Rise Of A King

Chapter One: Draven

Draven

30 B.K.

At first light, the morning raven cawed, its cry echoing through the misty dawn. The sound was soon drowned out by the steady thud of boots on the earth as a column of soldiers marched in unison, their numbers stretching into the distance—, six hundred men. Each one bore the marks of battle; their armor was battered, stained with dirt, blood, and the grime of war. At the corners of the formation, four standard-bearers held high the banners of their Kingdom, each one emblazoned with the sigil of a brown crocodile against a solid green background.

At the head of the column rode their captain, Draven, a figure of stoic resolve, flanked by three lieutenants on horseback. The horses' hooves beat a slow rhythm as they led the weary men home.

One of the lieutenants, a broad-shouldered man with a ruddy complexion, urged his horse forward to ride alongside the captain. "Glorious battle, great victory, sir," he declared with a grin, his voice tinged with the exhilaration of the fight.

The other two lieutenants chuckled, their spirits lifted by the thought of victory and the impending return. Another chimed in, "His majesty will be most pleased to hear of our success. We'll feast tonight, no doubt."

The laughter continued until Captain Draven spoke, his tone cold and sharp. "The boy escaped and on top of that we lost good men. Almost a hundred died and over 20 wounded. On top of that, Lieutenant, thirty, maybe forty of their men slipped through our lines when they retreated. We may have won the battle, but without their leader's head or their allegiance to our king, the victory is hollow." His voice carried the weight of disappointment, laced with the knowledge of what they had lost amidst their gains.

The lieutenants fell silent, the levity drained from their faces. They fell back into formation, the reality of their failure settling in. One of them, voice subdued, muttered, "Apologies, Captain Draven. We'll do better next time."

Draven gave a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The soldiers continued their march, the banners fluttering in the early morning breeze as they made their way back to their king, the shadow of their incomplete victory hanging over them.

Draven and his men were coming from the east, leaving the snowy forest and Greenhills behind as they approached the river lands that led into the swampy fens. The sun was still high in the sky, casting a harsh light on the battle-worn soldiers as they trudged onward. Their armor clinked with each step, battered and stained from the recent skirmish.

After investigating an attack on one of the crowns's vaults in Reedspire the group marched to Brinekeep, However the army didn't make it far. They were attacked halfway and faced a fierce battle and the victory, though costly, was theirs. As they approached the last crossroads before entering their homeland, Draven took in the view of the green hills one last time. The open fields stretched before them, a stark contrast to the dense fens that awaited.

"Alright, men! Tend to the wounded. We'll make camp here. Settle in!." Draven shouted, his voice carrying across the weary ranks. The soldiers halted, some sighing in relief, while others immediately began setting up a perimeter.

Lieutenant Owens Black, who had been riding beside Draven, approached him again. "Sir, are you sure this is a good idea? We're only a few day's journey from home."

Draven turned to face Owens, his gaze sharp. "Lieutenant, who's the captain here?" There was a pause and Owens' face went white before looking at the floor. Draven continued, "The journey will be the same, no matter when we take it. This might be the last chance we get to see a view like this in a long while. Now, follow my orders and make camp." His tone was firm, leaving no room for further debate.