The army of King Tristifer V began its march at dawn, the first rays of sunlight breaking over the horizon and casting long shadows over the valley. Arthur could hear the sound of clinking armor, the muttered conversations of soldiers preparing for what might be their final stand, and the rhythmic thud of boots on the earth. The air was thick with anticipation, a tangible tension that seemed to weigh on everyone. This was no mere skirmish—they were marching to face the Andal invaders, to defend their homeland against overwhelming odds.
Arthur rode near the back of the column, his eyes scanning the soldiers around him. Many were seasoned warriors, men who had fought alongside his father, the Hammer of Justice. But there were also younger faces, fresh and untested, their expressions a mixture of fear and determination. Arthur felt a pang of sympathy for them. They would soon learn that war cared little for courage or resolve.
As the day wore on, the sun climbed higher in the sky, its heat pressing down on the soldiers like an oppressive hand. Sweat dripped down Arthur's brow, and he could feel the exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but he kept his gaze forward, focusing on the task ahead.
By midday, they reached the outskirts of the Andal host's encampment. The enemy banners fluttered in the distance, and the sound of drums echoed through the hills. King Tristifer V ordered the army to halt and set up camp, knowing that a full assault would come with the dawn.
It was during the quiet moments of the afternoon that Arthur's opportunity arose. A lone Andal scout, perhaps emboldened by the proximity of his army, had strayed too far from his lines. Arthur spotted him, a glint of steel catching his eye in the distance. Without hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.
The Andal didn't see him coming. Arthur closed the distance quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn't thinking about his bloodline or his place in this army—he was thinking only of the moment, the swing of his blade, and the victory it would bring.
The clash of steel was brief but brutal. Arthur's sword found its mark, cutting through the Andal's defenses with a swift, practiced motion. The man fell, his blood staining the earth beneath him. For a moment, Arthur stood there, breathing heavily, staring down at the fallen foe. It had been his first kill. He could feel the weight of it settling on his shoulders, but there was no time to dwell on it.
When he returned to the camp, there were no cheers or congratulations—only quiet nods of approval from the men around him. Tom, who had been watching from a distance, gave him a long, considering look. The begrudging respect in his eyes was unmistakable.
Later that evening, as the fires burned low and the soldiers prepared for the coming battle, Lord Bracken approached Arthur. The lord of Stone Hedge, a man of few words but great presence, studied Arthur for a moment before speaking.
"You've got fight in you, boy," Lord Bracken said gruffly, his eyes narrowing. "And loyalty. That's what we need now more than ever."
Arthur nodded, unsure of how to respond. He had earned the respect of the men around him, but there was still a long road ahead.
"Stay close to me tomorrow," Lord Bracken continued. "There's much for you to learn."
Arthur felt a sense of purpose settle over him, the weight of his father's legacy pressing down but also lifting him up. He would prove himself, not just as a fighter but as a leader—someone worthy of the name Mudd, even if the blood in his veins was half Andal.