The Iron Wolves moved before dawn.

  More than half of the first-wall soldiers had been integrated into their ranks.

  No banners. No war horns. No grand declarations.

  Only silence.

  Achem rode at the head of the force, his cloak drawn tightly around him, his breath misting in the cold morning air. The valley they had turned into a battlefield was still littered with bodies, the smoldering remains of their last fight sending tendrils of black smoke into the sky. They had struck first, struck hard—but the Council had answered.

  Behind him, Garnac, Tavian, and Lysara rode in formation, their warriors moving like shadows among the trees. They were not an army marching to war; they were predators closing in on wounded prey.

  Ahead, the Council’s second force moved through the valley—three thousand men, an overwhelming number against Achem’s warriors. But the terrain was treacherous, the paths winding and unpredictable.

  They didn’t know they were being hunted.

  Tavian rode up beside Achem, his voice low. “They’re still marching in tight formation. If we hit them before they spread out, we have a chance.”

  Achem nodded. “We don’t let them set up camp. We hit them while they’re tired, while they think they’re safe.”

  Lysara smirked. “Ah, yes. The noble art of stabbing someone in the back.”

  Garnac chuckled. “It’s war, girl. Ain’t no such thing as noble.”

  Tavian stayed silent beside them. It all still felt unreal.

  Not long ago, he was just an office worker. His biggest concerns had been deadlines, reports, and office politics—navigating petty rivalries, securing promotions, enduring dull meetings.

  Now, he fought for his survival in a world that wasn’t his. A kingdom that wasn’t his.

  Deep within, he could feel Rogar’s soul writhing angrily.

  Achem turned back to his warriors. Their numbers were fewer, but their will was stronger. If this fight was to be their last, they would make sure the Council bled for every inch of ground.

  He drew his sword.

  “Tonight, we finish what we started.”

  The Council’s encampment sprawled across the valley floor, a sea of tents and banners fluttering under torchlight.

  Achem’s warriors moved like ghosts through the trees, weapons drawn, waiting for his command.

  The sky was dark, the two moons hidden behind thick storm clouds. It was as if the night itself had conspired to veil their movements.

  Achem raised his hand.

  A single signal.

  Then—chaos.

  At first, the only sound was a distant whistling—low, eerie, almost like a whisper through the trees.

  Then—fire.

  Flaming arrows rained down from the jagged cliffs like the wrath of vengeful gods. Each fiery streak carved through the twilight, a blazing omen of destruction before striking its mark.

  The first wave hit the supply wagons.

  The dry wood ignited instantly, birthing columns of searing flames that licked hungrily at the sky. Horses reared and shrieked, their wild eyes reflecting the inferno as the acrid stench of burning canvas and scorched grain filled the air.

  Then came the second volley—sharp, relentless.

  Arrows pierced throats, cutting down men before they could don their helms. A sergeant bellowed orders, but his voice was drowned in the cacophony of dying screams and crackling fire.

  And in the confusion, the Iron Wolves struck.

  Garnac led the first charge, his axe cleaving through the startled enemy ranks.

  Lysara raised her hands—blue fire erupted from her palms, consuming siege weapons in an instant.

  Achem moved like a shadow through the battlefield, his blade cutting down officers, his mind a perfect blend of Rogar’s instincts and his own tactical mind.

  The Council’s army reeled, caught between fire and steel.

  But they did not break.

  Through the swirling tempest of flame and smoke, the Council’s commander emerged.

  A titan clad in blackened plate, his armor scorched and kissed by embers. His greatsword gleamed in the firelight, marred by the scars of a hundred battles.

  His voice boomed across the battlefield.

  “You think this is victory?” His blade pointed at Achem. “Come face me, false king!”

  The battlefield stilled for a moment.

  Achem tightened his grip on his sword.

  Then—he stepped forward.

  The world narrowed to the two of them.

  Around them, the battle raged on, but Achem and the commander moved in a space all their own.

  The commander was fast for his size, his first strike carving a deep scar into the earth where Achem had stood a moment before. Achem sidestepped, countering with a precise slash aimed at the man’s exposed side, but the greatsword came up in time, deflecting the blow.

  Steel sang as the two warriors clashed.

  The commander fought with raw strength, each blow meant to break bones, to end the fight in a single swing.

  Achem fought with precision, dodging, countering, cutting when he could. But his strength was fading, his body still aching from past wounds.

  Then—a mistake.

  The commander feinted left, but his real strike came from above.

  Achem barely raised his sword in time, but the impact sent him sprawling onto the bloodied ground.

  The commander raised his greatsword for the final strike.

  Achem rolled, grabbing a fallen dagger from the mud.

  As the commander swung down, Achem surged forward—driving the dagger into the weak point beneath his breastplate.

  The commander staggered, eyes wide in shock.

  Then—he collapsed, his sword slipping from his grasp.

  Silence.

  Achem rose to his feet. The battle was still raging—but the army had seen.

  Their commander was dead.

  And fear crept into their ranks.

  The Council’s soldiers hesitated—and in that moment, the Iron Wolves struck harder.

  Garnac, wreathed in the crimson mantle of the slain, roared like some ancient war-god reborn, his blade carving great arcs of ruin through the stunned enemy ranks. Each swing sent men reeling, their cries lost beneath the thunder of battle. His breath came in ragged heaves, his eyes alight with the unrelenting fire of a warrior who knew nothing but forward—forward, through flesh and steel, through the dying and the dead, until none were left to stand against him.

  Above the carnage, Lysara stood like a storm given form, her outstretched hands crackling with arcane power. Fire and lightning wove through the night, illuminating the battlefield in flashes of violent brilliance. Where she turned her gaze, the earth itself heaved, swallowing men in torrents of molten fury. Winds howled at her command, whipping banners into tattered shrouds and tearing arrows from the sky. She was no mere sorceress—she was wrath, she was reckoning.

  And Achem—Achem fought with the fury of a man who had cast aside all hesitation, all doubt, and chosen, with unyielding certainty, to live. His blade flickered through the chaos like a shadow given purpose, his every movement swift, precise, devastating. Where others faltered, he surged forward. Where the enemy sought refuge, he found them. Death swirled around him, but he did not bow to it. He had wrested himself from its grasp once before, and he would not be taken again.

  The Council’s army fractured like glass beneath a hammer. Their formation collapsed, their discipline shattered. The once-imposing ranks of steel and banners dissolved into a tide of panic, men throwing down their weapons, fleeing into the night, their courage broken by the unstoppable force that had descended upon them.

  Victory was theirs.

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  But at a cost.

  Amid the endless sea of the fallen, where steel lay shattered and banners lay tattered in the dust, the dead stared skyward with empty eyes that would never see another sunrise. Broken shields lay discarded like the husks of a world ravaged by fire, their splintered edges slick with blood. Smoldering ruins choked the air with the acrid stench of burnt flesh and charred wood, a scent that clung to the survivors like a funeral shroud.

  The battlefield was silent now—no clash of swords, no cries of defiance, only the slow, weary breaths of those who remained. The wind whispered through the carnage, but it carried no songs of triumph, no exultant cheers. It spoke instead of sacrifice, of the terrible toll exacted by victory. The Iron Wolves had won, but theirs was no glorious conquest. They had paid the price war always demanded—their own.

  Bodies lay strewn across the valley like felled titans, warriors who had bled and broken to carve this victory from the jaws of death. The ground, once green with the life of the world, was now a mosaic of crimson and black, churned mud and spilt ichor forming the final testament to the battle’s fury.

  The Iron Wolves stood among the ruin, but they were fewer now. The ranks that had once marched unshaken into the storm had thinned, their strength spent, their voices hoarse from war cries turned to laments. Some searched the dead, calling names that would never answer. Others stood in silence, their weapons heavy in their hands, as though the weight of the fallen had settled upon them as well.

  They had won.

  But at what cost?

  No answer came, only the flickering embers of dying fires and the hush of a battlefield left in the wake of gods and monsters.

  Achem stood among the dead, his sword heavy in his grip.

  Lysara approached, wiping soot from her face. She didn’t smile this time.

  “It’s over,” she said.

  Achem looked toward the burning remains of the battlefield.

  “No,” he murmured. “It’s just beginning.”

  The victory was decisive. But it had been too easy.

  Achem knew the Council would not make the same mistake twice.

  As dawn broke over the battlefield, Tavian rode up, his face grim. “Intercepted messengers.” He held out a scroll. “They’re calling for reinforcements. All of them.”

  Achem took the scroll, scanning the message. His eyes were full of questions.

  Another reinforcement?

  How many reinforcements do they have?

  Lysara frowned. “How many?”

  Tavian exhaled. “They’re sending everything. Ten thousand men.”

  Achem’s jaw clenched.

  They had won the battle, but now—the real war was coming to them.

  Achem's heart sank.

  He didn’t let it show in his face.

  He turned to his commanders. “We can’t hold Qoarla against that many.”

  Garnac grunted. “Then what’s the plan?”

  Achem looked toward the distant mountains. There was only one choice.

  “We don’t fight them here.” He turned back to his warriors. “We take the fight to the capital.”

  Silence.

  Then—Lysara chuckled. “You’re insane.” The ever insane sorcerer can find humour even in the worst situation.

  Achem smirked. “Probably.”

  Garnac grinned. “I like it.” The commander of the Iron Wolves has long surrendered himself to Eldoria. And the purpose of his life until now was to help the rightful king got his throne again.

  Tavian sighed. “Then we’d better move fast.”

  These muscles for brain. He thought. Shooking his head.

  The decision was made.

  They couldn’t hold Qoarla against a siege.

  But **if they struck first—if they reached the capital before the Council’s reinforcements returned—**they had a chance.

  It was madness.

  But madness had won them battles before.

  Achem looked at his army, at the warriors who had followed him this far.

  “Rest while you can,” he said.

  “We march at dawn.”

  The fires in Qoarla were still smoldering when Achem gave the order.

  “We’re leaving.”

  His voice carried through the war-torn streets, reaching the weary warriors tending to their wounds, the former first-wall soldiers who had fought by their side, and the few civilians still peering out from their homes in silent fear.

  Qoarla had been their foothold. Their first victory.

  And now, they had to abandon it.

  Garnac found the logic of the strategy, but he didn’t like it. “Leaving like this leave a bitter taste.”

  Achem turned to face him. “We don’t have a choice.”

  The old warrior’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. They had all seen the numbers. Ten thousand men.

  Lysara, standing nearby, sighed dramatically. “You know, normally I’d be against running, but I do like being alive.” She shot a pointed glance at Garnac. “And I’d rather not get buried under a pile of bodies.”

  Garnac grumbled under his breath but finally nodded. “We need to do it fast.”

  Achem turned back to his commanders. “We move before dawn. The mountains are our best chance.”

  Tavian, standing at his side, ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “Getting into the mountains is easy. Staying alive in them is another thing entirely.”

  “We won’t be staying,” Achem replied. “We’ll use them to disappear.”

  He glanced at the warriors around him—some battered, others grim, but all still standing. They had survived impossible odds before. Now, they needed to do it again.

  Lysara stretched her arms over her head. “Well, then. Let’s disappear.”

  They left Qoarla under the cover of darkness.

  The Iron Wolves and the remnants of the First-Wall soldiers moved like wraiths through the twilight-cloaked wilderness, their steps careful, deliberate, as they ascended into the embrace of the mountains. They kept to the shadows of the towering pines, their cloaks blending with the darkness, their passage marked only by the rustling of wind through the branches. Above them, the peaks loomed like ancient sentinels, their jagged crowns dusted with mist, their sheer cliffs carved by time and the fury of the elements.

  The path was merciless, a cruel thing of loose stone and treacherous drops, where a single misstep could send a man tumbling into the abyss below. Roots twisted like the grasping fingers of the dead, clawing at boots and threatening to drag weary souls into the void. The air grew thin, sharpened by the bite of the highlands, each breath tinged with the scent of damp earth and pine resin. But these lands, perilous as they were, were not a burden. They were a sanctuary.

  Achem knew this well. An army could not march where the wild ruled. The narrow trails, the shifting rock, the tangled underbrush—all would slow a great force to a crawl, turn an organized advance into a desperate struggle. But a small band, hardened by war, honed by necessity, could weave through these peaks unseen, ghosts vanishing into the ether.

  And so they climbed, their figures swallowed by the deepening gloom, their eyes ever watchful. Below them, the valley smoldered—a ruined city, half-burned and abandoned, left to the crows and the whispers of the dead. By the time the Council’s reinforcements arrived, they would find nothing but ashes and silence, the enemy they sought having melted into the mountains like mist at dawn.

  It was not retreat.

  It was the prelude to something greater.

  Garnac marched beside Achem, his axe strapped across his back. “You ever fought in the mountains before?”

  Achem didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  I worked at the office before. He said in his thoughts.

  Garnac chuckled. “Then let’s hope Rogar did.”

  Tavian moved ahead of the group, scanning the path before turning back. “We’ll need supplies if we’re going to make it to the capital. Food, fresh water, maybe even some fresh horses.”

  Achem nodded. “Take a small group, gather what you can. We’ll regroup at the base of the southern range.”

  Tavian grinned. “Scouting and stealing? Just like old times.” He motioned to a few soldiers near them, peeling off from the main force as they vanished into the trees.

  Lysara glanced at Achem. “And what happens if they don’t come back?”

  Achem didn’t answer. He already knew. If Tavian didn’t return, they’d have to press on without him.

  They couldn’t afford to wait.

  The escape wasn’t as clean as Achem had hoped.

  Two days into the mountains, the first signs of pursuit appeared.

  Tavian’s scouts had seen them first—dark figures threading through the undergrowth like hunting wolves, their cloaks rippling with the shifting shadows of the dying sun. The Council’s outriders moved with ruthless precision, their mounts swift and surefooted even on the treacherous terrain, hooves muffled by damp earth and fallen leaves. They were not a scattered patrol nor a blind force groping through the wilderness. They were hunters.

  The scent of pursuit clung to the air, thick with the musk of weary horses and the faint metallic tang of armor hidden beneath traveling leathers. Their movements were swift, practiced. They followed the trail with a predator’s patience, reading broken twigs and disturbed earth as if the land itself whispered secrets to them. These were no mere soldiers; they were bloodhounds of the Council, trained to track, to follow, to never stop until their quarry lay bleeding at their feet.

  Achem stood at the ridgeline, the wind pulling at his cloak, his gaze fixed upon the shifting darkness below. The trees swayed, their branches sighing with the weight of unseen watchers, but he did not need to see them to know they were there. The pursuit had begun.

  And if they did not act soon, the mountains would not be their sanctuary.

  They would be their grave.

  Achem cursed under his breath. They weren’t losing their trail fast enough.

  Garnac cracked his knuckles. “Let’s deal with them.”

  Achem shook his head. “No. We keep moving. We’re not stopping to fight unless we have to.”

  Lysara raised an eyebrow. “And when they finally catch up?”

  Achem met her gaze. “Then we fight on our terms.”

  She smirked. “That’s the most king-like thing you’ve said all day.”

  The pursuit drove them onward like prey chased by relentless hounds, each footfall a drumbeat in the unending cadence of survival. Sleep became a distant memory, a luxury none could afford. From the first break of dawn to the black shroud of nightfall, they marched, pushing their bodies beyond exhaustion, beyond pain, into the raw edge of endurance where only the will to live remained.

  The mountain range swallowed them whole, its jagged peaks rising like the ribs of some ancient beast, the valleys between them deep and shadowed. The air grew thin, sharp as a blade in their lungs, stealing breath with every laborious step. The warmth of the lowlands was a forgotten thing; now, only the biting kiss of the highland winds remained, whispering through the crags like ghosts. Frost clung to the rocks where the sun never touched, and each morning, their cloaks were rimed with ice.

  Yet still they pressed on, the Council’s shadow stretching long behind them. They did not need to see their pursuers to know they were there. Somewhere beyond the ridges and dark forests, the hunters followed, tireless, waiting for the moment exhaustion would bring them to their knees.

  Achem gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. They would not break. Not here. Not yet.

  For ahead, somewhere in the heart of these mountains, lay their only hope.

  By the third day, the pursuers had vanished.

  Or so it seemed.

  Achem wasn’t convinced. “They wouldn’t have just given up.”

  Tavian, having rejoined them after securing provisions, nodded. “They’re not gone. They’re waiting.”

  Achem exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Then we don’t give them the chance to strike first.”

  Garnac grinned. “That’s more like it.”

  After four days of relentless travel, they finally reached the southern edge of the mountains.

  Before them, the land stretched toward the capital.

  And beyond that—the final battlefield.

  Achem stood at the cliff’s edge, looking down at the King’s Road, the main trade route leading directly into Eldoria’s heart.

  The Council’s armies would never expect them to head straight for the capital.

  Garnac folded his arms. “We’re really doing this.”

  Lysara whistled low. “You know, most sane people would be running in the other direction.”

  Tavian smirked. “Good thing none of us are sane.”

  Achem turned back to his warriors. They had survived everything the Council had thrown at them.

  Now, they were going to end this war.

  He drew his sword.

  “No more running.”

  The Iron Wolves would bring the fight to the capital.

  And the Council of Lords would fall.

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