Arthyle rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes with the cold water from the basin in his tent; a rare treat in the middle of the Gaderi deserts. The war had taken its toll on every country, yet his soldiers persevered through the difficult campaign without complaint. As a tactician, their unwavering moral was useful but as a general it filled him with ineffable pride. Even the men dispatched through the northern mountains of Lyth to cross the ice bridge had sent regular reports of their progress without fail. He still worried they’d not make it before the bridge melted, yet they were unwavering in their resolve. The young commander was forced to smile as he thought of the impending victory their force would bring once they arrived.

A victory which all hinged on today’s battles; thus the reason for his lack of sleep. He needed to win this day to force the Gaderi back into their northern tribes and then ambush them with the force crossing over to secure their territory once and for all. This would ensure his ships safe passage to the lands of Irum, ending the conflict on the border of Layar. Once he’d led his forces across the oceans and taken Vozit and Ellos, the war would be truly over once and for all. The plan was set, all he needed were the victories themselves.
A small sound at the pack of his tent broke his revelry.

Instantly his hand was on the hilt of the sword resting across the maps strewn about his table. He jerked his wrist to free the blade, but the shadow in front of him shifted subtly; a clear indicator he wasn’t alone and it was too late to draw the weapon. The young man slowly slipped from his hiding place, the intent of his eye undeniably lethal. Arthyle recognized the boy; a servant in the King of Vozit’s court. He’d heard humors of the King’s Hands, a select group of assassins used to keep the balance of the world (usually in favor of Vozit). He was only somewhat shocked to find one had been sent for him, but he was utterly speechless that it had made it through all of his guards and soldiers.

The assassin’s movements were impressively fast, and instantly Arthyle knew calling for help would be futile. True men accepted their fate, even if that fate was the business end of a dagger shedding flesh and blood from his body. His only regret was not sharing enough of his plan with the other generals for it to be completed. Without him, the war would still end, but most likely with the surrender of Layar to these lesser men. If only he had another chance, if only there was some way for him see the day when his people, his armies, would rule the world of Balor.