Aric sat on the Kriger, its massive form snorting icy breaths into the frigid northern air as he watched the battle take place below.
His gaze glided through the field, taking in the clash of metal and the roaring war cries of his soldiers. In total, they had a hundred and ten men left.
Fifty of them were Northrender legionaries, the other sixty were the remnants of his own forces—what was once a proud Byzeth army of a hundred and fifty, now whittled down by the ruthless north.
More than half had perished, not in battle, but at the hands of a more relentless killer—the cold.
After their first engagement with the settlers, some had fallen to arrows and blades, but many more to the biting freeze. Men from the warm south, unaccustomed to the unforgiving northern climate, had quickly found death.
The cold scraped at their bones, and as their strength faded, so too did their will to survive. Horses bred for the southern plains had fallen ill, their breaths had become shallow as they lay helpless in the snow.
Some men died in their sleep, unable to wake to another brutal morning, while others, shivering and delirious, were put out of their misery by comrades who were no longer able to bear their pitiful groans.
Aric had said nothing to his men about these deaths.
What could he tell them? That they were weak? That they were undeserving to continue? That they didn't have the strength to stand in the north?
That was the truth, and sometimes even as brutal as it were the truth needed no sympathy.
He sighed, his breath a frosty cloud in the air, his eyes narrowing as the battle reached its climax. Below, the enemy soldiers crumbled under the onslaught of Yrsa and her legion.
Yrsa, in particular, was something else.
The ways she moved, like a perfect warrior on the field of blood, her large axe slicing through enemies with terrifying ease. The weight of her weapon seemed like nothing in her hands, as though it were made of air instead of iron and steel.
"You really enjoy this, don't you?" Aric muttered, his voice low as he eyed her, amusement in his tone.
She locked eyes with him, her lips curling into a full smirk now. "Yes," she replied without hesitation, her voice filled with a strange satisfaction. "Do you not?"
Aric didn't answer right away—he wasn't certain himself, so he let the question hang in the cold air for a few moments. Her gaze remained locked on his grey eyes, betraying nothing. Finally, with a slight nod, he handed her axe back to her, his movements calm and deliberate.
Yrsa took the weapon and slung it over her back with ease.
She glanced over her shoulder at the battlefield, the aftermath of the bloodshed, and then back at him.
Her expression shifted slightly, becoming more serious.
"We just received word from the north via rune stone," she said, her tone suddenly cold, dangerous. "And before I kill you and slaughter the rest of your army... I want to understand."
Aric's gaze sharpened, but he remained still as she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as if to study him more closely. "Did you really think your coward king could cheat us? That you could rob us, attack our people, and not pay with your lives?"
Aric said nothing, his expression betraying nothing of the thoughts running through his mind. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword at his back, ready, but he made no move to draw it. Instead, he met her gaze, calm and unbothered by the clear threat in her words.
Yrsa's grip on her axe tightened, her knuckles turning white. "Answer me, prince," she demanded, her voice laced with venom.
But Aric remained silent, his cold grey eyes locked on hers.
"That...is not my doing, and I know nothing of it."
The prince lied in the best way he knew how.