The Sinful Young Master

Remin's attention was drawn to a disturbance at the eastern edge of the field.

A massive warhorse—no, it was like a beast with its bulky frame and its wild eyes, nearly eighteen hands high and built like a mountain of muscle—trotted toward him.

It was a rare hybrid of the warhorses, called the black daguns. It had a black mane, thick and long around its head, like flames fluttering in the air. Its legs could easily crush a man, muscular and powerful, propelling the beast forward with frightening speed.

Its bloodline mixed with something more than mere horse, giving it strength and ferocity beyond ordinary mounts.

Upon the creature sat the Phoenix General Iorina, one of the six Great Generals of Arshiks.

Despite being in her forties, she looked a decade younger, her face marked only by the fine lines of laughter and determination rather than age. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red that matched the Empire's colours, flowed behind her like a battle standard. Her armour was lighter than Remin's, designed for mobility rather than frontal assault, with flame patterns etched into the bronzed plates.

Behind the blackdagun, being dragged unceremoniously through the blood and mud of the battlefield, was a giant of a man—Lord Saerag of Chittera.

The architect of this failed invasion was bound at the wrists, the rope attached to Iorina's saddle. Despite his enormous size and the indignity of his position, the lord's face showed only defiance, his eyes burning with undiminished hatred. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds on his massive body, yet none seemed to diminish his fierce presence.

She had defeated him and was now taking him as a trophy. And the beast dragged the giant of a man with effortless strength.

Soldiers from both armies stopped to watch as Iorina paraded her captive across the field. It was a calculated display—psychological warfare meant to demoralize any remaining Chitteran forces. The message was clear: your lord has fallen, your cause is lost.

The blackdagun halted before Remin, its nostrils flaring and its massive hooves pawing at the blood-soaked earth.

Iorina dismounted in one fluid motion, her movements graceful despite the weight of her armour. Up close, her eyes revealed their unusual colouration—amber with flecks of gold, like flames captured in glass.

"Are we done here?" she asked, her voice carrying the slight accent of the Northern lands. There was no triumph in her tone, only the professional satisfaction of a task completed.

Remin nodded once, his expression as stoic as ever. His eyes, however, moved to the captured lord.

Saerag knelt in the mud, forced down by his bindings, yet somehow managing to maintain an aura of dangerous dignity. Blood matted his black beard, and a deep gash above his eye had painted half his face red, but his posture remained proud.

Iorina followed Remin's gaze, and something shifted in her expression—a flash of interest that went beyond military assessment when her eyes fell on Saerag.

"Can I take him?" she asked, her tone casual but her intent unclear.

Remin studied her face, recognizing that look.

It wasn't the first time Iorina had taken a personal interest in a captured enemy, particularly one of such impressive physical stature.

But this was Lord Saerag—responsible for the deaths of thousands of Imperial citizens, the orchestrator of three brutal campaigns against their borders.

Slowly, deliberately, Remin shook his head.

Iorina raised a single eyebrow, challenging his decision for a moment, then released a resigned sigh.

Without further discussion, she unsheathed her curved sword—a blade rumoured to have been forged in the breath of the last true phoenix—and strode toward the kneeling lord.

Saerag looked up at her approach, his eyes never wavering, never pleading.

If anything, his glare intensified, as if daring her to strike.

In one swift, practiced motion, Iorina swung her blade. The sharp edge sliced through muscle and bone with terrible efficiency, and Lord Saerag's head tumbled to the ground, his expression of defiance permanently frozen on his features.

"If I am not getting him, then I will kill him," Iorina said quietly, cleaning her blade on her cloak as the giant's body collapsed forward.

The execution was witnessed by the remnants of both armies—a final, definitive statement on the outcome of this conflict.

The war that Lord Saerag had initiated had claimed thousands of lives on both sides, and now it had claimed his as well.

Remin watched impassively, though internally he questioned whether a swift death had been appropriate for such a man.

The Empire's justice typically demanded public trials and executions for enemies of Saerag's stature. Yet, battlefield justice had its own traditions, and Iorina had certainly earned the right to deliver it.

Without a second glance at Saerag's fallen body, she strode back to her warhorse, the massive beast snorting and pawing at the blood-soaked earth. Her armour caught the late afternoon sun, the flame patterns seemingly alive with golden light.

Remin didn't say anything, watching her behead him, silently.

She mounted in one fluid motion, settling into the ornate saddle with the ease of someone who had spent more time on horseback than on foot. And even the beast stood at an impressive height; with a simple leap, she got on the back of the beast.

From this height, she surveyed the battlefield once more—the remnants of Chittera's forces being rounded up, the wounded being tended to, and the dead being collected.

Her army headquarters was present elsewhere with her army taking care of that side. She just came here to ask Remin if she could keep the Chittera lord as her slave. She wanted to have her fun with the barbarian lord, otherwise she would have killed there and then.

Her expression showed annoyance, but she didn't say anything. She respected Remin enough to obey his orders.

"I am leaving for the county," she announced to Remin, her voice carrying the authority of her station.

"Will you come?"

Remin stood unmoved, his grey eyes taking in the same scene but perhaps seeing different details. His weathered face, lined with the experience of countless campaigns, revealed nothing of his thoughts.

"I will follow you behind," he replied, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

"You go ahead."