Darian Vale rode with a steady rhythm down the dirt path that cut through the endless wheat fields. The summer sun caught the golden stalks and transformed the landscape into a sea of treasure. His warhorse, Bright Spear, maintained an easy trot beneath him. The stallion's white coat gleamed almost silver under the clear blue sky.
A smile touched Darian's lips. The Myrmidos Compass had guided him to his target. Bran Copperfield, distant Ironheart relative and potential ally, was just beyond the next rise.
I need him, Darian thought. It's going to be difficult to start a war without him.
His light armor shifted comfortably with each of Bright Spear's steps. He'd chosen practical gear for this Campaign—reinforced leather with subtle magical runes etched into strategic points, offering protection without sacrificing mobility. In contrast, the sword at his hip carried no enchantments. It was simply three feet of straight, sturdy blade pinned by its tang into a leather-wrapped hilt, sporting a plain round pommel worn smooth by the passage of years.
Darian brushed a lock of dark hair from his eyes. His youthful face often caused others to underestimate him—a fact he'd learned to use to his advantage. Few expected a man with such a boyish countenance to be a Warmaster, a commander of armies and either the ruination or salvation of nations.
"Almost there, my friend." He patted Bright Spear's neck as the horse nickered in response.
The breeze carried the scent of fresh wheat and earth. Darian drew a deep breath. The Golden Plains stretched before him. According to the archives at the Myrmidon Fortress, it was a region once known for its prosperity. Recent errata written at the behest of the Eyes of Myrmidos told him that the Golden Plains were now bent under heavy Imperial taxation. The fields still flourished, but the people who tended them did not share in the bounty.
As Darian rode on, his mind shifted into the familiar pattern of the War Frame—that unique mental architecture cultivated through years of training at Myrmidos. It wasn't simply analysis or strategy; it was a complete restructuring of how he perceived the world around him.
Within his mind's eye, the landscape transformed. The wheat fields weren't just golden expanses but potential cover zones, with defense ratings and movement penalties. The village ahead broke down into component parts: choke points, defensive positions, evacuation routes. Even without troops to command, the War Frame never truly deactivated.
Numbers and percentages flickered at the edges of his consciousness—not seen with his eyes but perceived with a sixth sense honed through countless drills and battles. Before embarking on this campaign, he'd locked thousands of pages of archives on the Veyltharion Empire into the depths of his indelible memory.
Now, as he neared his target, forecasts and speculative analyses rose from the data he'd absorbed and crawled across the forefront of his thoughts.
Village's militia potential: 35%.
Local terrain advantage: +20% for defenders familiar with the area.
Imperial presence risk: 65% within the next three days.
This was the gift and burden of a Warmaster. Where others saw a pastoral scene, Darian's mind automatically quantified and categorized. The War Frame wasn't just a tool—it was a lens through which he experienced reality itself.
He smiled slightly as he recalled War Sage Alberan's words: "The Frame is not something you use, Vale. It is something you become."
The most fascinating aspect was how the War Frame adapted to new information. As he approached Copperfield's village and rode down its main—and only—road, details emerged:
The blacksmith's forge with smoke rising from its chimney, the worn but sturdy construction of the buildings, the subtle signs of Imperial oppression in the nervous glances of the villagers who'd raised their gazes from the fields to peer at the horseman suddenly in their midst. Each observation caused the mental metrics to shift and refine.
Offense, Defense, Morale, Special Abilities, Weaknesses—the five pillars of the War Frame's analysis applied to everything from armies to individuals. And somewhere in that village was Bran Copperfield: blacksmith, widower, former nobleman with Ironheart blood—a man who'd renounced his title and the potential spark with which Darian hoped to kindle the rebellion.
Drawing on what Darian read of and heard about Bran, the War Frame assigned potential values to the man, though Darian would have to actually meet Bran to be sure.
Leadership: 70
Legitimacy: 85
Combat Experience: 60
Darian grinned. If I can convince him, this Campaign will begin in earnest here and now.
A plume of smoke rose from beyond the bend in the road and behind a wooden building—a carpenter's shop, it seemed. The blacksmith's forge would come into eyeshot the moment Bright Spear took the turn. Darian straightened in his saddle, his relaxed demeanor masking the intensity of purpose that drove him forward.
"Let's meet the man who could change everything," he murmured to Bright Spear, as they rounded the bend.
Darian spotted the blacksmith's forge about a hundred yards down the village's main road. The smoke curled up from the chimney, but something else caught his attention—a crowd gathered in front of a sturdy building. His War Frame instantly assessed the situation: Civilian Unrest: 80%, Threat Level: Elevated.
He urged Bright Spear forward at a measured pace. The houses and sheds that lined the dirt road seemed to shrink back from the commotion ahead. Villagers stood in a tense half-circle, their faces twisted with anger but their hands conspicuously empty. Not a weapon in sight—not even a stone. Their restraint spoke volumes about their fear.
The cause of their distress became clear as Darian drew closer. Five Imperial soldiers in polished breastplates stood among the crowd. Two of them held a large man in chains—a burly figure with a scarred face that matched the description of Bran Copperfield.
This isn't ideal, but it was certainly a possibility. Darian grimaced. Very well. Plan Secundo, it is.
The War Frame kicked into higher gear:
Enemy: Imperial Squad (5)
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Offense: 40
Defense: 35
Morale: 60%
Special Abilities: None
Weaknesses: Overconfident, outflanked, inexperienced
Leadership: Corporal, +5% to base morale
Neutral Party: Villagers
Offense: 10
Defense: 5
Morale: 25% and falling
Special Abilities: None
Weaknesses: Unarmed, unarmored, unmotivated, engrained hopelessness
Leadership: None, -50% to base morale
"Back off!" shouted one soldier, a man with a pockmarked face and corporal's insignia. He brandished his spear, a standard-issue Imperial weapon of excellent quality. "Back off or you'll regret it!"
An elderly woman stepped forward, her back bent with age. "Bran's done nothing wrong! Why are you taking him?"
"Copperfield faces charges of treason. The penalty for that is death," sneered another soldier, his hand resting on his sword pommel. "Step back or join him."
The woman retreated, her eyes downcast.
Bran stood tall despite his chains, his broad shoulders squared. He turned his stolid, steady gaze upon the villagers—his neighbors. "Stay back. I'm not worth it."
"Quiet, blacksmith!" One guard yanked the chain, forcing Bran to stumble forward. "Your noble blood won't save you now."
Darian pulled Bright Spear to a halt. A young man in the crowd looked ready to lunge at the soldiers. Darian caught his eye and gave a subtle shake of his head. The young villager froze. Confusion crossed his face at the stranger's silent command.
"Who are you?" the man mouthed soundlessly.
Darian assessed the situation in a heartbeat. Five Imperial soldiers. One target—Bran. Dozens of witnesses. The War Frame clicked into tactical mode, running calculations at lightning speed.
Surprise attack advantage: 90%
Mounted combat bonus: +40% offense
Bright Spear's training: Elite
He drew his sword in one fluid motion. The steel caught the sunlight and flashed.
"For the true Ironheart!" Darian shouted.
He dug his heels into Bright Spear's flanks. The warhorse leapt forward with explosive power, muscles bunching beneath his gleaming white coat. Dirt sprayed from beneath thundering hooves as horse and rider bore down on the Imperial soldiers.
The corporal's eyes widened. "What the—"
Darian's blade swept down in a perfect arc. The corporal raised his spear too late. Steel met flesh and bone with a wet crack. The man's head snapped back at an impossible angle, blood fountaining from his throat as he crumpled.
First target eliminated. Four remaining.
Bright Spear trampled the second soldier without breaking stride. The man's scream cut short under seven hundred pounds of warhorse. Bones shattered beneath iron-shod hooves.
The third soldier backpedaled, fumbling for his sword. Bright Spear pivoted on his hindquarters—a maneuver practiced a thousand times in the training yards of Myrmidos. The warhorse's front legs lashed out with deadly precision. Hooves caught the soldier square in the chest. The impact launched him through the air. He crashed into a wooden cart, the splintering wood punctuated by the wet snap of his spine.
Screaming a strangled and incoherent battlecry, the fourth soldier raised his spear in readiness to thrust at Darian's flank.
Predictable attack pattern. Counter: Battle Magic.
Darian extended his hand. He drew mana from the depths of his soul and focused it into raw power. The thought patterns and mental concepts for one of the two Battle Magic spells he knew flashed through his mind:
Fire Bolt.
A lance of crimson energy erupted from his palm. It struck the soldier's chest with the force of a battering ram. The man's breastplate glowed white-hot for an instant before the bolt punched through. A smoking hole appeared where his heart had been. His eyes rolled back as he fell.
The last soldier broke. He threw down his weapon and ran.
Target fleeing. Direction: North. Speed: Panic-driven. Outcome: Predictable.
"He'll warn the garrison," Darian muttered.
He wheeled Bright Spear around and charged. The distance closed in seconds. The soldier glanced back, terror etched on his face. Darian's blade flashed once. The man's head separated from his shoulders before his body knew to fall.
Silence descended on the village square. Five Imperial soldiers lay dead. Blood soaked into the dirt. The villagers stared, mouths agape.
Darian turned Bright Spear toward Bran Copperfield. The blacksmith stood frozen, his chained hands half-raised before him. Horror, awe, and something else—recognition perhaps—warred across his scarred face.
Darian wiped his blade clean on the trousers of a slain soldier and sheathed the blade. He met Bran's stunned gaze with calm intensity.
"Bran Copperfield. We need to talk."
Bran's face contorted in fury, his scarred features twisting into a mask of outrage. "Do you realize what you've done? The garrison will send a full platoon to crush this village when those soldiers don't report back!"
Darian dismounted from Bright Spear in one fluid motion, landing with practiced ease on the packed dirt. The War Frame calculated rapidly in his mind:
Village defense potential: 15%
Imperial response time: approximately 8 hours.
"They'll burn everything to the ground," Bran continued, his voice raw with anger. "Women, children—no one will escape their wrath. You just killed these people with your reckless—"
Darian raised his hand, cutting off the tirade. His fingers closed around the crimson amulet that hung beneath his armor. With a swift motion, he pulled it free and held it up.
The polished stone caught the sunlight, its surface etched with the unmistakable seal of Myrmidos—a stylized eye surrounded by twelve stars. The ancient symbol of the Warmasters.
Bran's words died in his throat. His eyes widened, the anger replaced by shock. "That's... that's the Seal of Myrmidos."
He recognizes it. Good. This will save time.
"A Warmaster," Bran whispered, his chains rattling as he lowered his arms. "Who sent a Warmaster to the Veyltharion Empire?"
The villagers murmured among themselves, confusion evident on their faces. Few outside the imperial courts knew of Myrmidos and its legendary warriors. But Bran knew—his noble heritage ensured that.
"The Sages of Myrmidos have deemed that Malevora Ironheart must fall," Darian said, his voice calm but firm. The words carried across the square, causing several villagers to gasp at the open declaration against the Empress. "Her reign must end. I came here on a Campaign to make that happen."
Darian stepped closer to Bran, close enough that only the blacksmith could hear his next words. "But if I am to succeed, I need your help."
Bran's eyes narrowed. "My help? Why would a Warmaster need my help?"
"Because you carry the blood of the true Ironheart line," Darian replied. "And that makes you dangerous to Malevora—and valuable to me."
Bran's face hardened, his jaw set in a stubborn line. Darian recognized the look—the expression of a man about to make a noble but fatal decision.
"Perhaps if I surrender myself to the garrison, they'll spare the village," Bran said, his voice low and gruff. "One life for many. It's a fair trade."
Darian shook his head. The War Frame analyzed Bran's proposal with cold efficiency: Imperial Mercy Probability: 5%. Village Survival Rate: 0%.
"You don't even believe that yourself," Darian replied. He stepped closer, his voice meant only for Bran's ears. "The village is already doomed. Those soldiers won't return. The garrison commander will assume rebellion. He'll send troops to burn this place to the ground."
Bran's shoulders slumped. The chains between his wrists clinked softly.
"Unless," Darian continued, "we fight back. And win."
"We?" Bran spat the word. "You forced this on us. You rode in and murdered five Imperial soldiers in front of everyone. You dragged these innocent people into your rebellion."
He's right. The thought flashed through Darian's mind, unwelcome but undeniable. I did force their hand. Alberan would say I acted with insufficient preparation.
But the War Frame calculated differently:
Time Until Imperial Response: 7.5 hours.
Probability of Success with Bran's Leadership: 65%.
Without: 10%.
"Yes," Darian admitted. He did not flinch from the accusation. "I forced your hand. Now you must choose."
He yanked off the ring of keys hanging from the corporal's belt and used one of them to undo the lock that kept chains around Bran's wrists and ankles. Bran grimaced and shrugged off his bindings. Links of heavy iron fell to the dirt.
"Die alongside your neighbors when the Imperials come," Darian said, his eyes locked with Bran's. "Or reclaim your birthright. The Ironheart throne belongs to you, not to Malevora. Your blood gives you a claim. Your character gives you the right."
Bran rubbed his wrists, his eyes darting between Darian and the villagers who watched in stunned silence.
"You think I can overthrow an Empress?" Bran asked, disbelief clear in his voice.
"You might." Darian's lips curved into a slight smile. "Because you have a Warmaster on your side."
