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HOGWARTS: REGULUS LORD OF THE STARS
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American Horror: Grind Edition
After the others left, Jules suddenly grabbed Tiberius by the collar and yanked him into the corner. The tragic, resolute mask vanished in an instant, replaced by world-weary cynicism and bone-deep exhaustion.
"Blood battle? Blood battle my ass!" he hissed through gritted teeth, then smacked the back of Tiberius's head.
"You got way too deep into the role, kid. Of course Lysandro's all for a blood battle—his old man is the Governor of Lys! Bloodline Pass sits right behind their family estates. They're defending their own turf and bloodline."
"And Governor Lysandro Rogare has the entire Rogare family behind him. Every drop of blood he spills here turns into the shiniest medal on his father's political chest."
"Us? We're fucking sellswords paid to do a job! If we bleed out to the last drop in this shithole, do you think the Lysene lords will even remember our names?"
Jules snatched up a cup, took a long swig, and grimaced. "Cough. But seriously—that whole 'die for the realm, today is the day' performance you put on? Gave me goosebumps."
"Anyone who didn't know better would think Lysene blood actually runs in your veins!"
Tiberius rubbed the back of his head, not angry at all. Instead he grinned, the sly look perfectly matching his age.
"Uncle, I was just playing along to leave a good impression on our real sugar daddy—Governor Lysandro." He smirked. "After all, your nickname in the business is 'Jules the Trustworthy.' We can't act like those crude companies that just scream 'more gold' all the time. Gotta deliver the emotional value, right? Make the client feel every gold dragon bought our 'loyalty.'"
Jules laughed and ruffled Tiberius's hair. "You slippery little shit. Listen, Tiberius—we didn't come here to be martyrs. We'll hold the line since we took their coin. But… we leave ourselves an exit, got it? If it really goes to shit, we pull out. Because…" He paused.
"This defeat isn't on us! And our retreat has legal cover… Our contract is with Lord Lysandro Rogare himself, black and white. It says we protect 'the Rogare family's property and interests in the Disputed Lands.'"
"We swore to him, not to that windbag Lysene Senate, and sure as hell not to that idiot Myr general Mitridas who got his army slaughtered!"
He stepped to the map and tapped several heavily marked estates and mines—all private Rogare property.
"When the time comes and it's truly hopeless, our withdrawal won't be a rout." His voice dropped, but carried iron certainty.
"It'll be called 'strategic repositioning.' Our mission is to secure Governor Lysandro's estates, warehouses, and mines before the enemy flood hits, then move his assets safely to the rear."
"Public announcement: Jules's company, acting to preserve Lys's core assets and avoid pointless losses, has repositioned to pre-designated defensive positions and continues to fulfill its escort duties to the Rogare family. We keep our strength intact and give the client a perfect accounting."
"As for what the Lysene officials think?" He shrugged.
"Who pays us in gold is who we answer to. Simple. Unless the Lysene city government starts wiring me coin right now, die-hard defense here? Dream on."
Tiberius nodded silently. His uncle saw clearer than anyone: in a war already lost, surviving—and surviving with value—was the truest loyalty to the employer.
Let the big shots safe in the rear worry about face and their fantasy "strategic counter-offensive."
---
Vito's Diary (lots of swearing and slang)
(Date unknown)
Watchfort is gone.
When the news hit, I was oiling my bow. Nobody said a word. Just dead silence.
It's over. Everyone knew it. The biggest nail on the opposite bank had been pried out by that Volantene general Marcus.
Fuck. The propaganda said "impregnable fortress," "unbreakable stronghold," "impossible to defeat," "masterfully designed by Lysene engineers"…
Bullshit! All fucking lies!
That crap only fooled the Lysene merchants and citizens. There's no such thing as an eternal fortress. You win wars by crushing the enemy's field army! Smash their living strength in open battle—that's real victory you can hold in your hands!
Three-Tax Gate is even more of a joke! Myr and Tyroshi reinforcements arrived but couldn't punch through shit.
Those Volantene engineers—supposedly from the Fourth Legion, Iron Totem—are they fucking mole people? Trenches layered on trenches, low walls and temporary forts denser than a damn chessboard! Who the hell is even besieging who here?
I swear, these Volantenes love dirtworks more than anything.
And the big talk about "bloom from the center," pincer attack? Yeah right. The fancy officers inside Three-Tax Gate didn't even dare open the gates! They hid behind the walls like turtles.
Fight? Fight my ass! Our army stands firm when we're in trouble, the enemy retreats like fire when they advance, and we reposition slow as a forest, huh?
I'm just glad Jules has a brain and didn't listen to the Governor's bullshit and march us into that meat grinder. He insisted on holding the Flank Corridor even if it means pissing off Lys.
Better to stay alive than be a suicidal idiot, right?
Latest news is even scarier—Marcus's main force that took Watchfort is rolling south like thunder, straight at Three-Tax Gate.
Scouts say the scale… fuck, war elephants, super-heavy cavalry in iron cans, and eight full Tiger Cloak legions! Eight! Just hearing it, I can already feel the ground shaking.
Seven gods protect us—hope the walls at Twinbridge and Bloodline Pass are thick enough, and we've got enough food and supplies!
---
Tiberius's Diary (messy handwriting, lots of grammar fixes and crossed-out words)
(Same time as Vito)
Watchfort is finally gone.
Honestly, when the news came I didn't even bother lifting an eyelid. Wasn't that obvious? If a miracle like that could happen, the gods must've all been drunk on Myr's pale green fire-wine!
These past few days I've been chatting with Mohahta, listening to his stories—that's what's actually terrifying. The Volantene nobles at New Volantis Port and the Tax-Farmer's Isle have apparently gone completely insane—ladies pawning generational family jewels just to buy one more mercenary contract and forge one more steel blade!
What kind of do-or-die madness is that? They're not fighting a war—they're gambling everything: bloodlines, honor, the works!
Volantis—true overlord of Essos. Their spirit is on another level!
And us?
Hah! I personally heard some idiot officer from Lys proper still blathering on about "the Volantenes are at the end of their rope, their offensive must be exhausted, advantage is ours"…
I wanted to stamp my smelly boot right on his stupid face! Has he not woken up yet? Still dreaming that same sweet dream?
The enemy is sharpening knives, mortgaging everything to bury us. And our side is still yawning, lying to themselves that Volantis is about to collapse, and at Three-Tax Gate they'll witness the unity and courage of the Three Daughters…
Ptooey!
I know exactly what the Three Daughters' unity and courage look like: selling out allies and clinging to life!
Fuck fighting! Better surrender early and at least keep some dignity!
---
Jules's Diary
(Concise, no excess swearing.)
Watchfort has fallen.
Three-Tax Gate will fall soon.
This isn't prophecy or pessimistic muttering from broken veterans. I'm stating an inevitable outcome.
The Myr and Tyroshi relief force sent to lift the siege never returned. They weren't defeated—they were trapped. Like a fly in a spiderweb, completely immobilized by Volantis's web.
At first, the Three-Tax Gate garrison was locked inside by the first wave of Volantene besiegers—trenches, watchtowers, low walls in three layers. All frontline officers were cursing: "Who the fuck is besieging who here?!" The Volantenes had turned their assault into a perfect encirclement.
Then the Myr-Tyroshi relief arrived. It looked like Volantis would be caught in a classic center-bloom pincer—the inner garrison and outer force would crush them and break the siege…
(Handwriting becomes messy—writer's emotions clearly unstable.)
"Center-bloom"? "Inner-outer pincer"? Looking back, this is the cruelest joke of the entire war!
The so-called Lysene elite inside Three-Tax Gate had already been scared shitless. They didn't even dare stick their heads out! They just sat there watching, waiting—while the Tyroshi and Myr men launched one hopeless attack after another on the Volantene camps and works outside, smashing themselves bloody!
As a hired sword, speaking purely as a soldier: the Tyroshi and Myr fought well—stubborn, outstanding, fully worthy of their pay and the honor on their backs.
If the men inside Three-Tax Gate had been willing to sally out, the siege might actually have been broken. The first Volantene encirclement force would have withdrawn.
But it was already too late—because Marcus's main force came marching down the road from Watchfort at its leisure.
They didn't rush to wipe out the Myr-Tyroshi men—that would have let them scatter. (Pen pressure deepens—emotions clearly surging.)
They did something even more ruthless, more humiliating: after winning a local victory, the relief force was forced back into their original camps. Then Volantene cavalry pinned them inside. Those swaggering shock riders, those super-heavy cavalry that charge like mountains falling—kept the relief force from daring to move.
And then, while the relief sat frozen, the Volantene engineers and auxiliaries started digging outside the Myr-Tyroshi positions… another ring of trenches, watchtowers, and temporary camps.
Yes, you read that right.
While the relief didn't dare move, they built a new, stronger set of earthworks around the very army that had come to save Three-Tax Gate.
A whole professional engineering legion—only an empire with Volantis's deep pockets could afford something like that…
Now the battlefield is a goddamn set of concentric circles: innermost, the terrified Three-Tax Gate garrison; middle ring, the relief force that came to save them plus the original besiegers; outermost, the fresh, rested Volantene victors sharpening their blades at leisure.
Our men—along with the people they tried to save and the people who came to kill them—are all locked together in this hell only the sickest mind could invent!
Seven gods above… that's ten thousand men!