Gabriel walked the perimeter of the camp, his breath curling into the frigid winter air. His eyes swept over the frozen lake they had been stationed near for half a moon cycle. In different weather, this place might have been serene, even beautiful. Now, the tall trees were coated in a fine layer of ice, their branches drooping under the weight of frozen icicles that hung like steel daggers, all surrounding the vast, frozen lake. No one had dared to venture onto the ice, its stability uncertain, and Gabriel had given strict orders to avoid testing it.

  Beside him, Lakan and Ryn walked in silence, with Soltis trailing just behind, their footsteps barely audible against the blanket of snow. The encampment was small—no more than a hundred soldiers—and the oppressive cold made everything feel heavier, more dangerous.

  “Do you need your cloak?” Lakan asked, eyeing Gabriel.

  It wasn’t until then that Gabriel realized he was only wearing his thick tunic. The cold hadn’t registered with him, but he noticed now how exposed he was to the elements. He tried to keep his expression composed, but a sheepish grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “You forgot it, didn’t you?” Ryn asked, grinning knowingly.

  Gabriel opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped short as they reached the timber stakes that formed part of their camp’s perimeter defenses. Each post had been driven into the frozen earth, sharpened at the top to ward off attackers. Gabriel pressed a hand against one of the stakes, expecting it to hold firm, but it shifted slightly under his weight. His brow furrowed in concern.

  He moved three yards to the next picket and kicked it hard this time. The stake wobbled, then fell over into the soft snow with a dull thud. These defenses wouldn’t hold in an attack. A wave of frustration washed over him—this could be disastrous.

  “Damn it to Ash,” he muttered, staring at the fallen picket. "Who was in charge of setting the perimeter?" Gabriel asked sharply.

  Ryn hesitated, casting a glance at Lakan before replying, "It was Dorand—one of the older soldiers."

  Gabriel kicked the picket again, watching it wobble with barely any resistance. "Tell Dorand he’s working overtime to fix this. And if I kick these again and they fall, I’ll be kicking him next."

  “Yes, Orion,” Ryn said, still standing there, looking uncertain.

  “Tell him now,” Gabriel snapped, the edge in his voice sharper than intended.

  Ryn nodded quickly and hurried off without another word. As his footsteps faded into the snow, Lakan turned to Gabriel, fixing him with a long, steady gaze.

  “What?” Gabriel growled, his frustration simmering.

  “We’re not here to be yelled at. You’re not yourself,” Lakan said, his voice calm but firm.

  Gabriel tensed, ready to bite back with a harsh retort, but something in Lakan’s words struck deeper than expected. He wasn’t acting like himself, and he knew it. Last night’s use of magic, even in practice, had awakened that familiar darkness inside him—the anger, the raw power. It was always there, lurking, waiting to take control, and now he had let it spill out, turning his frustration on his friends.

  He exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his body. "I’m sorry," Gabriel muttered, his voice quieter now, deflated. He let out a long breath, the apology hanging between them.

  Lakan’s hand rested firmly on Gabriel's shoulder, grounding him. "You’re carrying a lot, but we’ll help you shoulder the load."

  Gabriel offered a tired smile. "Thank you, brother. That means more than you know." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. "But I’m worried. Someone from Jonan and Jara’s company should have reported back by now."

  “There’s still time,” Lakan replied, his voice soft but confident, trying to ease the tension. "Things will be fine."

  Gabriel’s jaw tightened, the lines of stress etched into his face. "It’s my job to assume things won’t be fine—and to plan for that."

  Lakan met his eyes, concern softening his features. "If you keep going like this, you’ll burn out. You’re running on fumes. Two hours of sleep? Maybe three? You can’t keep that up."

  Gabriel let out a long, weary sigh. "I know it’s not enough, but there’s too much at stake. Too much to plan for."

  "Get some rest," Lakan urged again, his tone insistent but kind. "By the time you wake, the scouts will have returned, and we’ll know more. You need to be ready for whatever comes next."

  Gabriel hesitated, the weight of responsibility battling against his exhaustion. Finally, he nodded. Lakan was right—he couldn’t lead if he was running on empty.

  As Lakan disappeared into the camp, Gabriel stood in the biting cold, alone with Soltis. The silence between them hung heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts and simmering tension. Gabriel glanced at Soltis, whose stoic, unreadable expression never wavered. For all his distant demeanor, Soltis was always there, watching with quiet intensity. He felt more like a judge than an ally, and that gnawed at Gabriel.

  He met Soltis' eyes, seeking something—approval, understanding, or maybe just the truth. But Soltis’ gaze remained impassive, as though his only role was to observe and report on Gabriel’s performance, to silently assess every mistake. Gabriel relied heavily on his friends and the experienced soldiers around him, but a deep sense of inadequacy gnawed at him. This command felt too soon, too heavy. He felt like an imposter in the uniform of a leader, the weight of his title pressing down on him. He couldn’t even remember to wear his cloak when he left the tent.

  The silence became unbearable.

  “Soltis,” Gabriel began, his voice hesitant, “I know you’re not a supporter of me, and I understand why. But how am I doing?”

  Soltis blinked, his eyes widening ever so slightly, clearly surprised by the directness of the question.

  “I forget you’re still a child sometimes,” Soltis said bluntly.

  Gabriel’s fists clenched, ready to respond with anger, but Soltis raised a hand, stopping him mid-thought.

  “I don’t mean it as an insult,” Soltis continued, his tone softening. “You usually carry yourself with so much confidence. It’s easy to forget you’re young.”

  Gabriel still felt a sting from the words, even if they weren’t meant to wound.

  Soltis looked at him, his expression unchanged. “I would have handled things differently, sure. But the students look up to you. The soldiers respect you. And your decisions—whether I agree with them or not—have been effective. You’ve done well.”

  “I don’t feel like I’m doing enough,” Gabriel admitted, the weight of those words heavier than he’d intended.

  For the first time since they’d known each other, Soltis smiled. A rare, fleeting expression that softened the hardness in his face. “That’s the way of command. It’s never enough. But you’ll learn.”

  Gabriel extended his hand toward Soltis, unsure if the man would accept the gesture. Soltis stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, then clasped it firmly. In that simple, unspoken act, the tension between them seemed to ease, dissolving the resentment they had carried for so long.

  And for the first time, Gabriel felt like they were on the same side.

  Gabriel walked back toward the camp, his back straighter, his steps more sure-footed after the conversation with Soltis. As he approached the heart of the camp, his eyes caught sight of a few soldiers lounging by a campfire, chatting idly. The moment they spotted him, their demeanor shifted. A few scrambled to pick up tools or weapons, pretending to be deep in some task. Others straightened up, trying to look purposeful, moving supplies or adjusting gear with exaggerated focus.

  Gabriel allowed himself a small, knowing smile. They had quickly learned his tendencies. If they weren’t visibly busy, he would find something for them to do. It amused him how quickly they’d adapted, but there was something else in that realization—something darker. He never imagined he’d have such a natural knack for being a taskmaster. The feeling of authority, the subtle power that came with watching others fall in line, felt both intoxicating and unsettling.

  After years of being ignored, belittled, and cast aside as insignificant, it was heady to have people listen when he spoke, to see them move at his command. His words carried weight now. That power, the ability to control not just his fate but the actions of those around him, was a double-edged sword. It made him feel strong in a way he hadn’t known before. But that strength, that control, could easily become something else—something dangerous. If he wasn’t careful, it would consume him, twist him into something he feared.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, Gabriel entered his tent, the warm air hitting him as he stepped inside. The tension in his body began to ebb away as soon as he crossed the threshold. He felt the weight of the past days pulling him down, exhaustion settling into his bones. His bedroll seemed to call to him, and without hesitation, he collapsed onto it, sinking into the worn fabric.

  For a brief moment, he allowed himself to relax, his eyes fluttering closed as the comforting darkness of sleep began to take him. His body screamed for rest, and he could feel himself slipping away, drifting toward the oblivion of sleep. But just as the heaviness of exhaustion began to settle over him completely, the soft rustling of the tent flap jolted him back to awareness.

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  His muscles tensed instinctively, years of training kicking in as he quickly sat up, eyes sharp and alert. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with his body’s reaction, and the haze of near-sleep clung to his thoughts. Blinking, he glanced toward the entrance of the tent, where a figure stood silhouetted against the faint light outside.

  "Sir, you’re needed immediately," a soldier said, his voice tight with urgency.

  Nothing good ever came with an urgent summons. "What is it?" Gabriel asked, his voice rough and strained, still thick with the remnants of sleep.

  “The scouts have returned.”

  Gabriel’s pulse quickened. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  As he reached the center of the encampment, the scene before him only deepened his unease. Jonan was there, bent over and gasping for breath, his face pale and streaked with sweat despite the biting cold. His eyes—wild and filled with fear—darted around, barely able to meet Gabriel’s gaze. Gabriel’s blood ran cold. Jonan was never like this.

  “Jonan?” Gabriel’s voice was sharp, demanding. His heart thudded heavily in his chest as the tension thickened in the surrounding air.

  Jonan raised his head, but words seemed to escape him as he struggled to catch his breath. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His trembling hands clutched his knees, his chest heaving as if he’d been running for hours. It was fear, raw and unshakable, that clung to Jonan now—fear that Gabriel had never seen in his comrade before.

  “What happened?” Gabriel barked, the urgency in his own voice rising to match the thickening tension. He stepped closer, his fists clenching involuntarily.

  “It’s the Paresh...” Jonan finally rasped, each word seeming to tear its way from his throat.

  Gabriel felt as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet. His heart dropped into his stomach. The Paresh. The name alone sent a chill colder than any winter night coursing through his veins. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, his mind racing through a thousand possibilities. No... not again.

  His voice became steadier, calmer, though every part of him screamed with alarm. "How many?" Gabriel asked.

  Jonan shook his head, still gulping for air. “A thousand,” he breathed. “They’re two days march from the Eastern flank. They’ll be on us soon.”

  Gabriel’s vision narrowed, his world shrinking to the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. He could feel the weight of every life in the camp pressing down on his shoulders.

  “So many…” Ryn muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Gabriel placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder, squeezing it in silent reassurance. "They may be many, but so are we," he said, his voice steady, though inside he could feel the same fear gnawing at him. But he couldn’t afford to show it—not now.

  Lakan, always the realist, spoke up. “There is only thirty of us on the eastern flank,” he said, his voice low and grim. “We can’t do much.”

  “With us reinforcing their position, we can slow them down,” Gabriel replied, a new resolve hardening his voice. He could feel the pressure mounting, but he wouldn’t let it break him. Not here, not now. "Where did you spot them?"

  Jonan stepped forward, still catching his breath, and pulled out a crumpled map. Gabriel spread it over a cut log, the edges curling from the cold. Jonan pointed to a section marked with jagged lines—rocky formations on the eastern side. “They’re traveling on foot, but they’ve got animals with them — Massive beasts, larger than any wolf, with fur as black as shadow and glowing eyes that burned like embers. And their teeth... sharper than anything I’ve ever seen.”

  Gabriel frowned. These weren’t ordinary beasts. He looked around at the others, scanning their faces for recognition, for understanding. “Does anyone know these creatures?”

  Gabriel's gaze finally settled on Soltis, who had been silent through the entire briefing. Soltis’ jaw tightened, he shook his head, and Gabriel could see the tension in his frame. It confirmed what Gabriel already knew—there were no easy answers. The weight of that silence bore down on the group.

  “Damn it,” Lakan cursed, slamming his fist against the log, frustration evident in the sharp crack of his knuckles against the wood.

  Gabriel’s mind raced. The army couldn’t reach the western flank in time, but they could. He turned to Lakan and Ryn, his voice steady despite the turmoil building within him. “Who are our fastest riders?”

  “Tor and Ferax,” Ryn replied immediately, tension thick in his voice.

  “Get them here. Now.”

  Ryn darted off, sprinting through the snow to fetch the riders. Gabriel stepped away from the group, walking to the edge of the camp, his breath coming in heavy clouds against the biting winter air. His heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of anxiety and urgency. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breath. In, out. In, out. He placed two fingers on his wrist, feeling the pulse, counting each beat, grounding himself. The Paresh are coming, and they would show no mercy.

  His thoughts flashed to the village of Black Rock, the closest settlement on the path of the advancing horde. Gabriel clenched his jaw. If the Paresh reached that village, they would destroy everything—homes, families, lives.

  I have to stop them.

  Gabriel returned to the center of camp, his mind a whirlwind of strategies, contingency plans, and desperate calculations. The Paresh weren’t just another enemy—they were chaos incarnate, a force overwhelming in numbers and sheer brutality. Gabriel’s small force was outmatched, but that didn’t matter now. He couldn't afford to show fear. His men were already searching his face for reassurance, their expressions tight with unease, their eyes filled with questions he didn’t have time to answer.

  He studied them for a moment. Concern flickered in their eyes, and fear hovered at the edge of their stances. But there was also something more—something Gabriel had to seize if they were to survive: trust. They were looking to him to be more than just their leader. They were looking for strength, and he had to be the one to provide it.

  Even if doubt gnawed at him, even if the weight of command felt too heavy, Gabriel had no choice but to be the leader they needed. He couldn’t flinch, couldn’t hesitate—not now.

  Just then, Tor and Ferax arrived, their breaths visible in the cold air, standing to attention before him. They saluted with the same faith Gabriel needed to reflect back on them.

  “Ferax,” Gabriel began, keeping his voice calm but firm, “Ride to the western flank. Warn Jara and Velar’s company. They need to meet us at Black Rock. Ride hard and take an extra horse.”

  Ferax hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding, then hurried off to prepare.

  Gabriel turned to Tor. “You’ll go ahead to Lexon’s company. Tell them we are on our way and to retreat to the edge of the jagged rocks.”

  Before Tor could move, Jonan stepped forward. “I’ll go with him.”

  Gabriel shook his head gently, placing a hand on Jonan’s shoulder. “You need to rest. Take a moment, and then you’ll join me when we move in a few hours.”

  “They need me now,” Jonan insisted, his voice trembling with urgency.

  Gabriel’s eyes softened as he took a tender step toward his friend. Gone was Jonan’s usual easy grin, his laughter, his playful jabs. In its place was exhaustion, fear, and a weight Gabriel hadn’t seen in him before. Jonan bowed his head low, his body tense with the burden of responsibility. Gabriel’s heart clenched at the sight—the always-jovial mask of his friend was slipping, revealing the vulnerability beneath.

  “Brother,” Gabriel said, his voice lowering, steady but filled with warmth. “We’ll get there in time, but you won’t make it in the condition you’re in now. Rest, my friend. Trust me—we’ll save our brothers. We will be there in time. But I need you strong when we get there.”

  Jonan lifted his head, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. Gabriel had never seen his friend like this—so broken, so raw—and it shook him deeply. Jonan’s walls were crumbling, and it pained Gabriel to see him like this.

  “I need you for this,” Gabriel continued, pleading softly. “I can’t do it without you.”

  Jonan hesitated, but then, with a deep breath and a reluctant nod, he agreed. The tension between them melted as Jonan wiped at his eyes, giving Gabriel the faintest smile—a fragile remnant of the friend he knew.

  A crowd of soldiers had gathered around Gabriel, forming a tight circle along the perimeter of the space where the leaders typically addressed the camp. Gabriel’s eyes drifted toward Soltis, who stood nearby, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. The memory of the Paresh who had scarred Soltis long ago was written all over his tense posture. It was a wound that had never truly healed, and Gabriel knew the mere mention of their enemy stirred something dark in the old master.

  The murmurs in the crowd were growing restless, anxious. Nervous glances were exchanged as the soldiers sought answers from one another that none could provide. Gabriel took a deep breath, steeling himself as he stepped onto the cut-out log that served as his makeshift platform. He couldn’t falter. Not now.

  He raised his chin, letting his gaze sweep over the gathered soldiers. The news of the Paresh had spread like wildfire. Rumors traveled faster than messengers in the army, and panic had already started to fester.

  Gabriel raised his voice, cutting through the hum of nervous conversation. "Listen to me!"

  The murmurs ceased, and all eyes turned toward him.

  “Soldiers,” he began, his voice steady, though his heart raced. “A brave scout has reported that the Paresh are advancing on our eastern position.”

  A ripple of unease spread through the crowd—heads dipped, shoulders tensed. He couldn’t let this panic take root. Not here.

  “I’ll be honest with you," Gabriel continued, his voice unwavering. "The odds are not in our favor. We’re outnumbered. A thousand Paresh march against us, and their likely target is the village of Black Rock.”

  The muttering grew louder, some voices rising in fear, while others fell silent, too stunned to react. He could see it in their eyes—the doubt, the hesitation, the creeping sense of doom. He had to change the tone, had to make them believe in something other than their own fear.

  “But we are Balatians,” Gabriel shouted, letting his voice rise with fiery conviction.

  A veteran in the crowd folded his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, skepticism etched across his weathered face. Meanwhile, a young recruit’s wide-eyed gaze fixed on Gabriel, a flicker of hope battling with fear in his expression. They were a mix of doubt and desperation, but Gabriel could feel their need for something—someone—to believe in.

  “What do we do when an army advances against our people?”

  A long pause stretched, tension hanging in the air, until finally, a voice called out from the crowd.

  “We fight!” someone shouted, their voice trembling but fierce.

  “Damn them to Ash!” came another voice, louder this time, more resolute.

  “Kill them all!” Ryn yelled from beside Gabriel, his voice full of anger.

  Gabriel smiled—a small, dangerous smile. Fear was being replaced by something far more useful. Anger was a tool, and he knew how to wield it, to shape it into a weapon sharp enough to cut through their doubts.

  “Brothers, fight we shall!” Gabriel bellowed, feeding off the energy rising around him. “We’ll march to the eastern rocks and slow their advance. Messengers will be sent to the west, and our allies will come. For every step the Paresh take, we will make them pay. We will give them hell. The General and the rest of the legion will meet us at Black Rock.”

  The crowd erupted in agreement, voices overlapping in a rising chorus of defiance.

  “We will fortify the position,” Gabriel said, his voice now ringing with fierce confidence. “And we will see every last one of them dead!”

  “Hoorah!” the crowd roared, their voices thundering in unison, feeding off the adrenaline coursing through the camp.

  “Blood and valor!” Gabriel cried, raising his fist into the air.

  As one, the soldiers screamed back, their voices shaking the very ground beneath them. “Blood and valor!”

  Gabriel stepped down from the log, his heart still pounding in his chest. Soldiers clapped him on the back as he passed, the bravado contagious as they pretended the fear had melted away.

  Gabriel smiled, masking his own uncertainty. He had done what he needed to do—stoked the fire in their hearts—but the truth remained: most of these boys had never seen battle. They were green, full of bravado and expectation, but war would strip that from them soon enough.

  As the soldiers’ roars echoed, Gabriel clenched his fists. He had rallied them, but he couldn’t shake the gnawing fear in his gut: would his decisions save them—or doom them all?