spent eighty days hacking at faceless peasants and stone-hurlers whenever they cared to send them, oh and indeed there were some knights, how shiny they were, how nice to make them red.... but I have yet to truly wet my steel in the proper sort of blue blood.

The cunts with the crowns were not eager to play with poor little me."

He began to rhythmically slap the hilt of his heavy longsword, his gaze drifting toward the east where Oizen stood.

To Alpheo the lord of Bracum did not appear so little after all. ’’A sad thing indeed...’’

"Do not weep for my prince. I shall remedy that soon enough.’’ the lord decided then and there ’’ I want to feel the Crownless Prince’s face collapse beneath the flat of my blade. Just as much as I want to hear the way his noble ribs snap when the iron finds them. You promise me his host still stands? Good. I was worried I’d have to spend the winter talking to my son of how great my last war was, instead of carving my name into the chest of a Prince.

I would gladly be named the Prince-slayer if the Warrior give me chance to prove myself worthy of such attention.

If you wish to please me there is only one thing you can do.Tell me we march soon. We scared half the league away?I say good to that! Now let us put our swords in their bunghole! Tell me there is more red water yet to be spilled before we call it a year and you shall make me as jolly as a babe with his mother’s teat!"

Xanthios laughed, and Alpheo joined him, though the Prince’s mirth was heavier, shadowed by the cost of the ground they stood upon.

Alpheo most certainly intended to shatter Sorza’s bones and claim his head, but he could find no joy in the coming slaughter, he was tired. It wasn’t that he disdained the role of a commander, but rather that the earth was already sodden with enough of it, a look at the army behind them was proof of that.

Yet the debt of war was not yet settled; there was more work for the iron.

Then the Prince turned his attention to the young man standing awkwardly nearby. Arnold leaned heavily on the butt of a spear, his weight shifted to compensate for the stiff, new wooden limb that had replaced his leg.

"If there is anything you wish of me, Arnold," Alpheo said softly, "you need only ask."

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind whistling through the scorched battlements. Then, with a look of quiet resolution, Arnold shook his head.

"I carried a debt to Your Grace from the day you saw my daughter legitimized," Arnold whispered, his voice thick with old memories. "She wouldn’t have survived as just ’Gilly.’ It is on your account that I am now a married man, waiting for my second-born to take their first breath. You set right the wrongs my father did. He forced me to break my betrothal to my caretaker’s daughter, the man who gave his life for me, and condemned the child in her womb to grow up a bastard. I’d say I’ve finally repaid what I owed."

"You did more than that," the Prince replied, his eyes dropping to the wooden peg in the mud. "I shall send my finest blacksmiths to you. They will craft a stirrup specifically to accommodate your gait. If you wish it, you may still ride in the vanguard and shoot from the saddle, as is the tradition in the sands of the West. You have fought like a lion, and if any man dares to cast shame upon your name, the Crown itself will testify to your honor.Let no man say that Arnold did not fight a lion when asked."

After that he extended his hand. Arnold stood taken aback for a heartbeat, his eyes wide, before hesitatingly grasping the Prince’s forearm.

"I will gladly march beside you once more," Arnold said, his voice regaining its steel. "There are yet battles to fight and honors to be carved from the dark. The sun of Herculia may have set away, but I have found the sun of Yarzat to be more than enough replacement to grow old under."