My horse probably wouldn't last much longer if I kept pushing it, but I did so anyway. My instincts screamed that something was wrong. Those orders had always sounded strange. What difference would adding a few more officers to the main cavalry corps make? What was the point of separating a commander from his unit?
The columns of smoke visible in the distance only heightened my sense of urgency. My horse was burning through its last reserves of energy, but I couldn't stop. When I reached the battlefield, the scene before me confirmed my worst fears. Everyone was dead—all the men I had spent months training, men I had learned to respect. For the first time in my life, they had made me feel like part of a family. Not a single survivor among those I had shared laughter, pain, and hopes with.
I am the bastard son of the Archduke of Iberus, one of the most important regions of the Western Empire. My mother was an enslaved woman, my father's favorite comfort lady. Though a slave, she was of noble birth—a princess of the Aruanda people. My people, whom I had denied for years.
Despite my dark skin and the cursed mark I bore—proof of my mixed heritage—I had always strived to resemble my father more than my mother. That desperate attempt to be what I was not had kept me apart for years from the only ones I could have called family.
Living with the shame of what I am. A lonely life, mine. Pushing away those like me and suffering the prejudice of those who weren't. My solitude only ended when I was assigned to train and command the Imperial Army's first battalion composed entirely of enslaved men.
The Black Lancers—a name given to us in mockery, but one that became feared by enemies and allies alike as that stupid war dragged on. The most formidable battalion in the Imperial Army. All dead. None of it made sense.
The Easterners had struggled to face us in battle for months. None of their strategies had been effective against our men's ferocity. A massacre! Where were the bodies of the fallen enemies? Nothing could convince me that the Easterners had suddenly become capable of slaughtering my men while sustaining so few losses.
That strong scent of ozone in the air—no rain, no wind, no storm? Charred corpses, armor melted into remnants of human flesh. The ground still vibrated with traces of arcane power. What killed my men was high-level thunder magic—the only explanation. But the Easterners don't wield that kind of power. The terrifying thought was that my men had been killed by our own allies. But that was the only plausible explanation.
"Captain D'Iberus?" Though I hadn't seen him approach, I knew who was calling me.
"General Argus." Of course. An arcane mage specializing in elemental magic. A sadistic, racist bastard. There was our culprit. My men had been betrayed and ambushed by their own superiors. Rage, hatred, helplessness… It was hard to describe what I felt in that moment.
"Your orders were to join the main cavalry corps, were they not, Captain?"
"I had a feeling something was wrong with my men. And, as it turns out, my intuition was right." The anger in my voice was unmistakable, putting the general on the defensive.
I could feel him gathering mana. Mages are powerful, but spellcasting is a slow process. Face-to-face with a high-level swordsman, they stand little chance—unless they've prepared in advance. The general hadn't. He was vulnerable, within reach of my sword, and he knew it.
The thrill of sensing an enemy's desperation is intoxicating. My hand went straight to my sword's hilt, pure instinct. That only heightened the general's obvious panic.
"You arrogant half-breed. Do you think being the Archduke's bastard would spare you punishment for drawing your sword on a superior officer?"
Of course, my status as the Archduke of Iberus' bastard son wouldn't save me from punishment. But who cared?
My urge to vent my rage by spilling this bastard's blood outweighed my judgment. My men were dead. My family was dead. They had been betrayed, led into an ambush by their own commanders.
If I was going to strike, it had to be now—before he finished gathering mana. I didn't hesitate. A single push from my feet, and my body shot toward the general like a blur. My sword left its sheath mid-motion, slicing through the air toward his neck. A sharp clang of metal against metal.
How? What had stepped between me and this bastard? How had I not sensed someone else nearby? No matter how hard I pushed, my sword didn't budge an inch. Whatever had blocked me was clearly far stronger.
"Enough." A simple command, yet brimming with authority. Instantly, I snapped out of my rage-fueled trance.
"You disobeyed your orders, Captain."
"Commander Arturius?" My voice carried an almost comical surprise. What in hell was the expedition's supreme commander doing on the battlefield?
"Not only did you disobey orders, but you also drew your blade against a superior officer. As much as I value your father's friendship, your actions cannot go unpunished."
"Why should I keep following orders, Commander? Tell me—I'd love to understand why my men were killed in an ambush orchestrated by their own allies."
My fate was already sealed. I'd be court-martialed, condemned, maybe even sent to forced labor camps—if my father didn't intervene.
"Restrain Captain D'Iberus. He is to be transported to the capital for trial on the next ship."
No answer was given. None was needed. I understood perfectly what was happening. I think my instincts had been warning me for days that this would come sooner or later.
The Black Lancers had become victims of their own success. A battalion made entirely of enslaved men, fighting for the promise of freedom after victory. Under my command, they had become the most feared battalion in the entire Imperial Army.
Of course, the slavers' faction would panic. Given the Empire's current political climate, civil war hadn't broken out only because the abolitionists lacked military power. With the Black Lancers on the front lines, the abolitionists would finally have the military might they needed. But now, they were all dead.
I didn't resist as I was shackled and led back to camp by the commander's personal guard. As my body cooled, rage gave way to sorrow. Hatred and desire still burned within me, but now they fought for space with depression and helplessness. My comrades were all dead, and there was little I could do.
The next ship to the capital would depart that same day. Soon, I was aboard. As the weight of grief began to settle, I had no idea that the events of that voyage—on that ship—would forever alter my destiny.