The weekend had arrived, and the armies that would march to the border had fully gathered in Annvled, the capital of Eirindale. More than two thousand trained soldiers stood ready, not only with sharpened weapons and hardened bodies but also with minds being tested by the weight of what was to come.
These were not just men going to war; they were brothers, sons, and fathers leaving their homes behind. They stood in neat rows on the wide parade ground, surrounded by the cold wind of the northern hills. Their breaths steamed into the morning air, and the sound of armor clinking filled the atmosphere with heavy anticipation.
The elders, tribal chiefs, and commanders took their place before the troops, offering their final words of wisdom and strength. The mood was somber, like the stillness before a great storm. Each sentence they spoke carried weight—words about courage, loyalty, and the power of unity. The soldiers listened, eyes locked forward, absorbing every word like it might be the last they would ever hear before battle.
This war was not just a matter of strength. It would test their spirits, challenge their patience, and demand every drop of discipline and endurance they could muster. They were warned—this was not going to be a swift campaign. Pain, loss, and fear would walk beside them on the road ahead.
Among the crowd, standing with calm authority, was King Azfaran, the sovereign of Eirindale. He stood beside Maeron, his trusted commander and one of the kingdom's finest minds in the art of warfare. From the very beginning, Azfaran had never desired war. Peace was always his first choice. But sometimes, life offered no other path. Some enemies left no room for dialogue, and some wounds could not be healed with words.
He looked at the soldiers—at their glowing eyes full of hope, at the trembling hands trying to steady their spears, at the mixture of pride and fear in their faces. It weighed on his heart more than any crown ever had.
"Do not fight with swords alone," Maeron said firmly beside him, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "War begins in the heart and mind. Strengthen yourself there first. Do not rely only on your weapon."
Azfaran turned to glance at the courageous woman beside him. Maeron, known for both her fierce presence and brilliant strategy, was a respected figure. She understood the enemy's strengths and weaknesses better than anyone. She had studied the terrain, predicted the movements, and prepared contingency plans. But she also knew the truth: no amount of planning could help an army if its soul was not ready.
As the final words were spoken, the soldiers bowed their heads. A deep silence fell over the field. They prayed—not loudly, but with the quiet intensity of men and women placing their lives in fate's hands. In that still moment, the wind seemed to stop. There were no drums, no horns, just the sound of their hearts beating, in unison, for the land they vowed to protect.
Then, as the prayer ended, the troops began to move—gathering their belongings, tightening straps on their armor, inspecting weapons for the last time. The mood shifted from spiritual to practical. Soon, the journey to war would begin.
But that silence was suddenly shattered by the sound of hooves galloping at full speed toward the main gate.
Three scouts arrived, breathless and pale-faced, their horses soaked in sweat. Dust clung to their boots, and urgency was written all over their faces. One of them quickly dismounted, carrying a sealed scroll.
"A message from the resistance in Iskhalin," said one of the scouts, handing the scroll directly to King Azfaran. The whisper of his words seemed to ripple across the field, drawing curious glances from every corner.
Azfaran opened the scroll immediately. The moment his eyes scanned the contents, tension grew thick in the air. Something had changed. A decision would need to be made—fast.
The message was brief, but powerful. Reizha—the daughter of King Sharrfan—was reported to be vacationing in the southeastern hills, far from the border and not really powerful guarded. But that was not the only revelation. The message suggested something daring: to kidnap Reizha as a way to weaken or perhaps even collapse Sharrfan's regime without direct confrontation.
The king remained silent for a few heartbeats longer, then handed the scroll to Maeron. She read it quickly and raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in her usually unreadable expression.
A plan like this was dangerous. Risky. But it also held a chance—a rare one—to avoid full-scale war. If they succeeded in capturing Reizha, perhaps they could force Sharrfan to negotiate, or even surrender, without a single battle fought.
Azfaran turned toward the commanders. "We must delay the departure," he announced clearly. "There is a new development. Gather all senior advisors. We must hold council immediately."
A war council was hastily convened in the center of the field. Tents were not even pitched. They stood in a loose circle, some holding maps, others still in their traveling gear. Every minute counted.
Arguments rose and fell.
"It's a trap," one said.
"But if it's not, it may save thousands of lives," said another.
"The girl is dangerous in her own way, Fatheh and Nasmah have ever told me before" Maeron added. "Her behavior has worsened conditions in Iskhalin. She spreads lies and fuels hatred against our people.Sometimes she also spreads hatred against Iskhalin people just for fun"
The debate didn't last long. Time was precious, and clarity came swiftly. They reached a decision.
"If we capture Reizha," Maeron said, her voice calm and clear, "Sharrfan will lose his most precious leverage. He will be forced to bargain.
But we must act with precision and stealth. This mission is not one of brute force—it requires elegance."
Azfaran nodded slowly, weighing the full weight of the choice before him. "Then we plan this journey immediately. Let the army remain prepared, but our focus shifts to this mission. Reizha is now our target."
A new map was laid open. The location of the southeastern hills was marked. Scouts confirmed that the area was quiet, with only a few royal guards. If they moved quickly, they could reach her location within two nights.
A small unit would be dispatched—elite and quiet, known for their ability to slip behind enemy lines. They would travel light, no banners, no drums. Silence would be their greatest ally.
Preparations moved at lightning speed. Orders were whispered, not shouted. Horses were chosen, paths were mapped, and disguises prepared. This was not a mission of glory, but one of sacrifice. If they failed, the full wrath of Sharrfan would fall upon Eirindale with no hesitation.
And yet, there was hope.
Not just hope that the mission would succeed, but hope that war could still be avoided—that perhaps, this single action could stop thousands of arrows from ever flying.
Azfaran watched the horizon as the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the hills of Annvled. Everything felt fragile—like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see which path they would choose. Behind him, the soldiers continued to prepare, unaware of the silent storm now building.
War was no longer just a matter of steel and strength. It had become a matter of timing, of whispers in the dark, and of one single girl—Reizha—who now held the fate of two nations in her hands.
The night would fall soon, and with it, the beginning of a secret journey.
No one spoke of victory anymore.
They spoke only of duty, of the path they must walk, even if it led them into the shadows.
And so began the quiet turning of history—not with a clash of armies, but with the rustle of a scroll and the whisper of a name.