Ironhold Fortress
The scent of food drifted through the air, mingling with the smell of burnt ash and old blood that had not entirely faded, even with the passing days.
Inside the main house of the fortress, the fireplace blazed fiercely, sending choking streams of smoke up through a corroded chimney.
Five infantry soldiers, temporarily assigned as cooks, were busy preparing dinner for the remaining troops, despite scarce supplies and a lack of manpower.
Cooking utensils were ready: large wooden spoons with long handles, heavy iron pots, sturdy wooden plates, and many old wooden bowls.
After all, the main house was nothing more than an old tower that had been repurposed as a command center and temporary storehouse—the fortress had lost most of its inner buildings over the past few months due to bombardments and successive fires.
A thick stew boiled in a massive iron pot over the flames, while one soldier tossed in chopped vegetables, dried mushrooms, and even some earthworms gathered from the surrounding area—no source of protein could be rejected anymore.
Beside the fireplace, slices of old bread were being toasted until hard and crunchy, in a desperate attempt to make them edible.
Near the hearth sat Baron Edric Falcon, a man in his late forties. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, as if years of war and pressure had carved deep marks into him.
He wore his light armor, long since dulled, scarred with signs of recent battles, giving his body a worn, battered look.
The current commander of Ironhold Fortress was Baron Edric Falcon.
Edric hailed from the Falcon family, a lineage with a long history of defending the kingdom's north. His ancestors had been prominent military leaders in many great battles that had helped secure the northern realm.
However, the family had fallen from the rank of earldom decades ago, after a previous orc campaign destroyed their estates and lands, pushing them back behind the king's defensive line.
Most of the lands once owned by his family were now under orc control, and the family's once-proud military reputation had steadily declined until their title dropped to baron.
At first, Edric wasn't particularly interested in his family's military legacy—he had preferred a lazier, more comfortable life.
However, the shock came when he lost his father in a special preemptive battle against the orc forces, during an attempt to reclaim part of the occupied lands.
His father died in that battle, leaving him orphaned at a young age.
As for his mother, she chose to escape the family's ruined state and went to live as a mistress with a high-ranking noble in the eastern part of the kingdom—a man who had once been her suitor before she married Edric's father.
She fled from the grim reality after the fall of House Falcon.
These events forced Edric to confront the harsh truths of noble society, shaping him into who he is.
Though he was not ready at first to shoulder such responsibilities due to his young age, the circumstances gave him no choice.
In time, he began to demonstrate the same military brilliance as his ancestors—especially in the annual skirmishes against invading orc forces.
He relied on his strategic defensive abilities and his soldiers' resilience in the face of attack. Because of that, he earned the title "The Falcon Defender."
Yet, despite his military achievements, his past was far from free of obstacles. In recent years, Edric began to feel the weight of the reality he lived in.
The more he tried to restore his family's glory, the more he realized how difficult it was to penetrate the higher social layers of nobility, who refused to accept his rise.
He now understood why his father had chosen to fight in what was essentially a suicidal battle when Edric was still a child.
The noble society would never allow new blood to rise easily. No one could succeed without facing opposition of this kind.
The only path to success was to follow the unspoken rules and to expand the web of interests so that everyone would benefit.
He couldn't afford to simply share the cake—he had to make it bigger, increase its value so that the benefits would grow for everyone.
That was the only way to gain the nobles' silent approval and rise through the social hierarchy.
That's why Edric took on the dangerous task of defending Ironhold Fortress, even though the mission was far beyond the capacity of his current forces.
He believed this was his opportunity to prove his worth in battle and elevate his standing among the nobility.
His true goal in defending the fortress was to demonstrate his military prowess and prove his capability in protecting the current battlefront—thus minimizing the kingdom's losses, which would indirectly benefit the noble class as well.
In truth, Baron Edric was not like most nobles—selfish, reckless, and greedy.
He often fought alongside his soldiers, sharing with them the hardships of life-and-death battles. For that reason, he placed great value on his men.
Despite his stern nature, he was considered a fair commander, willing to sacrifice many things to preserve the lives of his troops.
But… things are not always as one hopes.
Since taking command of the fortress a few months ago, Edric had faced a series of defensive battles against savage orc raids and ruthless mercenaries.
In recent months, the situation had only grown worse. At the beginning of his command, the forces he brought with him included a thousand soldiers—infantry, cavalry, and hired guards.
But after four brutal defensive battles, only 250 remained.
The rest had either fallen in battle, were severely wounded and unfit for combat, or had fled to escape certain death.
During the last assault, just three days ago, Edric had barely managed to repel the enemy.
But the cost was high—he lost another 120 fighters, leaving the fortress at its weakest point yet.
With no supplies, dwindling rations, and no reinforcements from the nearby garrison, the stronghold stood isolated and vulnerable.
A heavy gloom settled over the keep.
During mealtime, the soldiers ate in complete silence. The main hall was filled only with the scraping of spoons against bowls and the crackle of burning wood in the hearth.
The silence wasn't out of respect for Commander Edric, but rather a reflection of exhaustion, tension, and quiet dread.
Everyone knew the enemy hadn't fully withdrawn.
The orc raids were no longer random or chaotic—they were calculated and precise.
Each attack tested the defenses, studied the weak points, and left the survivors drained and broken, as if the enemy were playing a slow, merciless hunting game.
Edric cast a fleeting glance at the table where the remaining officers sat, then wiped the sweat from his brow.
He knew they were waiting for him to speak—anything to lift their spirits or give them a sliver of hope. But he wasn't sure what to say.
What use were words of encouragement when the grim truth was plain for all to see?
"Sir, do we know when the garrison will send someone to relieve us?" one of the officers asked in a low voice.
His face was gaunt like the others', and his eyes carried the look of a man who had lost too much and had nothing left to lose.
Edric took a deep breath before answering, trying to sound steadier than he felt.
"The last message from the garrison confirmed that they will soon appoint a noble with a larger force to replace us..."
But it was a hollow reassurance. Everyone knew the road to the fortress was never safe.
Orc warbands and rogue factions—who had found in war the perfect chaos to pursue their ambitions—lay in wait for any convoy daring to cross the northern border.
"Sir, do you think he'll come with enough troops?" another officer asked.
Edric closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "I don't think so."
The truth was clear: if the kingdom had intended to send reinforcements, they would've done so long ago—before things had spiraled this far.
Sending another noble to take over command only meant they didn't want to abandon the fortress entirely, not because they were ready to invest more troops.
The fortress still served a strategic role, but not one important enough to warrant real support.
No one responded.
There was no need. Everyone already knew the truth.
After dinner, Edric stood by the narrow tower window, gazing out at the battered outer walls—scars of the battles that had raged not long ago.
"Commander !" a soldier called out, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.
"We've spotted movement near the eastern hills. They're approaching fast!"
Edric's expression hardened. He turned immediately to the east, where a rising cloud of dust loomed on the horizon.
"How many?" he asked, his voice calm but tense.
"A large force, sir—definitely over a thousand. But… they don't look like orcs or any of the usual raiders. They seem to be a well-organized human army!"
Edric narrowed his eyes, staring into the distance. Then, as realization struck, he spun around toward one of the officers.
"Raise the identification banner! If they're from the kingdom, they'll recognize us as allies!"
Minutes passed slowly, tension gripping every corner of the fortress.
Then, from the heart of the approaching force, a blue banner rose—bearing the crest of the nearby garrison.
"They're reinforcements!" shouted one of the sentries from the ramparts, as a wave of relief washed over the stronghold.
Edric turned his head slowly, exhaling deeply before murmuring, "At last… they've come."
.....
Arthur rode at the front of the forces, his eyes fixed on the horizon as the Iron Fortress gradually revealed itself before him.
The ancient structure stood tall despite the battle scars etched into its walls.
The watchtowers were damaged, and the wooden supports at the gate bore clear burn marks—evidence that the place had endured several fierce assaults in recent months.
"Not the stronghold I was hoping for, but it's still standing," Arthur muttered to himself as he looked at the cracked walls and the charred remains on the rooftop.
Behind him, soldiers marched in organized lines—a mix of cavalry and infantry—carrying the kingdom's banner fluttering in the wind.
Though some showed signs of exhaustion, their steps were confident; these were soldiers who knew they were heading into a decisive battle, possibly even a prolonged siege.
Arthur turned to one of the knights beside him, a lively young man wearing light armor that bore the crest of a minor noble.
"What do you think, Victhor? Does the fortress look like it can hold out for long?"
Victhor examined the scene before replying with a sarcastic grin.
"If you're looking for a perfect fortress, you've come to the wrong place. This is more like a death trap. But… with some repairs, we could make it more effective."
Arthur didn't need reassurance. He knew well that defending the fortress wouldn't be easy.
The enemies in the north were growing bolder, and the attacks were no longer random raids—they had become coordinated attempts to break the kingdom's defenses.
As his forces approached the fortress, he noticed the guards on the walls beginning to move cautiously, and soon a recognition banner was raised.
Thankfully, there was no sign of hostile response.
"Open the gate!" came the call from above, and soon the soldiers inside the fortress began shifting the heavy beams that sealed the entrance.
As Arthur stepped into the fortress, he was immediately greeted by the scent of burnt smoke and freshly cooked food, mixed with the lingering stench of blood and sweat from the last battle.
In the center of the courtyard stood a tall man, with a short beard and graying hair at the temples. He stood with a posture that suggested a mix of weariness and discipline.
There was no doubt—this was the current commander of the fortress.
The man wore simple armor, marked by many battles.He didn't look comfortable, but he wasn't afraid either.
This was Baron Edric Falcon.
Arthur stepped forward, observing the baron's expression as he watched the new troops with scrutinizing eyes.
After a moment of silence, the man spoke in a steady but tired voice:
"So, you're the ones meant to replace us?"
Arthur didn't respond immediately, taking a moment to gauge the man's reaction.
Then he answered calmly, "Yes, we've received orders to take control of the fortress and secure the situation."
The baron raised his eyebrows slightly, but showed no great surprise. It seemed he had expected this, though he wasn't sure until he heard it himself.
"Hm..." The baron surveyed the new soldiers before exhaling slowly, as if releasing months of built-up tension all at once.
"You're the commander, aren't you?" he asked in a steady voice, despite the exhaustion written on his face. "I'm Edric, acting commander of this fortress. You're late."
"Finally. My men have endured more than they should've. Our losses were heavy, and we can't hold out much longer."
Arthur looked around and saw the fatigue in the eyes of the soldiers scattered throughout the fortress. The signs of exhaustion were clear—some bore wounds that hadn't fully healed, and others looked like they could barely stand.
"How many of your forces remain?" Arthur asked directly.
The baron shook his head slightly, as if weighing his words. "When we started, we were over 1,000. Now, barely 250 remain."
That number was worse than Arthur had expected. He looked the baron in the eye and asked, "How long have you been fighting here?"
"Three months. At first, the attacks were scattered. But in the past two months, they've intensified. We ran out of food, ran out of sleep—even our weapons and armor are nearly broken from the constant fighting. If you'd arrived a week later, this fortress would have been nothing but a tale of its fall."