The sun hung high, still leaning slightly eastward, casting the encampment of Valeria in a weary gold, when Isabella Mareluz entered the camp.
The jingling of harnesses, the fluttering of banners, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves upon the parched earth heralded the arrival of the bulk of the army, led by the royal standard – a white horse galloping across a brown field – emerging over the ancient stone bridge across the Torrens Aurignus, the river marking the border between Ventora and Aurelia.
Isabella rode at the head of the royal army, whose steady and disciplined march raised an ancient dust, as if the very gods of the earth had risen to bear witness.
Valeria Ventoforte, queen by right and by iron of Ventora, observed from her open tent, where the morning wind made the maps on her campaign table dance. When Isabella dismounted, covered in dust and sweat, she offered a short bow and exchanged a wordless glance with her queen. Though no words were spoken, both knew the meaning of her arrival at the camp.
It was not long before Valeria assembled her division commanders, captains and counsellors. At the centre of the field, beneath the shade of an ancient olive tree, orders were given in a firm voice:
– Break camp. In one hour, we march.
The murmur spread like lightning through the ranks: the standards would be returned to the standard-bearers, the fires extinguished, blades polished and boots laced. Every man and woman knew what that command meant.
Leonespada, the first fortress Ventora would conquer, lay only a few leagues from where they stood. It was there that the principal domain of House Leonespada was located. There, Valeria would find either the bloodied gate to victory or to ruin.
There were no ambushes nor skirmishes along the way. The road leading to Leonespada proved eerily silent, as if the gods of war themselves were holding their breath. The Ventoran forces advanced in three distinct columns, with the discipline of those who know the enemy watches even when unseen.
On the third hour after departure, they saw the fortress for the first time. It rose like a spike of black basalt, its walls weathered by time yet still imposing, as though made not only to repel armies, but time itself. Its tallest tower – the Tower of the Gryphon – projected over the valley like a clenched fist, and crimson banners fluttered from its battlements, a sign that Rolando Leonespada had no intention of surrendering.
Upon the army's arrival, Valeria gave the order to raise a semicircular camp, covering the southern and western valleys. Not a grain of wheat, not a drop of water, not a letter nor a messenger pigeon would leave that citadel without Ventoran permission.
For three days and three nights, the siege works consumed the bodies and will of the men. They dug trenches, raised embankments of earth and timber, drove in stakes and built palisades with pine trunks brought from nearby forests.
Mines were also dug beneath the foundations of the western wall – a slow and perilous task carried out by convicts and mercenaries without a homeland, who were promised gold or pardon in exchange for silence and courage. They carried barrels of black powder, wrapped in hemp soaked in oil, and prayed the stone would not collapse prematurely.
The heavy artillery, brought on wheeled carriages and hauled by strong horses, was positioned on raised platforms. The artillerymen carefully calibrated each piece. By dusk, they tested the cannons, whose blasts echoed through the ravines and startled the birds from the skies.
Within the tents, maps passed from hand to hand, strategies were drawn with goose quills and goblets of wine were spilled over linen. Lucia Ventoforte, tireless, oversaw the patrols and supplies. No detail escaped her – from the salt running low in the smokehouses to the dampness of the powder barrels.
On the fourth day of the siege, the sky dawned leaden, without sun or hope. Thick clouds hung over the valley of Leonespada like mourning veils, and the crows – now familiar around the camp – perched on the palisade stakes like judges of a fate yet to be sealed.
Inside the Ventoran camp, tempers ran high. The mines had been dug to the brink of danger, and the cannons were aligned like the teeth of a bronze dragon. But not a single piece had yet been fired. The order had not come.
At daybreak, Queen Valeria climbed the command platform – a wooden platform atop an earthen mound, surrounded by officers, standards, and silenced drums. Her gaze swept the field, then rested upon Lucia, seated on an oak bench beside the banner of House Ventoforte – a silver windmill on a brown field.
Valeria approached her daughter with firm but unhurried steps. The soldiers fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
– Do you feel ready, daughter? – asked the queen, her voice low but sharp as a bare blade. – Do you wish to have the honour of giving the order?
Lucia did not hesitate. She rose with solemnity, straightened her back, and walked to the edge of the platform, before thousands of eyes and suspended silences. She took a deep breath, then raised her right arm, fist clenched.
– Fire! – she said, without shouting. She didn't need to.
The gesture was like the snap of a taut rope.
The first cannon roared with ancestral fury. The projectile tore through the air with a thunderous shriek and struck the walls of Leonespada with the sound of a world breaking apart. Another followed. Then another. A dozen. Then two. The towers trembled. Shards of stone flew through the sky like bones torn from the mountain.
Lucia remained motionless, her arm still raised, like a goddess of war invoking punishment. Beside her, Valeria said nothing, but in her eyes – hardened by age and by the crown – shone, for an instant, the shadow of a pride that remains unspoken – for even pride, on the battlefield, can be a weakness.
The bombardment lasted less than three hours, but it was enough for the skies to darken with smoke and the valley to fill with the acrid smell of scorched stone and torn powder. The walls of Leonespada, though still standing, now bore visible wounds – a breach opened in the eastern tower, splinters of granite scattered across the ground, and the echo of muffled screams from men buried alive.
But when the sound of the cannons ceased and the last flames were extinguished, the unexpected happened: a gate of the fortress opened under the cover of shadows, and from it emerged a solitary rider, mounted on a grey steed and raising high a white flag.
It was Rolando Leonespada, leader of the House that gave its name to the citadel and Baron of the fortress. A middle-aged man, with features hardened by war and disillusionment. He wore a uniform of the Aurelian army officers, of a celestial white, but his beard was grey and unshaven, and his eyes darkened by many sleepless nights. His horse advanced with ceremonial slowness, and not a single musket dared fire. Even the wind seemed to bow.
In the Ventoran camp, Valeria was already waiting. It was in the grand pavilion, beneath the canopy marked with the symbol of the Ventoforte House, that they met. Valeria sat on the campaign throne, surrounded by her division commanders and Lucia, motionless as living shadows, observing all with coldness.
Rolando entered without escort, alone. He did not bow, but neither did he challenge her. He stopped two steps from the war table and, with a clear but bitter voice, said:
– I am here, Queen Valeria, because I do not understand.
A heavy silence fell upon the pavilion. Only the crackling of burning wood in an improvised hearth filled the void.
– For several years – he continued – we maintained peace. We did not cross the river. We did not challenge your decrees. And yet, today, I see your cannons spitting fire upon my home.
His hand trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from contained fury.
– Tell me, My Queen. Why? Why does the banner of Ventora fly over Leonespada, if there is no war between us?
Valeria rose with the slowness of one who knows that every gesture carries weight. Her gaze fixed on Rolando, without pity or haste.
– Do not lie to me, Rolando – she said, in a tone as cold as the stone of a tomb. – Spare me your evasions, for I am no naïve girl of the court nor a lady of the salon. I know what stirs within the bowels of your fortress.
Silence fell. Only the heavy breathing of those present could be heard.
– You are gathering fifteen thousand soldiers behind those walls – she continued, taking a step forward. – Troops from Aurelia. Troops that would march under royal standards to our border and then fall upon the heart of my kingdom like daggers hidden in the cloak of peace. Did you think Ventora would sleep? Did you think I would not see you for what you truly are?
Rolando clenched his fists, but did not retreat. The years had not taken his bearing from him, nor had defeat stripped his pride.
– You offend me, Your Majesty – he replied with a firm voice. – My House has betrayed no one, nor have we lied. The crimes of which you accuse me hold no weight.
– Then tell me why you gathered such a force in a time of peace?
– Peace… – he repeated, the word seeming bitter in his mouth. – Yes, there is peace between Ventora and Aurelia. Peace written and sealed. If you doubt my word, send your own eyes. Send one of yours to Leonespada and you will clearly see that what I have told you is no lie.
He paused and held the queen's gaze.
– There are not fifteen thousand soldiers there. At most, ten thousand, fewer now since we were bombarded. Their sole mission is to guard the border, not to cross it. They serve the realm as a shield, not as a sword. I am the Protector of the West, not your would-be invader.
Valeria did not respond immediately. Her eyes were two wells where thoughts writhed like serpents in murky water.
– Very well – said the queen at last. – I shall send someone. But if you lie to me, Rolando, may the gods have mercy on you, for I shall not.
– So be it, My Queen. The truth does not fear the gaze. And I do not fear yours.
Valeria simply looked at the man before her after his words were said, as one might regard a piece of ivory before deciding whether to keep it or break it in half.
– However – she continued, her voice low but firm like stone wet from the rain, – even if what you say is true, and one of my scouts confirms your story, that matters little now.
Rolando furrowed his brow.
– Your Grace…?
She raised her hand slightly, silencing him with a simple gesture.
– What matters is what I see, and what my people believe. What I see, Rolando, is a fortress armed to the teeth at a key point on the border. What I see are the banners of your House and of the Kingdom of Aurelia fluttering atop your towers. And what my people believe is that Leonespada was preparing to invade us.
The Queen, seated once more, leaned forward slightly, her eyes glinting beneath the shadow of the crown.
– And thus, our kingdoms are now at war.
Rolando remained motionless, as if an invisible dagger had pierced his chest.
– This is madness… There are treaties in force!
– Treaties break – said Valeria, straightening up. Her voice became icy and sharp. – You now have two choices, Baron of Leonespada. Either you swear fealty to me here and now, under the sun that saw you born… and your son, Rodrigo, is delivered into my custody, to be educated and kept under protection at the court of Ventora…
A silence deeper than death settled.
– … or Leonespada shall burn. Every stone of your walls will be torn down and cast into the valley. Every name inscribed in your chronicles will be erased, and House Leonespada will be no more than a footnote in history, read once by a drowsy scribe and forgotten soon after.
Rolando did not reply immediately. The knuckles of his fingers turned white upon the table, and for a moment, Lucia thought he might spit blood instead of words. But when he spoke, his voice was heavy, like lead in deep waters.
– You ask for my honour… and the soul of my son.
– I offer you survival – replied Valeria, cold as death. – And the peace of not having to bury all of your own kin.
Rolando closed his eyes. For the first time, he looked old.
He knelt. He did so without haste, without speech, without theatre. Just a gesture, slow and solemn, like an ancient tree yielding to the axe. He bent his right knee, placed his hand upon his chest, and lowered his head.
– I, Rolando Leonespada – he said, his voice firm despite the humiliation, – swear upon the stone, the blood, and the name of my house… that I recognise Your Grace, Valeria of Ventora, first of her name, as my rightful liege. I swear loyalty, sword, and silence. I swear by all that I am and all that I have been. I swear by the Sun-King, the god Solarius.
Valeria did not smile. She merely nodded.
– Let the gods and all present bear witness, and may your word weigh more than steel. Because if you break it, you shall have no time for regrets.
Then she rose from her throne and looked down upon him, like a goddess judging the man who begs her for mercy.
– Very well, Baron Leonespada. Now tell me: what have you to offer to my cause? The war will continue, and your knee alone does not suffice.
Rolando raised his eyes, and there, for a brief moment, the old flame of Leonespada still burned.
– I offer you what I hold most valuable in arms and loyalty. Ser Hagen Ombradaga, veteran commander, loyal to my house since my father's days, and five thousand of my finest soldiers. They shall carry your banner and bleed for it as if it were mine.
Valeria returned to her seat. She sat upon the campaign throne and laid one hand upon the map before her.
– So be it. Ser Hagen shall fight under Ventora's banner. If he proves his honour, he shall receive land. If he falls, his name shall be inscribed among those who served us with glory.
She looked at Rolando one last time.
– As for you… return to Leonespada. Hold it fast. And pray that this new vassalage is worth the oath you swore. If you rise against me, I shall return to you only the head of your son, and you shall have no second chance to kneel.
Rolando rose, wounded in dignity, and mounted his horse again without another word.
The sound of Rolando's horse hooves receding slowly dissolved into the afternoon mist, as if the earth itself wished to forget what had just occurred. The humiliation of a lord of an ancient house, bowed beneath the weight of threat, would be etched into the eyes of those who witnessed it.
Valeria remained silent after the departure of the old Baron. Only the banners fluttered. The queen drew a long breath, like one savouring the taste of a victory gained without loss, and then spoke without turning to those present.
– Summon the messenger. The one who brought news of Aurelian movements near Leonespada. Now.
One of the guards bowed discreetly and slipped away between the tents. Lucia, still beside her mother, kept her eyes on the horizon, contemplating all that had just taken place.
– Was it all a performance? – she asked at last. Her voice was low, but not hesitant.
– Whether it was or not… it matters little now. What matters is what we do with this opportunity.
Lucia frowned.
– And what are Your Grace's orders?
The Queen laid her gaze upon her daughter. There was a contained gleam, a fire that burned not to warm, but to consume.
– It is high time Ventora stopped begging merchants for ships and depending on the brittle promises of coastal allies. It is time we had a fleet. One that obeys only the orders of our banner.
She touched a point on the map with her finger, near the coast: Porto Dourado. A city rich in salt and trade, prosperous in shipyards and warehouses, coveted by kings and Azurian corsairs.
– We shall march on Porto Dourado, before someone dares to take it in our place or prepares for an invasion.
Lucia said nothing, but her eyes gleamed with the raw light of inherited ambition.
It was then that the guard returned to the tent, breathless, boots muddy and hair stuck to his brow. He bowed at once, nervous.
– My Queen… the man Your Grace summoned… – he swallowed hard – … is nowhere to be found in the camp. Not in the lodgings, nor among the soldiers in the kitchens or at the dice tables, nor with the healers. It's as if he was never here.
Valeria did not move. She showed no expression of surprise or fury. She merely murmured, more to herself than to the others:
– Of course he isn't. That rat was likely in the pay of some enemy of ours. Someone who wishes for the kingdoms of Ventora and Aurelia to be at war. So be it, then. First we shall defeat Aurelia in this war without justification or provocation, and then we shall deal with whoever fed us false information.