“If the war is won,” she said, her voice sharp and level, “I will settle this score with you.”There was no pause after she spoke. No hesitation. The words landed cleanly, final, like the closing line of a contract neither side could escape. The kind of agreement that did not need signatures. Blood would do just fine.The Marchioness, Leticia, did not wait for Ares Valen to answer. She never did. That was simply how she was. Direct to the point of cruelty. Every word she spoke felt like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath, close enough to cut skin, close enough to remind you what waited next. There was no misunderstanding her intent, and there was certainly no easy retreat.At this moment, neither of them held the advantage.They were standing on the same unstable ground, like two travelers clinging to a single, rotting plank above an endless sea of yellow sand. If Wind-Sand Fortress did not fall, it would not matter who wore silk and who wore steel. Noble or commoner, soldier or se

The Orc Fortress of Wind and Sand had been built with a cold, merciless logic.Nothing here existed by accident. The entire stronghold was divided into eight districts, each belonging to a different clan. Eight territories. Eight banners. Eight histories written in blood, conquest, and survival. Every district had its own central square, surrounded by thick earthen walls and tightly packed fortress houses. They were ugly structures, crude and heavy, but undeniably effective. Beauty had never been a priority for the half-orcs. Endurance was all that mattered.Three narrow alleyways led directly into the square controlled by the Blazing Blade Clan.All paths ended there.At the intersection of those alleyways, the Roman Cavalry Camp, the First Infantry Legion, and the Spartan Independent Battle Group reassembled without a word. Their movements were precise and practiced, the result of countless battles fought together. No one shouted orders. No one panicked. Steel gleamed faintly beneat

The half-orc chieftain burst from the alley as if the darkness itself had given birth to him.He was enormous. Broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, his crude armor clung to his body in jagged plates of iron and leather, stained black with old, dried blood. He sat atop a monstrous wolf-beast, a creature nearly the size of a warhorse, its yellow eyes glowing with unrestrained hunger. Hot breath poured from its mouth in harsh snarls, and its claws scraped violently against stone as it surged forward.And he was not alone.Behind him came a flood.Nearly a thousand half-orc wolf riders poured out from three intersecting alleyways, their numbers swallowing the street in seconds. From above, it would have looked like a living shadow rolling forward, dense and unstoppable.The ground trembled beneath their charge.The very air seemed to recoil, thick with killing intent.When their war cries erupted, raw and savage, Ares Valen felt his stomach twist violently.For a brief, terrifyin

“Spartan warriors, prepare!”The command sliced through the battlefield like steel leaving its scabbard. Clean. Sharp. Impossible to mistake for anything else.Yet the moment the words escaped his lips, Ares Valen felt something inside his chest crack.The Roman youth army had lost control.It happened faster than anyone wanted to admit. It always did. One soldier stepped out of formation. Another hesitated. Someone shouted at the wrong moment. Panic, small and almost invisible at first, spread like a stain soaking through cloth.Months of training unraveled in seconds.Ares Valen watched it happen with clenched teeth as discipline collapsed in waves, like fractures racing across a dam just before it gave way.Too fast.Far too fast.His jaw tightened until it hurt.This was not simply a tactical failure.It was shameful.In the Roman army, obedience was sacred. Orders were not suggestions. They were not weighed against fear or personal judgment. An order was absolute. You followed it

The battlefield was alive with noise.Steel clashed against steel. Men screamed, cursed, prayed, and died. Blood soaked into the dirt so thoroughly that the ground itself seemed to breathe it back into the air. There was no pause, no mercy, no rhythm to the slaughter. Only motion. Only survival.At the heart of humanity, long before kingdoms or banners existed, there was chivalry.It had always been there. Not because people were good, but because they needed to believe they were. Across centuries and continents, in burning deserts and frozen wastelands alike, men learned to dress violence in meaning. They gave war a purpose so they could sleep at night.Honor. Loyalty. Justice.Words like those were easy to shout on a battlefield. Easy to believe when surrounded by allies. Easy to cling to when everything else was falling apart.In ancient times, warriors swore oaths not just to kings, but to ideals. To unseen laws that claimed to be older than crowns and stronger than steel. They to