The light came first, then one by one ships popped into view, filling up the empty void of space. Planet Arleon was now in view, and the soldiers were ready to descend upon it.

  Ezra’s ship floated closely behind as the fleet of ships pushed forward, breaching Planet Arleon’s atmosphere. The beautiful purple sky turned dark. The engines roared loud and fast as the ships hovered mere miles from the city gates.

  One by one the ships lowered toward the ground, whisking up the orange desert as they landed, sending the city into disarray.

  The Arleon people were an alien race—purple, slender in stature, with two sweeping horns curling back off their skulls, blue eyes, and devilish-like features. At first glance one would assume they were a hostile race—but they were anything but. Their people were peaceful, welcoming—a complete polar opposite to how people perceived them.

  But no light can exist without darkness, and the Arleon army—they were prideful warriors who had seen many wars and experienced so much loss, but that did not shake them. Their will could not be broken or bent, but this time it wasn't just anyone coming to their door; it was La Mort’s army.

  A young Arleon boy watched on, stunned. He recognized La Mort’s ships when he saw them. He spun on his heel, ready to run toward his king, but as he did, he stumbled toward the ground. He stuck out his arm, catching himself mid-drop. The boy, still hunched over, began to run, gathering his steps as he stood upright. The boy had eyes for only one thing—letting the king and his army know La Mort had arrived.

  He tore through the city, running in and out of stalls, dodging women and children as he ran toward his king’s quarters. His legs screamed as his quads filled up with lactic acid. His breaths began to come in ragged and fast. He stopped for a moment, hunched over, hands on his legs as he looked up at the large double doors.

  “I can't give up now,” he said, trying to steady his heart and catch his breath. “They’re counting on me.”

  The young man took in a deep breath and pushed open the large doors, running through the kingdom and catching glancing eyes as he did. With every step, he looked toward the sky—to his ancestors for strength. He pushed on until he finally came to the king’s door, pushing it open and dropping down to the floor, struggling to grasp at the air around him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said King Lorhan. “And get this young man some help.”

  The king’s assistants rushed to the young boy’s aid, helping him to his feet, giving him a chair to rest his legs.

  The young Arleon boy wiped the iced, poured water from around his mouth. “My king—I am sorry for the intrusion, but this cannot wait. La Mort’s men are at our gates, and we must prepare.”

  King Lorhan shot up from his seat, pushing it back in the process.

  “La Mort—and his men, you say? Well, that can only mean one thing,” shouted King Lorhan as he slammed his fist into the table. “He has eyes for our planet.”

  King Lorhan turned to his advisors. “Prepare our men. We will ride out to meet La Mort and his men head-on.”

  King Lorhan’s advisor took a huge gulp as his head twisted toward his king.

  “My king—are you sure that is a wise idea?” he said. “If La Mort has set his eyes on our planet, is it wise to have you out in the open and make his job easier?”

  King Lorhan, in a fit of rage, threw his arms across the table, sending everything flying in the process.

  “I will not hide in this throne room like a coward!” he screamed. “I am the great King Lorhan, the slayer of beasts and the ender of wars! Do not associate mine, my father’s, and his father before him with the tag of a coward!”

  “Not my king,” his advisor responded. “I did not mean to cause offence—it’s just… you being exposed on the front lines. What if something were to happen to you?” he said. “You have no heir. We have no one in line to take up the mantle if something tragic were to happen.”

  King Lorhan’s eye began to twitch, and it wasn't long before his lips began to follow.

  “You speak in political language, my trusted advisor. You know what you want to say—so say it. You fear La Mort. You fear for my life.”

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  The king’s advisor’s head dropped, all but confirming the king’s words.

  “Where was this concern when I stood on the front line in the heat of battle?” King Lorhan said. “There were no objections then, or was it because you believed I was fighting battles I was going to win? Huh? Answer me—I said answer me!” he shouted.

  “No, my king. Every war comes with its risks, and while we may have been favourites to win those wars, the risk was still there, my king.”

  “Speak plainly,” the king said, clearly frustrated by how his advisor was dancing around the truth that sat on the tip of his tongue. “Say it as you mean it. Now is not the time to hold back—you are free to speak your mind without repercussions.”

  The king’s advisor took a look around the room. All eyes were on him. They knew as much as he did what the cost of having a war with La Mort meant. Either they win the war and the king lives on to fight another day, or they lose—lose their city, their dignity, their pride—their way of life. Everything they'd known changed overnight. Whichever way it went, they all knew it; they all gave each other that same look. Thousands would die, no matter which way you spun it, and anyone in that room could lose their life in the process.

  “My king—” his advisor nodded. “You are a formidable warrior. Our army is formidable. They have accomplished much, but La Mort—his achievements on the battlefield eclipse anything we have ever achieved. The stories of his conquests, his destruction… That man has no mercy for anyone. My king, he is ruthless, unforgiving, and as the tales say, he cares not for the number of men he must sacrifice to achieve his goal. You have a heart. You are a man of your people. You love your people, my king. Going out to him is suicide. You have nothing to prove to anyone.”

  The room fell silent, heads hung low.

  Then King Lorhan grabbed a hold of his armour and pulled it over his head. The king turned and looked at his guards with a look of certainty.

  “Guards—ready the men. We ride out to meet La Mort and his men.”

  The guards simply nodded before exiting the throne room.

  The king’s advisor raised his head to speak, but his king would not let him. His shoulder drove forward into his advisor’s chest, knocking him out of the way as he stepped toward the door and out of the throne room.

  The king’s advisor shook his head, but he was right behind him, running in order to keep up. The young Arleon boy placed his drink down to the side and jumped up, making sure he wasn't left behind.

  The king rode through the city on his winged horse, his guards at his side. As he reached the gate, hundreds of his men were waiting for their king. The sea of Arleon soldiers parted like the Red Sea as their king strode to the front. His eyes cast upwards to the man commanding the gate. With a nod of his head, he signalled for him to open it.

  Nerves were at an all-time high as the gate began to rise slowly, like an hourglass soon to run out of sand. Every soldier had heard the stories—the brutality that descended upon planets—but if they were scared, they were hiding it well. Their faces were stone cold, emotionless as the gate opened. The king rode out, and the men followed, marching head-on toward La Mort’s men.

  As they got close, King Lorhan raised his hand, signalling for his men to stop. La Mort’s men were no more than sixty meters away. The armies stared each other down as silence enveloped the scene.

  “General Pascal,” one of La Mort’s soldiers said. “We could just wipe the scum out now, and no one would be none the wiser.”

  The general’s head turned slowly, the corner of his eye catching the soldier standing behind him.

  “And if one of our men speaks out to gain favour with our king—will you place your head on the chopping block?” he said. “Because our king will require one of our heads.”

  The soldier’s head dropped as he fell back into line.

  “As I thought,” the general said. “Stay here. I will ride out to meet their king.”

  “But General,” one of his men shouted, “they’re savages!”

  The general smirked. “Savages they are indeed, but stupid I would like to believe they are not.”

  The general began to walk toward their leader, and their king rode out to meet him.

  The pair arrived in the center.

  “King Lorhan, I have heard such great things about you and your planet.”

  “And you are?” the king asked.

  “Oh—how rude of me. I didn't introduce myself, now did I? I am General Pascal, leader of the Blue Platoon and soldier to the strongest army in the galaxy,” he said. “But—something already tells me you knew that already,” he smirked, trying to get a rise out of the king.

  But the king would not rise to his tactics; he stood stoic.

  “I was expecting to see the great La Mort—I was looking forward to looking such a great warrior in the eyes—but we have you instead. Shame.”

  The general’s hands curled in and out of fists. But then his face carved into a sinister smile as he began to chuckle.

  “Enough of the games, King Lorhan,” he said. “Let's get down to the real reason why I’m here.”

  General Pascal pulled out a scroll-like paper with a blood seal at the bottom of it.

  “This is for you, my king,” he said calmly as he passed him the paper.

  The king snatched the paper from the general, reading the letter from head to toe. King Lorhan began to chuckle uncontrollably.

  “The Accords—rules for living in La Mort’s galaxy,” he said. “The balls on him. I give it to him—he does things his way.”

  “So, as the letter states, King Lorhan, you have forty-eight hours to give your response, or we storm your gates and take it all forcefully. I would hate to do that.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “Now that was a lie. I would love to take everything you have by force.”

  The king turned on his dragon horse and began heading back toward his men.

  “Don't worry, General—you will have my answer in due course.”