At the outset of the war, the realm fractured swiftly along lines drawn not only by loyalty but by faith, ambition, and fear. The Kingdom split into two camps: Lunden, the Heartland, Zoutweide, Forskeld, and Gransmark aligned themselves with the Bucketheads, while the Crown’s banner was raised in Oberheim, Nederheim, Graften, Bornwald, Grauhoft, Høvekk, and Freahburh, under the command of the Lord Chancellor, acting in the name of the young King.
The first clash came not in a grand battle, but in a calculated gamble. Nederheim, ever opportunistic and bold, seized the initiative. Known for its maritime wealth, seasoned sailors, and commercial drive, the coastal duchy wasted no time declaring its loyalty to the Crown. Without waiting for orders, its commanders crossed the Zornstroom River, striking into Zoutweide, a lowland region of grain and grazing, long unprepared for war.
Zoutweide’s levies, drawn hastily from farmsteads and hamlets, stood no chance. Against the tide of Nederheim’s hardened coastal infantry and a navy that dominated the river, the region folded. Zoutweide's defences crumbled in days, and within weeks, its towns flew the Crown's standard, bitterly and under duress. The fall of Zoutweide marked not just a tactical victory, but a political humiliation for the Bucketheads, as one of its own provinces was overrun without aid or warning. Its economy, once buoyed by river trade, was strangled by occupation, and its people left to wonder who would protect them now.
Simultaneously, Duke Gerwald von Lundbach of Oberheim, a veteran of border skirmishes and court intrigues, marched north into Gransmark. That eclectic region, famed for its scholars, had pledged fealty to the just cause of the Bucketheads, but its military might was limited. Gerwald’s target was Höiborg, an ancient hillfort and cultural symbol nestled among the firs. The siege was short, but brutal. Gransmark’s defenders, a patchwork of hunters, scholars, and city-guards, fought valiantly but lacked the discipline of Oberheim’s seasoned troops. When Höiborg finally fell, Gerwald made a grim example of it, razing the stronghold, scattering its archives to the wind, and silencing a bastion of resistance.
The Crown’s early victories rattled the rebellion. But they would not stand idle.
In the south, Konrad of Lunden, a stern and ambitious commander with ties to both Anselm and the Heartland nobility, mobilized a swift counteroffensive. His forces, bolstered by mercenaries from foreign lands and open rebels to king Heinrich’s absolutism, turned their eyes to Freahburh, a fiercely loyal Lapdog region nestled near the eastern reaches. In a brutal campaign, the town fell. What followed became legend: the Sack of Buchtweiler, a town in Freahburh, where mercenaries committed atrocities that became subject of horrifying legends. Crops were put to the torch, villagers were slain or taken, and the chapel desecrated.
Though the Bucketheads claimed victory, the cost was high. The horror of Buchtweiler cast a long shadow. Some hailed Konrad as a holy avenger. Others whispered he had become something far worse.
And so, with blood staining riverbanks and smoke rising from ruined towers, the war began in earnest, a war not only of blades and banners, but of ideals, vengeance, and survival.
Flushed with momentum after the brutal Sack of Buchtweiler and the fall of Freahburh, Konrad of Lunden turned his gaze northward. His target was Grauhoft, a rugged and fiercely proud region nestled close to the rocky hinterlands, ruled by the ancient House Rhalen. The war had not yet touched its stone walls, but Konrad intended to change that.
Kristheim keep, the hill-castle overlooking the town, was a fortress of old stone and stubborn men. Built atop steep, forest-wrapped cliffs, it had withstood sieges before. Its larders were full, its wells deep, and its garrison willing to die behind its battlements. Konrad knew a direct assault would cost him too dearly.
Instead, he broke the town.
His soldiers stormed the hamlet below the castle like wolves. Homes were pulled down and set aflame. The millstones were shattered, their grain stores burned. Livestock were slaughtered in the streets or driven off. Those who resisted were cut down without mercy; others were dragged away in chains or disappeared into the haunted woods. The castle above remained untouched, but alone, surrounded by the smouldering ruins of its lifeblood.
Konrad believed this was victory. But Kristheim did not fall.
Its black-and-gold banners still flew from its towers, torn but defiant. And below it, the ruined hamlet rots. The stones are blackened with soot, wells filled with ash and silence, and the charred timbers of once-cheerful homes now form twisted skeletons against the sky. Some say that when the wind howls, it carries the voices of the dead, mothers, children, smiths and shepherds, crying for vengeance. Though Grauhoft is claimed by Bucketheads, no side truly rules it. The region simmers, ready to boil, until one faction is buried or broken.
With Grauhoft crippled, Konrad pressed east to Høvekk, the cold coastal realm known for its seafaring traditions and stoic, salt-bitten people. His target: the Seaturm, a stone castle overlooking the bay. The siege was swift but punishing. Unable to match the Bucketheads’ numbers, the defenders resisted as best they could, but in time, they yielded.
Villages were put to the torch, and Høvekk’s proud fleet was left splintered at anchor. The once-thriving harbor now limps under occupation. The people rebuild with what little timber and coin remain, every plank laid with quiet resentment. Fishers speak of rebuilding the fleet, not for trade, but revenge.
But the Bucketheads’ momentum had lit a fire under the Crown.
In a bold counterstroke, the Lord Chancellor led his forces toward the very heart of the realm, toward the capital. To do that, they needed to cross the breadbasket of Hartgoorn, a fertile region, loyal to the fight against the king and one of the bishop’s regency most vocal supporters.