"He’s breathing! I swear on my mother’s life, His Grace is still breathing!"
"Get the damn healer! Where is the... someone grab him by the collar and drag him here!"
"Back up! Move the horses! If a horse steps on His Grace’s head, I’m skinning it for dinner!"
"Protect the perimeter, you absolute fools! If those filthy bastards realize the Grand Duke just dropped, they’ll swarm us like starving flies!"
"His Grace has survived worse than a little fainting spell! Death can file a formal complaint and wait its damn turn!"
The overlapping screams hit Lioren Roscaire’s ears before his eyes could even manage a twitch. God, his head felt like someone had taken a rusty sword to his temple and then thought, You know what? Let’s stir it.
And the noise wasn’t helping. Between the screaming, the clanging swords, and five armored men apparently competing to be the loudest person alive, his migraine was having the time of its life.
Lioren forced his eyelids open.
A wall of canvas filled his vision, or at least, what little of it he could see past the dense cluster of sweaty, helmeted heads hovering over him. Dozens of wide, terrified eyes stared down at him. They were close enough that he could practically count their pores
Not Where am I? Not Did we win?
No, Lioren’s very first coherent thought was that these people had zero concept of personal space.
"If you all want me to actually draw oxygen," Lioren said, his throat feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of dry sand, "I suggest you step back about three yards. You’re blocking the sun. And your breath smells like wet leather."
The collective gasp that followed could probably have been heard in the next valley over.
"He spoke!" a young soldier near the front squeaked, looking so profoundly relieved he appeared on the verge of burst weeping.
"The Grand Duke has returned from the dead!" another shouted toward the ranks behind him.
Lioren squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his throbbing temples with one gloved hand. "You’re acting like I’ve been unconscious for a year. I’d deeply appreciate it if nobody started planning a funeral without me."
The crowd scrambled backward, tripping over their own boots in their haste to give their commander breathing room. Only one man remained close, dropping heavily onto one knee beside him.
Caldrin Perraine, his trusted second-in-command, looked like he’d aged five years in the span of three minutes. His posture remained annoyingly perfect, even with enemy blood drying on his cheek. His eyes, however, were fixed on Lioren with barely disguised panic. His posture was perfect. His eyes, meanwhile, were having a full-blown crisis.
"How do you feel, Your Grace?" he asked.
"Never better, Caldrin," Lioren grunted, wincing as a fresh spike of agony shot through his brain. He kept his hand firmly glued to his forehead. "Just dynamic. Vibrant, even."
Caldrin gave him a look that said several things, none of them suitable for polite company. "You dropped out of the air like a sack of wet flour in the middle of an offensive line. Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it."
"Technically, I am conscious now. So the overall situation has improved by roughly a hundred percent." Lioren let out a weak chuckle, though the slight tilt of his head made the world spin. "See? Looking on the bright side."
"There is no bright side to the commander collapsing without a scratch on him," Caldrin snapped, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword. "You were fine. You were literally cutting through their vanguard, laughing like a lunatic, wielding sword aura like it was water. Then you just stopped. You grabbed your head, staggered two steps, and hit the dirt. We thought you’d been hit by a poisoned needle. A dark curse. Something."
"And?" Lioren squinted up at him. "Did you find anything on me?"
"We searched you," Caldrin said coldly. "Thoroughly. No wounds. No poison. No magical residue. Nothing."
Lioren cracked a faint grin, though his heart was hammering against his ribs for a completely different reason now. "Searched me thoroughly, huh? I’m starting to feel a little violated, Caldrin. You might at least pretend to court me before getting so familiar."
Caldrin didn’t blink. He just looked at him with the profound disappointment of a man who had expected better. "Something clearly happened to you, Your Grace. Man like you don’t just collapse."
He was right, of course. But Lioren couldn’t exactly tell him that. How was he supposed to explain that he hadn’t been struck by a spell, but buried beneath a landslide of memories?
While Caldrin kept talking, something about troop positioning and the defensive line, Lioren stared at his gloved hand. The memories were still settling in his head, sloshing around like someone had shaken a bottle full of his entire life.
Lioren Roscaire. Grand Duke of Werestia’s northern border. Twenty-four years old, ridiculously wealthy, undefeated on the battlefield, and thoroughly enjoying the chaos of slicing through an invading vanguard. He’d been in his element, radiating golden aura, grinning like a madman as the enemy scattered.
Then came the white-hot burst of agony.
It hadn’t just been a headache. It was a dam breaking in his mind.
"Your Grace?" Caldrin’s voice snapped him back to the bloody grass. "Are you listening to me?"
"Crystal clear," Lioren said smoothly, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His vision swam for a second, but he forced his body to obey. He stood up, shaking off the dust from his heavy black cloak. "What’s the current field status?"
Caldrin stood with him, instantly shifting back into professional mode. "When you went down, I ordered a temporary retreat to hold the ridge. The enemy saw us pull back and paused their assault. They’re regrouping at the base of the valley, likely trying to figure out if your fall was a trap or genuine weakness."
Lioren turned his head, scanning the landscape. The steep forest flanking the left, the narrow choke point near the river, the dark mass of enemy banners hovering half a mile away.
A sharp grin spread across Lioren’s face. Caldrin, if he had been paying attention, would have recognized it as a warning sign.
"We aren’t continuing the charge," Lioren announced, brushing dirt off his sleeves. "If we hit them now, it’s a brutal grind," Lioren interrupted, his tone breezy, almost casual. "Instead, we’re going to play dead. Well, I am. We let them think my sudden collapse was a sign of fatal illness or dark magic. We pull back further. Fall back all the way behind the tree line. Make it look messy. A panicked, disorganized retreat."
Caldrin frowned deeply. "You want us to feign a rout? The men’s morale..."
"They’ll be fine once you tell them it’s a trap," Lioren said, stepping closer. "They think we’re weak, so they’ll push hard through the narrow pass to catch us before nightfall. Take the second infantry division. Split them into three contingents and hide them along the upper ridge in the forest. Let the enemy commit their main force to the gulch. Once their vanguard passes the choke point, seal the rear, roll the logs down the incline, and pin them in. Then we turn around and hit them from the front."
"Caldrin listened, his eyes widening as the pieces fell into place. ’It’s... ruthless. Once they’re in that pass, their cavalry will have nowhere to turn.’"
"And we finish the entire campaign soooner without losing half our men in a frontal assault," Lioren added, giving Caldrin a cheerful pat on the shoulder. "Brilliant, right? I surprise even myself sometimes."
Caldrin let out a long, heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. "It’s a good plan. A frustratingly good plan. But..." He paused, his gaze dropping to Lioren’s hand, which had subconsciously drifted back up to massage his temple. "...should you really be fighting tonight? You look like you’re one bad breeze away from passing out again."
"Me?" Lioren immediately dropped his hand, slapping his side with an exaggeratedly bright expression. "I’m grand. Never felt better. Peak physical condition."
Caldrin gave him a deadpan stare. "You were literally just holding your head again."
"I was scratching my ear," Lioren lied seamlessly. "It was itchy. A very intense, dramatic itch."
"Your Grace."
"Caldrin."
The two men locked eyes. Caldrin looked like he was mentally calculating how many ropes it would take to keep his Grand Duke in bed. Unfortunately, Lioren had that particular look in his eyes, the one that reminded everyone why he was in charge.
The playful smirk slowly disappeared. The chaos in Lioren’s golden eyes went dead still, replaced by a cold, absolute focus. It was generally a bad sign for anyone unfortunate enough to be standing on the other side of a battlefield.
"We wrap this battle up fast, Caldrin," Lioren said, his voice dropping an octave, ringing with an intensity that made the surrounding guards unconsciously straighten their backs. "No delays. No prolonged negotiations."
Caldrin frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Why the sudden rush? The original timeline had us here for another two weeks."
Lioren turned his gaze toward the south, toward the distant capital of Werestia, where the political machinery was already grinding, oblivious to the doom heading its way.
"Because I don’t have two weeks," Lioren murmured, a strange, softer light flickering in his eyes before hardening into iron resolve. He looked back at his second-in-command, a small, reckless grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I have someone to save."