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Book 1: Chapter 51: Running To Ruin
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 02:45:45 +0000 UTCChapter 51:
Running To Ruin
The week had passed in a blur of wind, stone, and blood.
Ronan stood high on the battlements of the mountain fortress, boots braced against the ancient parapet, watching the gray dawn spill over the narrow ford below. It had been seven days since his column took this position, seven days of skirmishes, icy dawns, and far too little sleep. The Beastkin had advanced harder than any of the scouts predicted. First, they’d held them at the pass, pushing back the Beastkin and their scattered bands, holding the line with just enough men. Then, everything changed.
The Ursin had broken through three nights ago, massive, unstoppable, their shock troops shattering the defensive line Ronan thought would hold. He didn’t know how the Beastkin were moving so fast, or what drove them to such fury. It hardly mattered now. His men were tired, stretched thin, always too few for the task at hand.
Now, as the newly named heir of House Ashford and nephew to the king, Ronan found himself the center of this desperate defense. His column—nearly twelve hundred strong—held the last fortress on the eastern road through the mountains. A trickle of young Ashford nobles had arrived over the week, sent by their houses to prove themselves in the crucible of real war. The king’s men, too, were here, his uncle’s soldiers, wearing the Crown’s sigil but answering to Ronan.
It should have made him proud. In some ways, it did. He stood with his captains and junior officers, watching the sun rise over the barricaded pass, and felt—for the first time—a flicker of ownership. This was his command. His war.
Yet the pride soured every time he walked among his soldiers. Not the young nobles, they saluted, shared his wine, laughed at his jokes. But the men in the ranks, the ones who did the real bleeding. Their respect was a mask, thin as frost. He felt it every time he gave an order, every time he passed along the lines. They listened because they had to. Not because they wanted to.
And the Beastkin attacks kept coming, louder and harder with each night. The men grumbled about old omens and cursed magic. Supplies ran low. Even the nobles grew silent, their bravado fading with every new burial at dawn.
Word had come just last night: the Second Army from the kingdom would arrive soon, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Reinforcements at last, the promise of relief, of rest. Ronan tried to believe it was enough.
But as he looked down on the battered ford, with the battered men he was supposed to lead, a single, restless truth kept gnawing at him: Victory, for Ashford, meant nothing if his own men didn’t see him as theirs.
And with every sunrise, he was less certain how to win that war.
He leaned forward on the cold stone, muttering under his breath, Damn it, what is Liliana doing…
It didn’t make sense. He’d read the reports, every courier’s letter, every message scratched in code and urgency. Ashford had its legendary First Legion—twenty thousand veterans, drilled for mountain war—but they weren’t moving. They just sat in the high valleys, silent as stone, while only small columns like his own were thrown out to choke the passes. A thousand men here, two thousand there… Just enough to bleed, never enough to break the enemy.
Ronan tried to convince himself it was some clever strategy, baiting, conserving strength, waiting for the perfect moment. But the longer he watched his tired men cycle through the barricades and the Beastkin banners cluster like storm clouds on the far slopes, the more it felt like a gamble he’d been left to play alone.
He almost smiled with relief when the news came: the king’s Second Army was on the march, his uncle’s banners flying, bringing the promise of real reinforcements. But every hope soured with the next courier’s words, a new, urgent whisper, impossible to ignore.
The main force of the Ursin—twenty-eight thousand strong, if the scouts were right—was moving for the eastern pass. Right here. The entire warband, thousands of Bearkin in iron and furs, led by their chieftains, every mile closer with each cold sunrise.
If the Ursin chose this road, his battered column and this crumbling fort would be all that stood between Ashford and a slaughter. He clenched his jaw, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the hilt of his sword.
If they really come this way, he thought, I’ll need more than a miracle to hold until help arrives.
Ronan made his way down the winding stone stairs, boots echoing in the narrow corridor, until he reached the strategy room. The air was thick with the scent of tallow and parchment, low voices giving way to silence as he entered. Around the heavy table, his captains and junior lords were already gathered, some standing over maps, others nursing mugs of bitter coffee.
A young noble straightened at his approach, bowing smoothly. “Welcome back, my lord.”
Steve of Redlane. Ronan allowed himself a faint, genuine smile. Steve was one of the few here he actually trusted, a third son, just like Ronan, now heir by the cruel math of war. They’d both lost brothers, both shouldered expectations neither had chosen. But Steve had never tried to hide his loyalty. He always had Ronan’s back.
Ronan took his seat at the table, nodding to each captain, lord, and officer present. The familiar dance of authority felt more natural today. He caught Steve’s eye, saw a flicker of shared understanding, a hint that neither of them really belonged, but both intended to hold their ground anyway.
He cleared his throat. “Status?”
The room shifted. Reports were passed, charts unrolled. They began with the practical: fresh supplies had finally arrived from the backlands yesterday, a rare bit of good news. Now came the business of rationing flour, arrows, and bandages. Who got what, and how long it would last if the Beastkin pressed again.
Each captain spoke in turn: patrols to the north, a quiet night at the east wall, a skirmish in the lower woods with casualties light but rising. The king’s men watched with guarded eyes but said little, still taking measure of Ronan’s command.
The rhythm of siege was, urgent, tedious, and never quite safe. Ronan listened, weighed every complaint and proposal, feeling the gravity of his own role settle heavier with every word.
It was still early midday, yet the council turned quickly to the business of preparing the night watch, habit, and necessity. Ronan scanned the room, taking silent stock of what he had: three battle-mages, rotating in strict eight-hour shifts so one was always awake, eyes and wards sharp for whatever the Beastkin might try in darkness. Twenty of the king’s own knights, his personal guard, stood ready as well, veterans with the scars and cold eyes to prove it. The regular Ashford soldiers, though worn down by days of battle and little rest, were disciplined and well-drilled, the pride of the duchy.
The supplies that had arrived yesterday were a rare mercy. There was enough fresh bread, dried meat, arrows, and healing salves to keep the column strong for another week, maybe longer if they rationed with care.
Steve and the other captains outlined the night’s plan: extra pickets along the ridge, mage wards along the southern approach, knights cycling through the narrow causeway every two hours. Ronan listened, offered a few adjustments, and nodded his approval. They knew what they were doing.
For a moment, as he looked around the table, at the mix of young nobles, seasoned officers, and the steely-eyed veterans from the capital, he felt almost confident. He had the right men, the right resources, and for once, enough time to prepare. At least in Ronan eyes.
The meeting wrapped up quicker than most, business settled with surprising efficiency. Ronan and Steve found themselves side by side as they left the strategy room, the air outside sharper and fresher, the clamor of the fortress fading behind them.
They walked together toward the tent reserved for the young nobles, a faded banner snapping overhead, the scent of stew and baking bread drifting through the cold air. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal, even comfortable.
Steve nudged him gently as they ducked beneath the tent flap. “You know, my lord, for a moment back there, you sounded just like your uncle. Maybe even better. I’m certain the men are proud to serve under you.”
Ronan smirked, letting the compliment sink in. “You really think so? I feel like half the time I’m just parroting whatever the captains want to hear.”
“Nonsense,” Steve said with easy confidence, scooping up two bowls from the line and handing one over. “You command the room, Ronan. Everyone listens. I know I do.”
They found a spot at the corner table, where the benches were softer and the tent’s canvas blocked most of the cold. Ronan sat up a little straighter, unconsciously mimicking the posture he’d seen his brothers use, and took a long sip of watery stew.
Steve leaned back, all lazy self-assurance, his boots up on the bench. “You know, if my father saw me here, he’d probably assume I was leading the whole column. I keep telling people: leaderships about presence, not just tactics.”
Ronan nodded, accepting the wisdom at face value. “Exactly. My uncle always said the same, sometimes, you just have to look the part. Honestly, I think the men respect that.”
Steve grinned, oblivious to the fatigue and wary glances from the true veterans nearby. “Of course, they do. We’re Ashford’s best, aren’t we? That’s what matters.”
Ronan felt a little lighter, bolstered by Steve’s praise. The worries of the past week faded for a moment. It was easy, sitting with a friend who saw only success.
Neither of them noticed how empty their words were, or the way the more seasoned officers kept their distance, watching with tired, silent eyes. Ronan gave a quiet laugh at that, dry, but real. For a moment, as they shared the warmth of food and an easy camaraderie, the burdens of command eased just a little.
As they began to eat, Ronan marveled a little at the meal, chunks of beef, real carrots, even a slice of fresh bread. Luxury, compared to what the regular soldiers scraped together out on the line. Steve complained about the stew being “a touch bland,” and they traded half-hearted jokes about what the cooks could accomplish with proper wine.
Their laughter was interrupted by raised voices at the tent’s entrance. A ripple of commotion swept through the nobles as a dust-streaked, breathless soldier tried to force his way inside, only to be stopped by two guards. The man’s face was red with anger, eyes blazing.
“I have news from the commander—urgent!” he barked, wrestling to free his arm from one guard’s grip.
The guards sneered, one shoving him back. “The commander is eating, and has no time for common filth.”
The insult seemed to only stoke the soldier’s frustration; he looked as if he might swing at the guard. Ronan stepped forward, Steve quick behind, putting on his best “in command” face, though his heart was pounding with the sudden shift.
He didn’t bother correcting the guard, or apologizing to the soldier. Instead, he gestured for calm, adopting a tone he thought sounded authoritative. “What’s this about? What information do you have?”
The soldier blinked, momentarily thrown off by Ronan’s presence. “You’re the commander?” he asked, genuine confusion in his voice, he was clearly not one of Ronan’s regular men.
Steve puffed up beside him. “Of course, he is, he’s the heir of Ashford! Show some respect, commoner.”
The messenger took a steadying breath, forced himself to bow—just barely—a flash of open resentment in his eyes as he rose. “Message from the Second Army, my lord. The king’s forces have engaged the Ursin, around six miles from here, just past the lower valley. They’ve sent for reinforcements. All units in range are to move immediately.”
Ronan froze, the words sinking in like ice water. The Second Army? The king’s men? Engaged already… so close? He glanced at Steve, who looked pale and uncertain for the first time since the war began.
He didn’t react for a heartbeat, mind spinning. It didn’t make sense, the Second Army was supposed to be coming from behind the lines, in the safety of the backlands, not fighting for their lives practically at arrival.
One of the guards shifted, uneasy. “My lord?” he prompted.
“How?” Ronan whispered, his voice hoarse. “How can they be attacked in the backlands, behind the front?”
The messenger had no answer. The tent was silent but for the distant clang of the fortress and the muffled heartbeat pounding in Ronan’s ears.
Then something inside him took over. He didn’t wait for another explanation or a second opinion. Ronan shoved past the guards, out into the cold air of the courtyard, his voice ringing out across the chaos.
“Gather the soldiers, we charge! Sound the alarm!”
The fortress erupted in motion, officers barking orders, men scrambling for arms, trumpets blaring the call to arms. Nobles abandoned their meals and ran for their armor. For the first time, Ronan’s command didn’t sound like rehearsal, it sounded like war.
A blur of orders and chaos later, the fortress was emptying. Every able-bodied man; soldier, noble, even kitchen hands with borrowed spears, gathered at the gates. The captains had protested at first, tried to reason with Ronan, argued that it was foolish to abandon the fort without knowing what lay ahead. But Ronan, Steven, and the younger nobles drowned out the doubts, their voices sharpened by adrenaline and the certainty that the king’s army. No. Ronan’s army, was calling for help.
They moved fast. The drawbridge crashed down, and the charge began.
Ronan led the way on horseback, one of a hundred cavalrymen at the head of the column. He could feel the weight of every gaze behind him, Steve at his side, banner snapping in the wind, and eleven hundred men pounding down the frozen mountain road. Armor clattered. Boots thundered. The sight of so many surging forward—his men, his command—sent a surge of pride through his chest, burning away doubt for a moment.
The icy wind stung his cheeks as they pushed harder. He shouted encouragement, waving his sword, feeling the old blood of Ashford sing in his veins. For once, it didn’t matter that he’d never fought a real battle, that the veterans doubted him. Here and now, it looked—felt—like heroism.
For twenty minutes, they ran, boots and hooves carving a path through the snow and mud. The sound was like a storm, echoing down the valley. Breath plumed in the cold air, the cries of men growing louder, more desperate, as the first whiffs of smoke and distant battle cries carried on the wind.
Ronan leaned forward in his saddle, heart hammering, eyes straining ahead for the first glimpse of the battlefield. Only minutes left now—just over the next rise—and he would see what kind of war waited for him.
--::--
Marshal Dareth rode near the front of the column, the eastern wind snapping the royal banners with the wyrm overhead. He was an old soldier, bones aching from a lifetime of cold dawns and hard marches, but duty had never felt heavier than it did now. He had promised the king, his oldest friend, to bring the Second Army east and to keep the king’s nephew, Ronan, alive. Secure the flank. Hold the passes. Stop the Beastkin.
He glanced back at the seemingly endless line of men and beasts snaking along the mountain road: fifteen thousand trained soldiers, legendary regiments from the capital, the best engineers, a full battle-mage corps, and—pride of the Crown—two wyverns pacing on iron leads behind the baggage train. Even among the king’s armies, such force was rare; to bring it all was a statement. Dareth took it seriously.
And that wasn’t all. Behind the soldiers marched a tidal wave of camp followers: merchants, smiths, cooks, physicians, armorers, farriers, and hundreds of carts loaded with food and gear. In truth, nearly eighteen thousand souls. Dareth’s column was a city on the move.
He was going all out, not just for the war, but because he did not trust Liliana of Ashford. He remembered her from years ago, sharp as winter, beautiful and cold as polished steel. He’d stopped in Velwick only yesterday, braving the chill and the weight of old memories, to meet her face-to-face. It had been the first time in years.
She had not changed. She stood before him with the same perfect posture, the same pale skin and ageless eyes, as if she had stepped out of a portrait untouched by time. Their conversation had been short, formal, edged with the kind of tension only two masters of their craft could manage without raising their voices. He left with no clearer sense of her loyalty, only the uneasy feeling that the Duchess was just as dangerous as the rumors claimed.
Still, Dareth thought as the army crested a low ridge and the sun caught on helms and banners, perhaps the king is right. Perhaps she truly is on our side. For all our sakes, I hope so. That woman is… frightening.
His adjutant pulled alongside, voice raised just enough to cut through the rattle of armor and the crunch of boots on gravel. “Maybe an hour more, sire, and we’ll be in sight of the border fortress.”
Dareth nodded, not taking his eyes from the winding path ahead. An hour… just a little longer and they’d reach stone walls, warmth, and a real meal. The men deserved it. Gods know, so do I.
The march from the green, rolling mainlands into Ashford’s stony heart had not been pleasant. It was all wind-scoured ridges and jagged valleys, the roads little more than old goat trails, the air thin and sharp enough to bite. Dareth had grown up in the lowlands, where the earth was soft and generous. Here, everything was hard; land, weather, and especially the people.
He’d never understood how anyone could love this country, but the Ashford folk wore it like a badge of pride. Maybe that was the secret, survive enough winters here, and you became as tough and unfriendly as the stone itself. Dareth almost smiled at the thought, then caught himself, the gravity of command returning as he glanced at the restless men, the mage banners, the distant shape of the wyverns pacing their handlers.
An hour, he thought. Then the hard part begins.
Or so he thought.
A commotion rippled through the ranks as someone shouted and pointed toward the horizon. Dareth squinted, shading his eyes with a gloved hand. There, cresting the last ridge and barreling down the mountain road, was a black spot, growing fast, multiplying. More voices rose up along the column. Officers scrambled to their posts. It was the kind of chaos that made or broke armies, but Dareth was Marshal for a reason.
He shot his hand skyward. “Halt! All ranks, hold!” The order echoed down the line, and in moments, thousands of boots stamped to a stop. Mages and officers peered ahead as the spot resolved into a column, men running, cavalry at the head, banners flapping.
Dareth’s instincts snapped to life. “Battle formation! On the double!” he barked.
The entire Second Army sprang into action. The mage corps sent up a crackling lattice of shimmering shields, warding the front lines against incoming spells and arrows. Tower shield knights rushed to interlock their massive shields, a bulwark of steel ready to halt even the wildest Beastkin assault. Archers took up positions, cavalry fanned out to the flanks, and the war mages muttered sharp words, hands glowing with stored force.
All eyes turned to the charging mass. As the enemy came into range, the mages readied their tactical spells, only for Dareth to catch sight of something familiar. He recognized the uniforms first, then the Ashford banners snapping high above the chaos. A moment later, through the snow and dust, he spotted the lead rider. Ronan.
Of course. The incompetent brat, the one who’d spent his youth playing at instruments and fancying opera instead of ever doing anything useful, until the family tragedies thrust him into command. Now here he was, leading a wild, desperate charge straight at the Second Army.
Dareth’s instincts shouted warning. “Don’t attack!” he roared, throwing up a hand as some mages twitched at the ready.
He watched for a heartbeat longer. No Beastkin in sight, just Ronan and his exhausted column, faces white with fear and cold, not fury.
“Open the formation! Let them through! Their charge can only mean one thing, they’re being chased!” he barked.
The orders snapped through the line. The central mage barrier flickered and dropped as tower shield knights shifted, opening a narrow, protected corridor. The rest of the formation braced, weapons out, eyes flicking anxiously between the oncoming friendlies and the empty, ominous road behind.
Dareth’s jaw tightened. Whatever force could push Ronan to flee like this was coming soon.
--::--
The valley opened before them, white with churned snow and the bruised colors of dusk. Ronan barely felt the pain in his back from riding or the bite of the wind, he was focused only on the sight ahead. The Second Army’s banners, a forest of royal wyrms, filled the valley. Beyond them, pillars of black smoke twisted into the sky. Closer, the air crackled with so much magic even Ronan, magicless all his life, could taste it, sharp and metallic on his tongue, like the moment before a storm.
Steve rode beside him, flushed and wild-eyed. “They’re opening the line for us!” he shouted over the thunder of hooves and boots. “We’ll hit the enemy from the rear—they must be under attack. See the fires at the far side?”
Ronan’s blood surged with pride and relief. It looked, from this distance, like the king’s banners were holding strong, the Second Army not routed but triumphant, mages at the ready and ranks unbroken. Perhaps the chaos behind them was just the last gasp of the Ursin.
He turned in his saddle, voice rising above the din. “Look, Ashford! See your friends and your king’s banners! Glory is ahead—charge! Charge to help our friends!”
A ragged, exhausted cheer answered him. His cavalry surged forward, swords drawn, standards high. Behind them, the infantry, worn and breathless from the punishing run, summoned what little was left, boots pounding over frozen earth, banners streaming in the wind.
Together, Ronan and his twelve hundred men ran down the slope, spurred by pride, desperation, and the promise of redemption, toward the king’s army and the fires that waited at the edge of ruin.
--::--
Marshal Dareth couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The hillside had thundered with the roar of Ronan’s men, their voices wild with exhaustion and pride as they crashed through the barrier into his ranks. He’d braced himself for the sight of a pursuing Beastkin horde, for the chaos and carnage of a desperate last stand. But as the Ashford column kept charging, surging past his mages and through the opened formation, a cold suspicion settled in his gut.
The expected enemy never appeared. There were no pursuing Ursin, no shadowy warband at their heels. Just Ronan’s men, tattered, half-crazed, and suddenly… turning on his own people.
It was like a fever dream. The Ashford column, instead of rallying with the front, barreled straight into the support wagons and the trailing edge of the royal entourage. Civilians in black travel robes—their traditional sign of noncombatant status—were trampled beneath boots and horses. Carts were overturned, supplies scattered, shouts of panic rising as the chaos spread. Then, to Dareth’s utter horror, Ronan and a cluster of knights wheeled their horses and charged the great iron corral where one of the king’s wyverns was chained.
For a heartbeat, Dareth was frozen, every muscle locked in shock. So were his commanders, gaping at the madness unfolding in their midst. It was the kind of disaster no soldier, no commander, could ever expect.
Then instinct roared through him. He shouted, voice raw, “Stop! Hold! Don’t let them—STOP!” His command staff repeated the order, horns and bugles blaring.
Soldiers of the Second Army surged forward, shields and spears at the ready, streaming toward the battered civilians and downed carts. Most of the Ashford men faltered, confusion and exhaustion in their eyes as they saw whom they had struck. Realization dawned—these weren’t Beastkin, these weren’t enemies. The charge broke apart, their attack faltering as the sheer discipline and numbers of the king’s troops surrounded and separated them.
But near the wyvern pen, Ronan and a knot of young knights still fought on, blades raised and shouts lost in the din, intent on bringing down the writhing, shrieking beast. The Second Army closed in, a tide of steel and authority.
What had begun as Ronan’s moment of triumph curdled instantly into chaos, shame, and the threat of catastrophe. The soldiers of the Second Army seized Ronan, wrenching him from the wyvern’s pen. The battle-mages stood ready, their spells crackling in the air. Dareth himself strode forward, his face cold with fury and disbelief.
Dareth’s face was crimson with rage as he stormed toward Ronan, who was still being held fast by two grim-faced knights. The camp had fallen silent, hundreds of eyes fixed on the heir of Ashford, the spectacle of his ruin unfolding in front of the entire Second Army.
“What does that mean?” Dareth roared, voice echoing off wagons and banners. “Why the hell did you attack our supply chain? Why were your men trying to kill one of the king’s wyverns? Explain yourself, boy!”
Behind him, healers worked desperately over the wounded beast, its blood steaming on the cold ground. The scattered remains of the civilian caravan were being righted, frightened noncombatants ushered away by soldiers with wary glances at the Ashford column. The bitter stench of failure hung in the air.
Ronan stared at the marshal, the reality of his mistake finally, truly sinking in. His cheeks burned. He tried to find words, but they tumbled out broken, helpless. “I—I—I… didn’t mean… We got news you were under attack… We—we were here to help…”
His voice cracked, small and pathetic in the hush. Some of his men looked away in shame. Others glared, anger and confusion mixing on their faces. Even Steve, still breathless and wide-eyed, looked suddenly very young.
Dareth shook his head, jaw clenched, every word like a blow. “You call this help? You charge through your own allies and nearly ruin everything we need to supply here? Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
Ronan swallowed, feeling the last shreds of pride slip away. He had no answer, only the horror of knowing, for the first time, that he had not been the hero of this story at all.
Ronan stood silent, shoulders hunched, caught in the harsh glare of Dareth and the assembled officers. The shame was suffocating, pressing down until his breath came shallow and ragged. All around him, the soldiers of the Second Army and his own battered men stared, some in disbelief, some with open disgust.
Dareth didn’t bother with further words. With a curt gesture, he ordered the knights to haul Ronan away. “Take him to the command tent,” he snapped. “He answers for this before dawn.”
As Ronan was dragged past the wounded wyvern and the scattered remains of his folly, he caught Steve’s eye, his friend looking lost, lips parted with nothing left to say. There would be no heroics, no glory, not for either of them.
The battered Ashford column was herded aside under guard, the pride and hope of their charge now reduced to whispers of disaster. Banners hung limp in the cold mountain air. No one cheered. No one spoke.
And as the sun slipped behind the jagged peaks, the shadow of Ronan’s mistake stretched long over the camp, its consequences only just beginning.
