His mind replayed their duel over and over—the speed of her strikes, the effortless grace of her movements, the eerie calm in her silver eyes as she nearly slit his throat.
And then she walked away.
Achem clenched his fists.
Why?
She had him. He should be dead. He knew killers—Rogar had faced dozens, and none of them hesitated when the moment came. Death was their only language.
But The Elejae had hesitated.
Achem tasted the bitterness of it—the shame of being spared, of standing alive not by his own strength, but by the whim of a woman who had decided he wasn’t worth killing.
He exhaled sharply, looking at his reflection in a small bronze mirror.
Rogar’s face stared back at him.
Or was it his own?
The line between who he was and who he had become blurred more with each passing day.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
Lysara leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
"You’re brooding again."
Achem sighed, rubbing his temple. "Thinking."
She stepped inside, her boots barely making a sound on the worn stone floor. "That’s what I said."
He let out a tired chuckle but didn’t respond.
Lysara studied him for a moment before speaking again. "You should be dead."
"I know."
"So why aren’t you?"
Achem looked at her. "That’s the question, isn’t it?"
Lysara shrugged. "I doubt it’s mercy. Assassins don’t have that."
Achem exhaled. "Then what?"
"A game, maybe. Or a test. Maybe she wanted to see if you were worth killing at all."** She tilted her head. "Or maybe she’s waiting for something."**
Achem frowned. Waiting for what?
Lysara smirked. "That’s for you to figure out, Your Majesty."
The Council of Lords would know by now.
The assassin had failed.
And that meant they would send something worse.
Achem stood at the highest tower of Qoarla, looking out toward the distant horizon. His city.
For now.
Tavian approached from behind, his cloak barely moving in the night wind. "We have a problem."
Achem glanced at him. "Just one?"
Tavian smirked. "The first of many. The Council’s forces are on the move."
Achem’s expression darkened. "Where?"
Tavian unfolded a rough map of Eldoria and pointed at a crossroads leading toward Qoarla. "A war party, maybe two hundred men, lightly armored, fast-moving."
Achem frowned. "Scouts?"
Tavian shook his head. "Too large. But too small for a siege. My guess? A vanguard."
Achem understood immediately.
The Council wasn’t committing a full army yet.
They were testing him.
Seeing if he was worth crushing—or if Qoarla would collapse on its own.
Lysara joined them, glancing at the map. "Two hundred men? We can take them."
Achem nodded. "We can. But it’s not the battle that worries me."
He glanced at the soldiers who had once defended the first wall—the men who had surrendered. They now stood among the Iron Wolves, sharpening their weapons, preparing for battle. But would they fight with the same fire? Would they stand when the bloodshed began, or would they waver, still bound by the fear of the Council?
Garnac walked up, arms crossed. "Then what does?"
Achem’s jaw tightened. "The message it sends. If we crush this force too easily, the Council will see us as a real threat and send something larger. If we struggle too much, they’ll think we’re weak and move in full force."
Tavian grinned. "Sounds like you have a plan."
Achem studied the map carefully.
He had one chance to do this right.
The Council’s war party moved swiftly through the narrow mountain passes, unaware that death watched them from above.
Achem stood with his warriors on the cliffs overlooking the pass. The Iron Wolves lay hidden among the rocks, their bows drawn, swords ready.
Garnac stood beside him, gripping the handle of his great axe. "They have no idea we’re here."
Achem nodded. "We wait for my signal."
Below, the enemy soldiers moved cautiously but with arrogance—they didn’t expect resistance.
They thought this was still a city in turmoil.
Achem let them get deeper into the pass.
Then—he raised his hand.
A flaming arrow shot into the sky.
The ambush began.
Arrows rained down from above.
Screams echoed through the valley.
Achem and his warriors descended like wolves upon wounded prey.
The battle was over in minutes.
Only a handful of Council soldiers escaped, limping back to their masters with stories of what had happened.
Achem sheathed his sword, wiping the blood from his face. His earlier worries about the first-wall soldiers had been misplaced. They had fought as one, their blades striking with the same ferocity as the Iron Wolves. Perhaps their hatred for the Council ran deeper than he had realized.
Lysara approached, smirking. "That was satisfying."
Achem nodded. But his thoughts were elsewhere.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
The Council had tested him.
Now, he had given them an answer.
And they would respond.
The night after the battle, Achem found himself awake, his thoughts racing.
The Elejae was still out there.
She had walked away once.
Would she do it again?
A movement in the shadows made him tense.
Then, a familiar voice—soft, smooth, dangerous.
"Not bad, King."
Achem turned.
The Elejae stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in darkness.
Unarmed. Or at least, appearing so.
He stared at her. "You should be dead."
She smiled. "So should you."
Silence stretched between them.
Achem finally spoke. "Why did you let me live?"
She stepped closer, her silver eyes glimmering in the dim light.
Her lips curled into a slow, unreadable smile. "Because you intrigue me."
His grip on his sword tightened. "I’m not your game."
She smirked. "No. But you might be something else."
Achem narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"
She tilted her head. "A question better asked of yourself, I think."
Then—as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.
Leaving Achem with more questions than answers.
And the unsettling realization that The Elejae wasn’t done with him yet.
Qoarla would not remain safe for long.
The Council now knew he could fight.
And they would come in full force soon.
Achem stood before his gathered warriors.
His voice was steady.
"This was just the beginning."
He looked at them—his people, his army.
He had survived The Elejae.
He had won his first battle against the Council.
But war was coming.
And he intended to win it.
The Iron Wolves had crushed the vanguard, but Achem knew it wouldn’t be enough. The Council would not be humiliated without response.
Tavian entered the war room, his face grim. He tossed a bloodstained letter onto the wooden table. "Intercepted messenger. You’ll want to read this."
Achem unfolded the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the message.
A full army was marching for Qoarla.
Three thousand men.
Heavy cavalry. Siege weapons. Battle-mages.
Achem exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the parchment.
Lysara, reading over his shoulder, muttered, "That’s... a bit more than last time."
Garnac grunted. "They’re done testing us."
Tavian crossed his arms. "This is a purge."
Silence.
Achem placed the letter down carefully, his mind already moving ahead, calculating. His 21st century trained logic combined with Rogar’s experience as the warrior king.
He had expected retaliation—but not this quickly.
They were moving fast. Too fast.
Achem turned to Tavian. "How long before they reach us?"
Tavian shrugged. "A week, at best. Maybe less if they push hard."
Lysara raised an eyebrow. "Then I assume you have a plan, Your Majesty?"
Achem looked at the map of Eldoria, eyes scanning rivers, mountain passes, weak points in terrain.
If the Council wanted a war, he would give them one.
On his terms.
Achem stood before his commanders in the war hall. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with anticipation.
He placed a dagger onto the map, its tip landing just before Qoarla.
"The Council believes we will defend the city. That we will lock the gates and wait for them to bring their siege weapons. That’s what any sane leader would do."
Garnac grunted. "And you’re not sane?"
Achem smirked. "Not in the way they expect."
Tavian leaned forward. "Then what’s the play?"
Achem’s expression turned sharp. "We don’t wait for them. We go to them."
Lysara blinked. "That’s suicide."
Achem shook his head. "Not if we control where the battle happens."
He pointed to Qoarlaplaeu Valley, a narrow mountain pass just before Qoarla.
"We lead them into the valley, force them into the bottleneck. Their numbers will work against them, and their cavalry will be useless in the rocky terrain. We break them here—before they ever reach our walls."
Silence.
Then Garnac let out a low chuckle. "A trap. That’s bold."
Lysara crossed her arms. "It’s reckless."
Achem met her gaze. "It’s necessary."
Tavian exhaled. "Well then." He smirked. "Let’s see if we can teach these bastards a lesson."
The plan was set.
Achem and the Iron Wolves left Qoarla at dawn, moving swiftly through the wilderness.
They would not cower behind walls like frightened nobles.
They would hunt.
The Council’s army was larger, stronger—but it was slow.
And in the forests and valleys, size was a weakness.
Achem’s warriors took to the high ground, positioning themselves along the ridge of the valley pass. Archers hid in the trees, spellcasters readied their wards, and warriors lay in wait with blades drawn.
Then, at dusk—the Council’s army arrived.
A great mass of soldiers, banners, and steel, marching in perfect order.
They came with confidence, with the certainty of victory.
Achem watched from above, hidden in the trees.
He lifted his hand.
Wait.
Wait.
The enemy moved deeper into the valley choke point.
Now.
Achem dropped his hand.
The first wave of firebombs plummeted from the cliffs, striking the heart of the enemy ranks. Explosions shattered the night, sending waves of heat and smoke rolling through the valley.
Flames erupted, licking at the sky as horses reared, their screams piercing the chaos. Soldiers staggered, blinded by fire and confusion.
Then came the arrows—silent, swift, cutting through the smoke like whispers of death.
Achem gripped his sword. "NOW!"
The Iron Wolves roared as they descended like beasts from the cliffs, blades flashing in the firelight.
The ambush had begun.
The valley became a slaughterhouse.
The Council’s forces panicked, their formations breaking under the relentless assault.
Garnac swung his axe in great, bone-crushing arcs, cleaving through knights and foot soldiers alike.
Lysara stood atop a rock, casting storms of blue fire, her magic tearing through enemy mages trying to counter.
Achem moved like a shadow through the chaos, his blade swift and merciless, cutting through generals, captains, officers—anyone who could keep their forces together.
They had to break the enemy’s morale.
He saw the fear in their eyes.
They had expected a siege.
Instead, they had walked into a massacre.
Hours passed, but the battle was nearly won.
The Council’s forces were retreating, their once mighty army reduced to scattered remnants.
Achem stood on the battlefield, his breath heavy, his blade dripping with blood.
They had done it.
But then—a horn sounded in the distance.
Achem’s heart froze.
Lysara’s face darkened. "Reinforcements."
Then—a second war horn sounded.
Distant. Deep.
A new army appeared at the valley’s edge, banners raised, shields gleaming beneath the torchlight. Twice the size of the first. And this time, they were ready.
Garnac wiped blood from his axe. "Well. That’s unfortunate."
Achem clenched his jaw.
They had won the battle.
But the war was far from over.
That night, Achem gathered his commanders.
Their forces were exhausted.
And the Council’s second army would reach them by morning.
They couldn’t win a second fight—not like this.
They had two choices.
- Retreat back to Qoarla, prepare for a siege.
- Take the fight to the second army—before it reached full strength.
Garnac grinned. "I like the second option."
Lysara scowled. "Of course you do."
Tavian leaned forward. "You’re gambling everything on one strike."
Achem looked at the map.
No. Not a gamble.
A calculated risk.
"We don’t give them time to recover. We move now."
Silence.
Then, one by one—the Iron Wolves nodded.
The war was just beginning.
And Achem was not finished.
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