Between

The chaos heralded by disgruntled noises and the yells of panicked lords and subjects that made up the royal council filled the great hall. Around the long table, men threw words at one another, questions of uncertainty mixing with frantic talks of fleeing, retreating, defending the castle. Some spoke so loudly that their voices became nothing more than noise, while others sat in stunned silence, their faces betraying the fear they refused to voice.

Someone yelled, “Coward!”

The word seemed to ignite the room.

“We cannot stay here!”

“And where do you propose we go?”

“The northern road is still open.”

“For how long?”

“We should send riders to the southern garrison.”

“With what men? The eastern line has fallen!”

“The castle gates should have been shut hours ago!”

The doors flew open.

King Aldric strode into the hall, visibly perplexed by the uproar that greeted him. The council members rose at once to acknowledge him, and for a brief moment the room fell silent.

It lasted no longer than a breath.

“My king, we must—”

“Your Majesty, the eastern—”

“We need to send word to—”

“They are already past the—”

“Enough.”

Aldric’s voice rang through the hall, carrying over every other sound until the voices died.

He remained standing for a moment, looking around the table at the men who had only moments ago been shouting over one another.

“When did my council become a gathering of children?”

No one answered.

Aldric moved to his seat at the head of the table and sank into it. He leaned back, seemingly unbothered by the panic around him, then gestured to a servant.

“Wine.”

The servant hurried forward and poured for him.

Aldric accepted the cup and took a slow drink.

Lord Garren, Master of the Borderlands, watched the king carefully. He had been among the first to receive word from the eastern watch, and though he had remained composed throughout the uproar, the strain showed plainly across his face.

“Your Majesty,” he began.

Aldric looked toward him.

“We apologise for the clamouring, but the news we have received is not one that provokes anything short of concern.”

There were affirmative nods and low grunts from some of the other council members.

Garren continued. “The eastern line has fallen, and along with it, our strongest line of defence. The outer forts have been breached. Our men are retreating toward the castle, and the Jordynns are advancing.”

Aldric’s expression remained unchanged.

“How far?”

“Less than a day’s ride, Your Majesty.”

The words settled heavily over the room.

“One that could have been averted had His Majesty ordered the gates shut instead of pressing on into battle.”

Lord Tarian’s words cut through the silence.

He sat rigidly in his chair, his hands clasped before him. As War Strategist, he had spent the last several hours studying reports, movements and losses, and unlike most of the men in the room, he seemed more angry than frightened.

Lord Aldenor, head of the noble houses, turned sharply toward him.

“Mind your tongue, Tarian. His Majesty made the best decision he possibly could at the time. Are you trying to blame him for the tragedies that have happened?”

“I simply stated a fact.”

Tarian’s eyes remained fixed on Aldric.

“Fjordane has never before been so poorly prepared for a fight. We had barely finished warring against Volke. Our men are exhausted. Our stores are depleted. We did not have enough resources to defend all our lines.”

His voice hardened.

“You think they did not know that?”

A few of the council members exchanged glances.

Tarian leaned forward.

“The Jordynns knew exactly where we were weakest.”

“You cannot possibly know that,” Garren muttered cautiously.

“I know enough.”

Tarian’s jaw tightened.

“My strategy would have worked. If we had pulled our men back and fortified the inner gates, we would not be sitting here on the verge of ruin.”

Aldenor scoffed.

“Your strategy would have surrendered half the eastern territory.”

“To preserve the kingdom.”

“To hide behind its walls.”

“To keep it standing.”

The two men stared at each other.

Tarian’s breathing had become heavier, his anger barely contained.

“My duty is to advise His Majesty on matters of war,” he said. “If I believe a decision was wrong, I will say so.”

“And your duty is also loyalty to your king,” Aldenor replied. “Do not speak so loosely simply because you are grieving.”

Tarian’s expression changed.

Before he could answer, Lord Varen, Master of the Lands, spoke from farther down the table.

“His son was felled on the battlefield. That is why he speaks the way he does. The pain—”

“And do I also not feel pain, Lord Varen?”

The low rumble of King Aldric’s voice silenced the room.

He placed his cup on the table.

“Have I too not lost my Lord Commander? Have I not watched my own son carried from the battlefield, injured and bleeding?”

His gaze settled on Tarian.

For a brief moment, something tightened in his expression.

It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

“Should I now be allowed to act wildly in ways that could make me lose my tongue?”

Tarian lowered his eyes.

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then do not use your grief as permission to forget your place.”

Aldric picked up his cup again.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

The king looked toward Garren.

“Continue.”

Garren nodded.

“The eastern watch reports that the Jordynns broke through before dawn. They overwhelmed the outer defences before the men had time to regroup. Several of our fortifications have been abandoned.”

“And the army?”

“We have not confirmed their numbers.”

Aldric frowned.

“You do not know how many men are approaching my castle?”

“The reports are incomplete.”

“They should not be.”

Garren lowered his head.

“No, Your Majesty.”

A murmur spread around the table again.

“We cannot remain here,” one of the lords said.

“We cannot flee either,” another answered.

“If the eastern line is gone, the northern road may already be exposed.”

“Then send riders to confirm it.”

“With what riders? The roads are full of fleeing men.”

“We should evacuate the royal family.”

“And abandon Fjordane?”

“Better to abandon a castle than die inside it.”

Aldric listened as the arguments began once more.

He said nothing.

At the far end of the table, Lord Eamon, the Grand Advisor, remained silent, his attention fixed on the map before him rather than on the men arguing around it. His fingers rested loosely against the table, his eyes moving between the eastern border and the roads leading toward the castle.

Then, from somewhere near the end of the table, a quiet voice spoke.

“This would not be happening if we had accepted their proposal.”

The words brought the room to an uncomfortable stillness.

Aldric slowly turned his head.

“What proposal?”

No one answered immediately.

Lord Eamon remained silent at the far end of the table, watching the others.

Finally, Lord Varen spoke again.

“The Jordynns.”

Aldric’s eyes narrowed.

“They asked for an alliance.”

“I remember.”

“They asked for Princess Mria’s hand,” Varen continued, “as a means of joining the two royal houses.”

Tarian gave a humourless laugh.

“And we refused.”

Aldric’s gaze moved across the table.

“We refused because Jordynn was not in a position to dictate terms to Fjordane.”

“They were barely considered a threat,” Garren said.

“They were considered ambitious,” Aldenor corrected. “Not dangerous.”

Tarian looked toward him.

“We laughed at them.”

Aldenor’s expression hardened.

“We made a decision.”

“We underestimated them.”

Nobody challenged him.

Three years earlier, the proposal had seemed almost absurd. Ivar had been sixteen, newly seated upon his father’s throne, and Jordynn had not yet possessed the strength it now seemed to have gathered.

Fjordane was larger. Its borders were established. Its armies had fought greater kingdoms and survived. There had been little reason to believe that a young king in a smaller realm could ever bring war to its gates.

So they had refused.

Not because they feared Ivar.

Because they did not.

“What does he want now?” someone asked.

The question seemed almost foolish.

Everyone looked toward Garren.

“The eastern territories,” he said.

“Only the east?”

Garren shook his head.

“Not if he can take more.”

The room fell quiet.

Aldric stared at the map spread across the table.

The eastern lands stretched across a considerable portion of Fjordane’s territory, but their importance went beyond their size. The borderlands connected Fjordane to several neighbouring territories. Whoever controlled them controlled the routes into the kingdom and the routes beyond it.

Ivar did not need Fjordane destroyed.

He needed it under his crown.

“He wants the kingdom,” Aldenor said.

“He wants the territory,” Garren corrected.

“And what difference does that make?”

Aldric’s eyes remained on the map.

“Everything.”

He traced the eastern border with one finger.

“If he wanted only to destroy us, he would burn the villages and leave the land worthless. If he wants the territory, he needs the people to remain. He needs the roads. The farms. The forts.”

He lifted his gaze.

“He wants to own what he conquers.”

The thought seemed to unsettle the council more than the idea of destruction.

A conquered kingdom could be rebuilt.

A kingdom absorbed into another was something else entirely.

“He cannot simply claim Fjordane,” Tarian said.

“No,” Aldric replied. “But he can try.”

A lord across the table spoke.

“And the princess?”

Aldric looked at him.

“What of her?”

“She is still of the royal house.”

The man hesitated.

“If Ivar intends to claim Fjordane, her blood gives him a connection to the throne.”

Aldric’s expression darkened.

“She is married.”

The man immediately lowered his head.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And she has a child.”

“Yes.”

Aldric looked back toward the map.

“Then whatever value Princess Mria has to him is not because he expects her to become some willing bride.”

Eamon finally spoke.

“Perhaps not.”

Every eye turned toward him.

It was the first time he had spoken since the king entered the hall.

Eamon sat with his hands folded before him, his expression calm.

“What then?” Aldric asked.

“The princess is a symbol,” Eamon said. “She is the surviving daughter of the king. If Ivar wishes to hold Fjordane rather than merely occupy it, her existence may prove useful.”

Tarian nodded slowly.

“She could be used to legitimise his claim.”

“Or to divide the people,” Eamon said. “Those who would never accept a foreign king may still hesitate to oppose one who claims to rule through the blood of their own royal family.”

Aldric’s eyes returned to the map.

The room seemed colder.

“So he wants our land,” Aldenor said.

“And our submission,” Tarian added.

“And perhaps,” Eamon said quietly, “he wants to prove that we were wrong about him.”

The king looked at him.

For a moment, their eyes met.

Then Aldric leaned back in his chair.

“What do we know of this king?”

A few voices answered at once.

“Ruthless.”

“Impulsive.”

“Violent.”

“I have heard he does not spare those who surrender.”

“I have heard he burns villages.”

“I heard he killed a man for disobedience in front of his entire army.”

“And I have heard,” another lord said, “that he is barely more than a boy.”

That drew a few bitter laughs.

“Twenty-four,” someone said.

“Still young.”

“Too young to have learned restraint.”

Aldric looked toward Eamon.

“You have been quiet all this time, Grand Advisor. Tell me what you think.”

Eamon took a moment before answering.

“I think the boy is acting rashly.”

Tarian’s brow furrowed.

Eamon continued.

“He has broken through our eastern line while knowing our forces are weakened from the war with Volke. He has advanced deeper into Fjordane instead of securing what he has already taken. He is bringing his army toward a castle that still has soldiers within it.”

His eyes moved to Aldric.

“That is not the behaviour of a cautious king.”

“Or a skilled one,” someone muttered.

Eamon did not disagree.

“He seems eager,” he said. “Perhaps too eager. A young king who has tasted victory and now believes every victory belongs to him.”

Tarian shifted in his seat.

“Unless he knows exactly what he is doing.”

Eamon looked at him.

“Then we have underestimated him twice.”

The words silenced the room.

Aldric’s expression remained unreadable.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

“He is twenty-four.”

Eamon said nothing.

“A young king,” Aldric continued. “A kingdom that has only recently found its strength. An army that has managed one impressive breakthrough.”

He looked around the table.

“And suddenly you speak of him as though some great warlord has descended upon us.”

No one answered.

“He has broken one battle line,” Aldric said. “He has not conquered Fjordane.”

Tarian opened his mouth.

Aldric raised a hand.

“No.”

Tarian fell silent.

“I will not have this council surrender the kingdom before the enemy has even reached our walls.”

The king stood.

His gaze moved toward the great doors.

“Perhaps Ivar believes that because he has breached our eastern defences, we are already defeated.”

He looked back at the council.

“I intend to find out.”

Garren frowned.

“What do you intend to do, Your Majesty?”

Aldric’s answer came without hesitation.

“Prepare the banquet hall.”

The room went still.

Tarian stared at him.

“The banquet hall?”

“Yes.”

“Your Majesty, the Jordynns are approaching the castle.”

“I know.”

“They are an invading army.”

“I know that too.”

Tarian rose from his seat.

“Then why would we prepare a feast?”

Aldric looked at him.

“Because I would rather meet a young king at my table than on a battlefield when I have not yet determined what he truly wants.”

Tarian’s expression remained doubtful.

Aldric’s gaze shifted briefly toward the map.

“He has come this far without destroying the lands he has taken.”

Tarian followed his gaze.

“And?”

“If he wanted nothing but blood, there would be no reason for him to preserve what he intends to rule.”

The room remained silent.

Aldric looked back at him.

“I would rather hear what he has come to ask for before deciding what I am willing to fight to keep.”

Tarian said nothing.

Aldric walked toward the doors.

“Open the gates when they arrive.”

Garren’s eyes widened.

“Your Majesty—”

“Open them.”

The king turned to the servants.

“Light the fires. Bring out the finest wine. Have the kitchens prepare enough food for our guests.”

“Our guests?” someone repeated.

Aldric smiled.

“Yes.”

He looked toward the council one last time.

“If King Ivar has come expecting a kingdom to tremble at his feet, then let him enter Fjordane and see for himself what he has come against.”

No one spoke.

Outside the great hall, a horn sounded in the distance.

Then another.

The Jordynns were coming.

Aldric lifted his cup.

“Prepare the feast.”