A few days had passed since this new life began. His former name was forgotten, and now he was simply Stellan Von Krausse, Crown Prince of Atlanta. Not a bad deal, all things considered — Stellan had been a man of considerable achievement, and he intended to keep it that way.
According to the memories he'd inherited, Stellan had already consolidated his position as heir to the throne, though rivals still lurked. For now, he remained at the frontier camp. The war was over, but soldiers loyal to the fallen enemy were regrouping, trying to reignite the conflict.
The captain of the first legion entered the command tent where Stellan stood studying a map of the region. Captain Lizardi was a man no older than thirty, a loyal warrior who'd followed Stellan since joining his ranks.
"The rebels have been spotted to the north, Your Highness," Lizardi reported.
"Good. Prepare to move out — we're not letting them escape," Stellan ordered.
"Your Highness, Duke Von Kleist sent a message. Since the rebels are near his territory, he's already dispatched his own troops to neutralize the threat," another soldier informed him.
"Von Kleist?" Stellan considered this. "Fine, but we're still going. If they capture one alive, we can use him for information. Get everything ready."
The captain nodded and left to carry out the order. Stellan lingered in the tent, letting out a breath. He'd only been in this body for a few days. It had taken some time to get his bearings, to understand where — and when — he was. But he was starting to like this place. It gave him the chance to keep testing the limits of his power.
Everything was ready for the march north when the enemy ambushed them halfway there, springing their trap on a narrow mountain path. They used magic to trigger a landslide. The soldiers scrambled to get clear, but the trail was too narrow. Stellan cast a barrier above them, holding back the avalanche of rock long enough for his troops to escape.
Seeing the barrier, the enemy charged head-on. The clash of swords and bursts of magic erupted around Stellan. One rebel lunged at him, but the prince sidestepped the blow and struck back. The man felt something like a whip crack across his chest — and when he looked down, blood was soaking through his clothes, his skin split open in thin, precise lines.
"What the hell?" He looked up at Stellan.
The prince's hands were empty. His sword was still in its sheath.
"Sorry about that." Stellan shrugged. "Fair play was never really my thing."
More lashes struck the man — across his back, his sides, his face — dropping him to the ground. Before him, a black vine covered in thorns coiled through the air like a living thing. Before he could scream, it wrapped around his throat, the thorns biting into his skin. His eyes found Stellan, who watched with a vicious smile.
Other rebels rushed the prince, but this time Stellan drew his sword and met them with startling speed. When the enemy commander saw his men falling, he called the retreat.
"Don't pursue them," Stellan ordered. "Tend to the wounded — quickly. We need to keep moving."
His soldiers obeyed. Stellan stepped away from the group, and from his shadow, a pair of white eyes blinked open.
"Find the ones who attacked us." His smile turned sharp. "And enjoy the meal."
"As you command, Your Majesty," a spectral voice answered.
His shadow peeled away from him, and more followed, splitting off in every direction. They slithered across the mountainside, swift and silent, until they reached a clearing where a group of rebels had stopped to rest. The shadows rose from the ground, forming tall, grinning shapes with rows of enormous teeth. When the rebels saw the creatures emerge from the trees, there was nothing they could do. Only the echo of their screams remained.
Meanwhile, Stellan and his troops pressed on toward the north. At this pace, they'd arrive by nightfall.
To the north, knights bearing shields emblazoned with a dragon fought to hold the border against rebels trying to force their way through. These were no ordinary soldiers — every one of them reinforced their offense and defense with magic, and they were more than strong enough to push the enemy back. Their commander, an older man with white hair and gray eyes, watched calmly from horseback as his troops drove the rebels into retreat.
"Your Grace, the prince's forces are headed this way." A messenger bird had delivered the report.
"Good. In the meantime, hold the line. If you can, take their captain alive," the man ordered.
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