Chapter 136: The Monster Of The North.

Chapter 136

The slash and clash of steel rang across the battlefield, mingling with the cries of wounded men and the thunder of hooves upon blood-soaked earth. The sun hung low beyond the horizon, casting a crimson veil over the fallen scattered across the field.

Amid the chaos, Duke Soren Aethermoor rode through the fray upon his great warhorse, his sword flashing as he slit down the throats of Engrosian soldiers who dared approach him. His expression remained cold, his movements precise, and not a trace of hesitation marred his strikes.

Ahead, the remaining Engrosian soldiers began to retreat, abandoning their fallen comrades in their desperate flight. Soren’s jaw tightened. "Flee, then. It will avail you little when next we meet," he muttered, watching the enemy disappear beyond the distant ridge. Before his horse had fully steadied, a soldier emerged from behind and lunged at him with a raised blade, hoping to strike before the duke could react. It was a foolish mistake. Soren dismounted in one swift motion, turned, and brought his sword down with ruthless precision. The attacker collapsed, blood gushing all over and on his face, but Soren did not spare him another glance.

"Your Grace!" Orion called, urging his horse towards him. He dismounted and bowed his head respectfully. "The Engrosian host has withdrawn beyond the ridge. Our line remains unbroken, though the men are sorely spent. I would counsel that we return to camp before exhaustion leaves them vulnerable to another assault."

Soren surveyed the battlefield, taking in the weary soldiers still standing beneath his banner. Victory belonged to them, but another engagement would demand strength they could ill afford to waste. He gave a curt nod. "So be it. Double the watch along the ridge and send word to the scouts. I will not have the enemy mistake our withdrawal for weakness."

The army began its journey back to camp, their horses moving slowly beneath the weight of exhaustion. Upon their arrival, several soldiers hurried towards Soren, eager to attend to their commander. He dismissed them with a sharp gesture. "Tend to those who have bled beneath my banner. I shall not have my men left to suffer whilst I am fussed over." Though reluctant to leave their duke unattended, they obeyed and turned their attention towards the wounded.

Soren continued towards his tent, his face as impassive as ever. He had led his soldiers on the offensive for an entire week, scarcely allowing himself sufficient rest, not that he needed rest, yet his stride betrayed no weakness. As he passed a group of soldiers gathered beside the supply wagons, their hushed conversation drifted into his hearing.

"How does His Grace endure such a campaign without proper rest? I have scarcely kept my eyes open since dawn, yet he appears ready to ride into battle once more."

"There is something inhuman about him," another soldier whispered. "No ordinary man could endure such a trial and remain standing. They say he was a monster long before he ever took command of the Northern Army."

"Then pray that the gods preserve the monster who commands us," a third replied gravely. "For so long as His Grace stands, the North shall not yield."

The group fell silent as Soren came into view. They scrambled to their feet and bowed their heads. "Your Grace."

He offered no response and continued towards his tent, his boots striking the frozen earth with measured steps. Behind him, the soldiers remained bowed until he had passed, not daring to raise their heads in his presence. He could feel their eyes following him, could almost hear the questions they would whisper once he was beyond their sight. They feared his strength, marvelled at his endurance, and spoke of him as though he were some dreadful creature born of winter itself rather than a man of flesh and blood. To them, he was the Duke of the North, the commander who led his armies through bloodshed without faltering, the man whose sword had sent countless enemies fleeing from the battlefield. They praised his victories and prayed for his continued command, yet few would ever dare to approach him without trepidation. In their eyes, he was a weapon to be wielded against their enemies, not a man who might grow weary beneath the weight of his own burdens.

But Soren had known such whispers long before he ever wore a duke’s mantle or commanded an army beneath the royal banner. He had been twelve when the first of them began, when the adults who should have offered guidance instead regarded him with unease, and those of his own age learned to keep their distance. He remembered the wary glances, the hushed conversations that ceased whenever he entered a room, and the way even noblemen twice his age measured their words around him. They had called him a monster then, too, though he had possessed neither a title to command nor an army to defend. The years had changed his stature, sharpened his strength, and earned him a name that carried weight across the kingdom, but they had done little to alter the judgment passed upon him in childhood. Now, the same fear that had once isolated him had become a weapon on the battlefield, and he had learned to wield it as mercilessly as his sword. If the world insisted on seeing a monster whenever it looked upon him, then he would give it no reason to believe otherwise. Yet somewhere beneath the armour, the scars, and the fearsome reputation he had cultivated, the memory of that twelve-year-old boy remained—a boy who had learned far too early that being feared was sometimes the closest thing to being respected that the world would ever offer him. The only way his living was guaranteed.

Inside his tent, Soren removed his bloodied gloves and laid them upon the table. For a moment, he stood in silence, his gaze fixed upon the darkened canvas walls. The soldiers’ words had stirred no anger in him. What could their judgment matter when he had heard far worse from those who had known him since birth?

"How fitting," he murmured into the silence of his tent, his voice as cold as the northern frost. "The court branded me a monster when I was but twelve years of age. It seems the years have done little to persuade the world otherwise."

The flap of the heavy pavilion tent stirred, and Orion stepped inside, his brows drawn together in unmistakable displeasure. He had overheard the soldiers’ reckless whispers near the supply wagons, and the dishonor cut through his martial loyalty like a cold blade. "How dare they, Your Grace?" Orion demanded, his voice thick with suppressed fury. "Were it not for your command, half those ungrateful wretches would be corpses rotting upon the southern soil. You have led them through a relentless week of slaughter without allowing the enemy to break our vanguard, yet your name comes out of their lips with mockery. Such insolence is beneath the dignity of men who claim the honor of serving alongside the North!"

Soren paid him little attention as he began removing his heavy armor, loosening the silver clasps at his shoulders before setting aside the blood-stained steel piece by piece. "Pay them no mind, Orion," Soren replied calmly, his eyes unmoving as he unbuckled his wrist guards. "Men will speak of others for as long as there are tongues in their mouths and idle hours to occupy them. Besides... I have long since grown used to it."

"That is precisely what troubles me, my lord! That is not something you are ever supposed to be content with," Orion countered, his expression darkening with genuine sorrow for his master. Soren let a heavy piece of shoulder armor drop onto the wooden stand with a dull thud, his striking blue eyes finally lifting to meet his aide’s gaze. "And what would you have me do? Scour the ranks for every soldier who harbors fear in his heart?"

Soren cut in coldly, steering the conversation back to the stark reality of their campaign. "What of the scouts? What intelligence have they brought concerning the enemy’s formation?"

Orion straightened his posture, forcing his personal indignation aside as his tone shifted into absolute seriousness. "The reports are deeply concerning, Your Grace. The Engrosian host continues its tactical withdrawal whenever our vanguard presses forward, surrendering border posts only to regroup farther south within their own territories. With the way the Engrosian men keep retreating into their vast southern domain, this war will most likely take a whole year before our absolute victory is secured. They intend to draw us deep into their home lands, where their familiarity with the terrain grants them a formidable advantage."

Soren’s jaw tightened into a rigid line. "They are absolute fools if they believe such a passive strategy will grant them ultimate victory. Engrosia initiated this war against us out of sheer desperation, hoping a show of aggression would frighten Arkovia into submission. They have far more to lose in a prolonged conflict than we ever will." Soren stepped toward the heavy tactical map spread across his table, tracing the marked southern roads with a leather-clad finger. "However, I cannot afford to keep fighting for a whole year. Prolonged deployment drains our duchy’s resources and burdens our men unnecessarily. We shall not grant them the privilege of choosing the length of this war."

"I understand, Your Grace," Orion inclined his head with crisp discipline. "I shall proceed as planned and draft the official missive to His Majesty, clearly outlining the terms we agreed upon once the Engrosian Kingdom falls. When their surrender is secured, the Engrosian Crown must honor the settlement and territorial concessions promised to Arkovia."

Soren nodded sternly. "See that there is no room for ambiguity in your drafting. I will not have the royal court dispute our victory after we have paid for it in blood. Now tell me, is there any notice from the capital regarding the kingdom’s broader political affairs?"

Orion offered an apologetic bow. "I regret to inform you, my lord, that detailed intelligence regarding the high court remains beyond my current reach. Our informants in the capital have been hindered by the Crown’s heightened vigilance. However, I can assure you that the correspondence between you and the Duchess continues to travel safely." Orion gestured toward the corner of the table, where several sealed missives rested neat and undisturbed. "Judging by Her Grace’s regular dispatches, she remains well and firmly in command of the fortress."

Soren’s gaze drifted toward the small stack of parchment, his cold blue eyes softening for a fleeting moment. Sigrid’s image flashed vividly in his mind—her striking, icy composure and those breathtaking crimson eyes. Yet behind her brilliant beauty and sharp intelligence, Soren had perceived a profound, quiet darkness lingering in her gaze, a shadow of unspoken burdens she carried alone. "Yes," Soren murmured quietly. "Her latest letter has yet to reach me but I will wait."

Orion bowed respectfully, stepping toward the exit. "Rest well tonight, Your Grace. Tomorrow’s march will demand much of us. Goodnight, my lord."

Soren inclined his head. "Goodnight, Orion."

Once the tent flap fell shut and silence reclaimed the pavilion, Soren stepped closer to the table. He picked up Sigrid’s previous letter, his gloved thumb gently tracing the distinct, elegant imprint of her crimson lipstick left at the bottom corner of the parchment. A rare, subtle warmth touched his lips as he recalled her playful warning about an impaled husband.

Folding the missive with absolute care, he looked out through the tent gap into the dark, star-filled sky. "I will end this war," Soren whispered into the cold night air, his voice echoing with absolute, unwavering resolve. "Wait for me, Duchess. I am coming back to you." He could not afford to stay here any longer when he knew the preys who had their eyes on Sigrid.