**10 Days Later –**
As the wintry day edged toward evening, Etharell stood atop the outer walls, gazing out over the land that was far from deserted now. As far as the eye could see, silhouettes of tents filled the horizon. By estimations, an army of forty thousand stood before them. The Imperial forces were composed of well-equipped units. Though the Raddonan Empire was primarily known for its cavalry strength, it also possessed elite mage battalions and advanced siege cannons—making it a formidable force in any siege warfare.
Etharell, on the other hand, had around 4,000 trained soldiers and an additional 8,000 barely trained recruits. Considering that these new additions would contribute little to the actual fighting, it wouldn't be far from the truth to say that the Imperial army outnumbered his forces ten to one.
However, the dual-wall structure of the capital, Otallas, would prove to be a significant advantage. In the brief span of these ten days, the walls had been repaired, reinforced, and fitted with traps. Where ancient breaches had once weakened the stone, wooden reinforcements were hastily erected in their place—time had been too short for masonry. Cauldrons of boiling oil and ditches filled with pitch had been placed in strategic positions. Etharell had used every hour to its fullest, directing all available resources toward strengthening their defenses.
Now, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting the walls in shades of crimson and gold, Etharell stood atop the battlements, watching the distant flicker of enemy campfires. There was a weight in the silence—the oppressive anticipation of war. With each breath, it pressed heavier on the chest.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Firm, deliberate, measured steps. Etharell didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"General Maern…" he said, his voice tired but resolute. "What's the situation?"
Maern unfurled a parchment he had withdrawn from beneath his gray armor.
"Our scouts report that the enemy has completed their siege towers and plan to make their first move at dawn. As well... there's a familiar face among the front lines of the Raddonan army. Prince Aldrenlan is leading them in person."
A flicker passed through Etharell's eyes. Aldrenlan… once a friend—or rather, a friend of the original Etharell. They had trained at the same academy, eaten at the same table, shared books, and perhaps… even loved the same girl. Now they stood on opposite sides, champions of two divergent worlds. From what he remembered, Aldrenlan had always been impulsive—deeply religious and driven by conviction.
"So Aldrenlan's here…" Etharell murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Trying to step out of the shadow of his younger brother, no doubt—the one who outshines him in the imperial succession."
"And that will make our task even more difficult," Maern added grimly.
Etharell gave a small, silent nod. Then his gaze drifted once more to the darkness beyond the tents.
"It will be hard, yes… But this city will not fall. Otallas is no easy prey. If this is to be our last stand, let it echo through history with the loudest roar."
Maern gave a respectful bow and stepped back.
Etharell descended from the wall and made his way toward the courtyard where the soldiers had gathered. His eyes caught sight of a young man holding a spear. The armor he wore was oversized, almost swallowing his frame, but behind the fear in his eyes, Etharell saw a spark of determination.
"What's your name, soldier?"
"Serrel, my lord."
Etharell paused for a moment. There was something in those eyes that was familiar to him.
"Never be afraid of fear itself. Fear is the one thing that keeps us alive."
Etharell's voice was calm and deep as he looked directly into the young man's eyes. Serrel swallowed hard. His lips trembled, but he met Etharell's gaze without lowering his head.
"I understand, Your Majesty… I'll do my best."
Etharell offered a faint smile. This boy, nearly lost in his armor, was one of thousands who would decide the fate of Otallas.
"If you survive the battle," Etharell said, continuing to walk but calling back over his shoulder, "you'll tell me what you did with that spear."
Serrel blinked, then—perhaps for the first time—smiled. "Yes, my lord."
---
The sun had now completely dipped below the horizon. The sky had turned a deep shade of indigo, and the flicker of the campfires beyond the walls had grown more distinct. Otallas was silent—not with fear, but with readiness. Everyone knew tomorrow the war would begin.
As Etharell passed through the courtyard, the soldiers parted respectfully. Each was lost in their own silence—some whispering prayers, others checking their weapons, a few dipping their spoons into one last bowl of warm soup. Different lives, same edge of the same fate.
While he still could, Etharell retreated to his chambers to rest. By the time he entered, the sky outside had deepened into pitch black. His room, nestled between thick stone walls, was simple and unadorned. A cool breeze drifted in through the window, brushing the curtains and carrying the sharp scent of oncoming rain. In the center of the room stood a dark wooden bed with four sturdy legs. Nearby, a desk held scattered maps and his ancestral golden armor.
Silently, he removed his spare armor and placed his belt on the edge of the table. He washed his hands, letting the cold water linger in his palms for a moment before it dripped to the floor. Slowly, he lay down. As his head rested against the pillow, he exhaled deeply. The wind outside had grown stronger.
Everything that could be done had been done. Now, only the waiting remained.
Sleep didn't come quickly. Thoughts turned slowly around his mind: the walls, the soldiers, Aldrenlan… echoes of a life he only half remembered. His eyes gradually closed, and sleep finally claimed him.
---
**A Few Hours Later**
The first sound to break the silence was the subtle scrape of metal.
Etharell's eyes cracked open. In the stillness of the night, it sounded like a sword brushing unintentionally against another piece of steel. He remained motionless, still lying down, ears straining.
A whisper followed. The footsteps—soft, measured, but too deliberate to be hidden completely.
Now fully awake, he slowly sat up. Reaching down beneath his bed, he retrieved a dagger from a hidden compartment. He rose quietly, breath steady, though his heartbeat had quickened. No sounds like this were normal—especially not with the battle so close.
Then the door burst open with a crash.
Three armored men rushed in. Three more followed. One of them pointed directly at Etharell.
"On the ground!" one barked, raising his shield. "Resist, and you die!"
Etharell suppressed the initial shock and fear. He didn't drop the dagger—but he didn't attack, either.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, voice firm but calm. "Do you not know who I am?"
The response came quickly. The knight at the front removed his helmet. His face was slick with sweat, his eyes locked on Etharell without a hint of hesitation.
The room felt suddenly heavier as the knight's gaze pierced through the space between them. He let the helmet drop to the ground. One by one, the others followed suit. All six faces were now revealed. These were no ordinary soldiers. In their eyes, one could read the weight of decision, the chill of betrayal.
"I'm afraid, Your Majesty," the lead knight said, "you are no longer deemed fit to lead this war."
A flicker of confusion passed across Etharell's face. Then his eyes narrowed with grim realization.
"Who sent you?" he asked, his voice now deeper. "Maern? The nobles?"
"This decision was made for the survival of the Kingdom," another knight replied, bowing his head slightly.
Etharell lowered his gaze briefly. A bitter, mocking smile touched his lips.
"How elegant," he said. "You even organized my death. But at least you came to do it face to face. That's a virtue, I suppose."
One of the knights stepped forward. Etharell's eyes darted to his left hand—it was trembling. Young. Inexperienced.
"I was once like you," Etharell said softly, stepping calmly toward the center of the room. His movements weren't aggressive, though the dagger remained in hand. "Believing in something so strongly, thinking that even when your heart trembles, your duty must triumph over it. But know this: killing me will not win you this war. Prince Aldrenlan shows no mercy to cowards."
That was when one of them, overwhelmed by nerves, drew his sword. Still, they hesitated. Everyone has a first—the first betrayal, the first blood, the first death.
"What are you waiting for?" Etharell said, lifting his head. "Blood does not wait to be spilled."
Silence.
Then the first blow struck his back. Etharell staggered but didn't fall. The second strike came, piercing his chest. Another followed—a spear thrust from behind. Etharell's arms dropped slowly to his sides. The dagger slipped from his hand, clattering to the stone floor with a hollow ring.
Then came the flurry of strikes.
Six men.
Six weapons.
Etharell's knees gave out. His shoulders slumped. But even as he collapsed, his gaze remained proud.
Even on the ground, his eyes stayed open—staring at the cracks in the ceiling… or perhaps something beyond them.
One of the knights knelt beside him, placed a hand on his chest, and murmured softly, "It done. May God forgive your sins."
The young soul that had once occupied Etharell's body had died again—though this time, his second life had been far shorter.
Yet he was not entirely sorrowful. But to say he felt nothing would be a lie.
There was rage.
It felt as though some cruel parent had gifted a child something beautiful, let them smile in wonder—and then snatched it away just to hear them cry.
He felt foolish. He had become attached to this life far too quickly. He had hoped—perhaps truly believed—that this time, things would be different.
But they weren't.
All that remained was the bitter taste of blood and the heavy pressure of each drop as it left his body.
And Etharell… Etharell did not want the story to end this way.
And it seemed someone else didn't either.