Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
“I will not lose the crown our family has held for generations, Grandmother,” she said. “And I will see our lineage continue stronger than ever.”
Her chin lifted, her violet eyes fixed on the castle.
“For I, Queen Eudora of Morra Mist, bow to no man or myth.”
Chapter Two
Legion
“You are too late!”
The desperate cry barely carried above the clash of steel and the screams of dying men.
A rider urged his lathered horse toward the lone warrior who had just reached the crest of the hill overlooking the battlefield.
He reined in so abruptly that his horse danced sideways, nostrils flaring.
“You are too late,” the commander repeated, grief and frustration sharpening his voice. He swept an arm toward the valley below. “Look at them.”
The battle raged beneath them.
Steel crashed against steel. Horses screamed as they fell. Men shouted orders that vanished beneath the roar of combat. Smoke drifted across the blood-soaked ground, stinging eyes already blurred by sweat and exhaustion.
“Our eastern flank has fallen,” the commander said. “The west cannot hold much longer. We are outnumbered nearly two to one.”
The warrior remained silent.
He sat astride his powerful black stallion as though the battle below was no more than a passing storm. Tall and broad shouldered, he possessed the easy strength of a man who had spent a lifetime carrying sword and shield. Thick dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, stirred by the cold breeze. A face women found difficult to forget bore a strong jaw, straight nose, and a firm mouth that rarely smiled. His vivid green eyes studied the battlefield with quiet purpose and not an ounce of fear.
The commander searched those eyes, hoping to find reassurance. Instead, he found certainty.
The warrior continued to study the battle unfolding below. He saw what the commander could not. The enemy's center pressed hard, believing victory already theirs. Their left flank had advanced too far, leaving a weakness no ordinary commander would notice.
A weakness he intended to exploit.
“Nay,” he said calmly.
The single word nearly escaped notice.
The commander’s brow knitted, not sure he heard him right. “What?”
“Nay,” he repeated, his calm remaining strong.
The warrior swung one long leg over his saddle and dropped silently to the ground.
The commander hurried over to him. “You do not understand. We have lost.”
The warrior reached over his shoulder and wrapped one hand around the worn leather hilt of his sword.
“You are too late,” the commander pleaded once more.
The warrior drew his blade. Its polished steel caught the afternoon sun.
He shook his head. “Nay. They are.”
He walked toward the battlefield.
The commander stared at him. “Who are you?”
He paused, though didn’t look back. “Legion.”
He walked onto the battlefield, his stride powerful and confident.
Around him, swords clashed in a deafening chorus of steel. Warriors shouted battle cries as shields splintered beneath crushing blows. The air carried the bitter scent of blood, sweat, and churned earth.
None of it altered his stride.
An enemy warrior rushed toward him, sword raised high.
He never broke pace as one swift stroke sent the man sprawling lifeless at his feet.
He continued into battle.
Another warrior charged him. Then another, but neither slowed him.
It was then that those nearest him began to notice what he was doing.
A Highland warrior watched Legion dispatch another man without breaking stride. His gaze followed him as Legion continued toward the enemy line.
Another Highland warrior moved in behind Legion. Then another. Men who moments before had been struggling merely to survive began to follow the stranger who walked through the battle as though he already knew how it would end.
Legion neither looked back nor called for them to follow. He didn't need to. He had seen the weakness in the enemy line from the hill. Now he intended to break it.
Legion raised his sword and continued forward.
The Highland warriors closed ranks behind him, their confidence growing with every step.
Across the field, enemy soldiers began to notice the change.
The Highlanders were no longer retreating. They were advancing.
The enemy commander shouted for his men to hold the line.
Legion met the first line of warriors with the same quiet confidence that had carried him onto the battlefield. His sword moved with deadly precision, every stroke purposeful and every blow finding its mark.
One warrior fell and then another. A third never had the chance to lift his sword.
The Highland warriors closed ranks behind Legion, matching his measured pace. They shouted no battle cries. Raised no victory chants.
They simply advanced.
The enemy line faltered.
What moments before had seemed an unbreakable wall began to splinter. Men stepped back. Shields collided as warriors fought to regain ground they had already surrendered in their minds.
Legion saw the opening. He shifted slightly to his left. It seemed an insignificant move. Yet the Highland warriors moved with him as though they shared one mind, driving a wedge through the weakened enemy flank.
The commander on the hill stared in disbelief. He had seen great warriors before, and he had seen fearless men and brilliant commanders. But never had he witnessed one man command a battlefield without uttering a single order.