Dawn comes late.
The sky is still dark when the first body hits the mud with a sound that's too soft for the weight of a life ending.
Reuben stands at the edge of the ridge, still as the stone beneath his boots. Below him, the battlefield sprawls like a torn-up parchment. Trenches gouged into the earth, steel flashing in the weak morning light, smoke curling up from the broken remnants of siege carts.
It's the kind of morning that forgets to feel holy.
He watches it all with no expression. No flare of victory. "Send in the second line," he says.
One of the generals—young, or stupid, or both—hesitates. "Your Highness, the men—"
Reuben turns his head slowly. That's all. And the man falls silent, eyes dropping to the prince's boots.
The order goes through. Steel moves again. So do the bodies.
The second line charges into the fray, trampling the wounded, ignoring the cries of the dying. The prince doesn't look away when one of his own men is pulled off his horse and gutted like a rabbit. He doesn't speak when the flames from the oil traps spread faster than expected, catching onto the bodies, the grass, the edge of the southern flank.
He only watches. Measures. Takes note.
As if it's all a sum to be tallied. Losses, gains, angles of approach.
As if war is just a numbers game and not something that screams.
When the enemy general breaks from the ranks, spurs his horse hard and flees like a shadow peeling from the fire—when the men behind the barricades see it and panic, dropping their swords, stumbling over each other in the mud trying to run—Reuben finally speaks again.
"No prisoners."
Two words. But they cut through the command tent like a knife dragged slow across skin.
His own men hesitate, just for a breath. Some of them still carry the flicker of honor, even after three months of blood and cold and nights spent digging graves with bare hands.
They glance at each other. Some flinch. Some pray.
But Reuben doesn't say it again.
He doesn't have to.
They've learned. Learned what happens when his orders aren't followed—when mercy is chosen over command.
They've seen what he does to hesitation.
So they obey.
And whatever scraps of honor they had left are swallowed whole by the mud.
Within minutes, the retreat turns to ruin. Steel chases backs. Arrows hunt the ones who run fastest. And the battlefield, already broken, becomes something worse. Something permanent.
By midmorning, the field is silent.
Crows wheel in lazy circles overhead, scavenging at whatever the flames and steel left behind—bones, scraps of armor, torn banners.
The prince steps down from the ridge, cloak trailing behind him, boots untouched by mud. His guards follow in silence. No one cheers. Victory, to him, is not something to celebrate—it's something to collect. Like a debt.
At the center of the field, he stops beside a dying soldier. Enemy. Young. Barely twenty.
The boy gasps, trying to speak.
Reuben crouches, just enough to meet his eyes. "You were told," he says quietly. "Surrender was not an option."
The boy's lips tremble around the single word he can barely form. "P-please…" His voice cracks like dry wood. Each breath is a battle against the blood pooling beneath him.
Reuben stays crouched, the wind whipping dust and ash across both their faces. He watches the life drain from the boy's eyes—so much fear there, and regret, and something like relief that it's almost over.
"You had a choice," Reuben repeats. "But you chose to stand."
The dying soldier's gaze drifts past him, to the ridge where corpses lie in jagged rows. His hand twitches, as if reaching for a fallen comrade. "Tell… my mother…"
Reuben's throat tightens. He looks away, focusing on the rough seam of the boy's uniform—mud-caked, tear-stained—so like any son's shirt back home.
The soldier's eyes flutter closed, as if the impossible weight of his command has finally freed him.
Reuben straightens, the faint glow of dawn catching the edge of his blade. He brushes a hand against his own cheek, still stinging where honor and duty collided.
Then he rises and walks away.
His sword hasn't been drawn once today. The battlefield belongs to him long before the first arrow flies.
He returns to camp long after the crows have settled. Blood still clings to the air like smoke. Soldiers clear the path for him without a word. Even his most seasoned generals lower their gaze when he passes.
They all know exactly what happens when someone dares ask the wrong question at the wrong time. And no one wants to be that someone.
Inside his command tent, Reuben strips off his gloves and tosses them to the table. The map is still there—creased and stained—littered with carved pieces marking what's left of the enemy's forces. Most of those pieces lie on their side now.
"Write to Lord Marcus," he says. "The southern fortifications need reinforcement. No exceptions. Tell him to empty the farms if he has to."
A scribe, silent until now, nods and begins writing with trembling hands.
"I don't care if it leaves the fields bare. If the line breaks, there won't be a harvest anyway."
Reuben doesn't sit. He doesn't rest. He pours himself a glass of wine and drinks it like water. He stares at the northern corner of the map next. His mind never stops moving. There's always a next step. A next war. A next fool who needs to be reminded that mercy is not a coin he trades in.
He runs a thumb along the edge of the map, the parchment frayed where his nail catches. Northern hills. That's where the rebels scatter now—rats beneath a boot that hasn't crushed them quite fast enough.
"General," he says, not looking up.
A man steps forward immediately. "Your Highness."
"How long until the pass freezes over?"
"Two weeks. Perhaps less, if the winds keep."
Reuben's jaw ticks. "Then we don't have two weeks."
He moves, dragging a dagger across the table to cut a line through the mountains sketched there. The blade leaves a thin gouge in the wood beneath. He's done waiting. He's done letting terrain and weather dictate the tempo.
"Set fire to their granaries. Poison the streams if you have to. I want their winter to come early." He slides the dagger back into its sheath like the conversation is over. Because it is.
The general hesitates. Not out of doubt. Out of fear. He's seen firsthand what Reuben's orders mean once they touch earth. He's walked through the aftermath, stepped over broken doors and burnt cradles.
"They have children there," he says quietly. "And the old. The sick."
Reuben's stare doesn't waver. "So do we."
Nothing more. Nothing less.
He turns away from the map at last, walking slowly to the tent's entrance. The wind outside bites. The snow is only dust now, but it will grow teeth soon. He watches the fires burn along the hills in the distance—scarlet ribbons licking at the dark.
Reuben doesn't wait for the general to respond. Commands are given. Execution is expected.
He's seen too many men hesitate—brilliant strategists, seasoned commanders—trapped in the mire of their own morality. As if war cares for what feels right. As if there's some noble middle ground where everyone walks away bloodless.
They stall, thinking there's a balance to be struck. That mercy can be measured out like rations. That you can fight clean and still win.
But war isn't a negotiation.
It's a knife fight in the dark, and the one who flinches dies. The one who hopes the other man will back down dies. The one who thinks too long about children and old men and crumbling farmhouses?
He dies.
Reuben steps outside, the wind biting into his skin. The camp is alive with movement. Soldiers stoking fires, sharpening weapons, preparing for the next fight. The snow crunches beneath his boots like the soft groan of a dying animal. He listens to the sound. It's makes the men uneasy, but to Reuben, it's as familiar as the hum of his own heartbeat.
There's a young man near the fire. Barely old enough to grow a beard. His eyes dart nervously between Reuben and the others, trying to make himself small. Reuben's gaze lands on him without pause.
"What's your name?" he asks, his voice like stone scraping against metal.
The young man stiffens. A flicker of fear flashes across his face—but he swallows it. Stands straighter. He meets Reuben's eyes for half a second longer than he should.
A spark of defiance.
The prince notices. He likes that.
"I'm... Ilian, Your Highness."
Ilian.
Reuben files it away, not because it matters. It doesn't. Names are soft things. Temporary. Easy to forget after the blood's been washed away.
But still—he notes it. Just in case this boy lives long enough to make the name mean something.
For now, he's just another warm body by the fire, another pair of hands waiting for orders. Another name waiting for a reason.
"You've fought before?" Reuben asks, his tone flat, measuring.
"Yes, Your Highness. A few skirmishes. Nothing like... this."
Reuben nods, turning his gaze back toward the horizon. The dark clouds gathering like vultures on the edge of the world.
"I want you to be ready, Ilian. When the order comes, you'll move like the rest. Understand?"
Ilian hesitates for a second, then nods quickly, his nervousness giving way to the recognition of an order he has no choice but to follow.
"I understand, Your Highness."
Reuben watches him for a moment longer. There's something about that hesitance, something about the fear in the young soldier's eyes. Reuben sees himself in it, or rather, the man he used to be before the crown hardened him.
"Good," Reuben finally says, dismissing him with a single motion of his hand. "Then be sure to stay alive. We need men like you."
As Ilian walks off, Reuben's eyes shift back to the distant hills, his mind already calculating the next move. The war doesn't wait. And neither does he.
The cold bites at his bones, again, but it's a pain he's used to. He doesn't feel it anymore. Nothing really touches him, not since the day he made the decision to burn all bridges.
He was born into privilege, raised on the belief that he was destined for greatness. But greatness, he learned, doesn't come from generosity. It doesn't come from mercy or nobility. It comes from doing whatever it takes. Even if it means staining your hands. Even if it means making the world see you as a monster.
He chuckles.
What do they call him now? A tyrant? A butcher? It doesn't matter. They'll call him whatever keeps their stories alive. But those stories will never matter. Only the kingdom.
Reuben grips the hilt of his sword, his fingers cold against the worn leather. Another day of battle awaits. Another day of making sure no one dares to stand in his way.
And tomorrow, he will tear the heart out of anyone who dares to question his rule.
Because he is the crown prince.
And the crown is not just a symbol. It's a weapon.