The garrison smelled of blood and ash.

  Once, the proud standards of Alkandor had flown high here—deep sapphire banners embroidered with the sunburst crest, rippling against clear skies. Now, what remained of them hung limp and tattered, edges burnt, the colors faded into the smoke-choked air.

  Crows circled above the crumbling outer walls.

  Inside the gates, the true extent of the ruin revealed itself.

  Soldiers—what few remained—were shackled to posts, stripped of their armor, eyes hollowed by starvation and fear. Some stared blankly. Others whispered prayers to deaf gods. And for the rest... their heads adorned spikes driven crudely into the blood-slicked earth along the main path. A grim welcome for any would-be rescuers.

  The Kors had made this place their own.

  Barbaric laughter echoed through the stone courtyards. Warriors clad in jagged armor, their skin painted with soot and bone dust, lounged lazily along the ruined battlements. They drank from looted goblets, sharpened their blades on stone, gnawed on what little provisions they'd stolen.

  Above the shattered keep, the new banner flew—deep crimson, stitched with black iron threads forming the mark of Krothmaar: a roaring beast swallowing a sun.

  Their victory had been absolute.

  And yet... unease still festered.

  The heavy iron doors of the garrison’s main hall creaked open.

  Inside, the stink of old blood, spilled ale, and smoke was thicker. The walls, once decorated with Alkandorian regalia, now bore crude paintings in ash and blood—symbols of conquest, boasting stories of victories that stretched deep into forgotten lands.

  At the center of the hall, sprawled lazily across a cracked throne meant for a noble governor, sat Gorrak One-Eye, War-Leader of the Broken Fang.

  He was a mountain of a man—his muscles slabbed and scarred, his armor little more than chained plates lashed to thick hides. A battleaxe as long as a man lay resting beside him, its blade still stained from the garrison's slaughter.

  In his one remaining eye—cold, gleaming a feral gold—burned a patient, dangerous light.

  In his hand, he held a human skull, hollowed and filled with dark ale. He raised it casually, drinking deep.

  The heavy thud of boots announced another's approach.

  A warrior of the Broken Fang entered, head bowed respectfully. His armor bore fresh scars from recent scuffles, and his hand rested anxiously on the hilt of a notched sword.

  “War-Leader,” the warrior said, kneeling with a thud against the blood-stained stone.

  Gorrak didn’t look at him immediately. He simply drained the skull dry, tossed it aside with a hollow clatter, and wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntleted hand.

  “Well?” Gorrak grunted.

  The warrior shifted.

  “We have been here long, lord. Too long. The Alkandor cowards—” he spat, “—will notice their missing garrison soon. If they haven’t already. They will come with armies.”

  He hesitated. Then added:

  “It would be wiser to move out. Rejoin the Horde before winter sets its teeth into us.”

  Gorrak turned his head slowly, his lone eye narrowing.

  “And the hunting party?” he said, voice a low rumble like distant thunder.

  The warrior’s throat bobbed nervously. “Gone, most likely. They chased the Alkandorian dogs into the deep woods moons ago. No sign. No word.”

  Gorrak leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

  “You think they’re dead?”

  The warrior hesitated. “They should be.”

  Gorrak’s teeth bared in something that might have been a smile—or a snarl.

  “They should be,” he repeated mockingly. Then he leaned back again, shaking his head.

  “No. I do not move until I know.”

  He reached for his battleaxe, his fingers curling around the haft like a man grasping a promise.

  “Send another scout party,” he said.

  The warrior paled slightly. “Another, lord? We already sent a party. They returned—empty-handed.”

  Gorrak’s knuckles whitened around the axe. His eye darkened.

  “Then send another.”

  The words were final. Icy.

  The warrior bowed his head deeper. “Yes, War-Leader.”

  Without another word, he rose, turned, and strode quickly from the hall.

  Outside, the warrior crossed the broken courtyard, passing knots of Kors warriors sharpening blades, gnawing meat off charred bones, tossing dice carved from knuckles.

  He grabbed one by the shoulder—a thick-necked fighter with a jagged scar running down one cheek.

  “You,” he growled. “Gather twenty. Now.”

  The scarred warrior spat onto the stones and wiped his hands on his leathers.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Scouting,” the officer snapped. “We follow the trail where the last hunting party went. East, into the woods.”

  The warrior grunted. “Another suicide mission, then?”

  “Orders from Gorrak.”

  At that, no more complaints came.

  The scarred warrior stomped toward the lounging Kors, raising a horn to his lips.

  A deep, hollow blast echoed through the garrison.

  Around the broken courtyard, warriors stood, strapped on weapons, buckled cracked armor, and muttered dark oaths.

  The hunt would begin again.

  And this time, the woods themselves might not be enough to save what lay hidden there.

  The forest swallowed the Kors scouts like a slow breath drawn through clenched teeth.

  Twenty of them, armored in dull leather and bone-wrapped greaves, moved in loose formation beneath the thick canopy, axes and blades at their hips. Some bore painted scars down their faces, the marks of Varkuun oath-bound service. Others chewed blackroot, the bitter stimulant tightening their jawlines and speeding their nerves.

  But the jungle didn’t care how sharp their blades were.

  Kaelen’s scouts watched from above—silent as mist, nestled in the crooks of the high branches. Painted in dust and shadow, they moved without a word, trailing the invaders from a safe distance. Each movement was recorded, each misstep noted. They didn’t strike. Not yet. They weren’t told to.

  When the last Kors scout passed beneath them, one of the Ederon slipped from the trees and vanished into the underbrush, moving with the grace of someone born to the vines.

  Veleth would know within the hour.

  And the Kors would find nothing.

  The trails had long been buried, their tracks deliberately confused, false paths scattered like pollen. The last war party had been erased like chalk in the rain. That was why the first scout party came back empty-handed.

  This one would too.

  Back at the garrison’s walls were thick with fog as midday waned, curling over the blood-slicked stones like the breath of some slumbering beast. The Kors patrols had gone silent. Even the usual clang of steel, the bickering over food, had dulled to a murmur.

  Inside the great hall, Gorrak stirred from his seat.

  He paused.

  There—faint.

  A sound carried on the wind.

  Not wind. Not birdsong.

  A horn.

  Low. Clear. And distant.

  Not the crude bark-horns of the forest clans. This was steel-tuned. Disciplined. Measured.

  Gorrak’s one eye narrowed. He stood slowly, towering from the throne like a statue come to life. His axe scraped against the stone floor as he drew it into his hand, his muscles coiling with tension.

  He stepped toward the shattered doorway of the hall, ducking beneath the blackened arch.

  The courtyard outside had gone still. Kors warriors looked up from their meals, their dice, their sharpening stones. All ears strained toward the east—toward the rising echo of another horn, closer now. Firmer.

  Alkandor.

  A scout sprinted in from the outer watch posts, mud flung across his boots, panic sharp in his voice.

  “War-Leader! An army—they’re approaching from the western ridge. Three banners. Shield lines. Hundreds.”

  Gorrak’s lip curled back in a half-snarl.

  “How many?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “Three hundred. Maybe more. Standard-bearers show the sigil of the crown. This is no patrol.”

  Gorrak turned slowly, eyes drawn toward the tree line at the edge of the garrison—the very forest where his scout party had vanished minutes earlier.

  Of course.

  The timing. The scent of rot in the air. The edge in the wind.

  “They waited,” he growled under his breath. “Clever bastards.”

  He turned to the gathered warriors, raising his axe with a single thunderous motion.

  “We hold no walls here!” he bellowed. “No towers. No reinforcements. You want to die for stones that aren't ours?”

  No answer. Only grim silence.

  “Then we move. Into the forest. We vanish. We bleed them on our ground.”

  “But first—” he turned to the chained prisoners near the south wall, their faces pale and sickly, but still burning with flickers of hope.

  “Kill them all. Let Alkandor find ash, not honor.”

  A few warriors hesitated.

  Then one stepped forward without question and drew his sword across the first prisoner's throat.

  Screams rang out.

  Steel followed.

  Blood met stone again.

  Gorrak didn’t watch.

  He turned his back on the butchery and strode to the shattered front gates.

  “Signal the others. Break the camp. We march now.”

  From the tower, a low, bone-horn groan echoed across the trees.

  Kors scattered, grabbing packs, weapons, fire-pits already kicked over. The banner of Krothmaar was pulled down—not with shame, but with purpose. Rolled and tied to the back of a warrior who vanished into the woods.

  They moved in waves.

  Toward the jungle.

  Toward Veleth.

  Toward the shadowed unknown.

  And behind them, the garrison—once a symbol of Alkandor strength—was left to the fire.

  Because when they could not conquer with flame…

  They would poison with pursuit.

  The sun sat high over the village of Veleth, its filtered light casting soft gold across the weathered trunks and high boughs surrounding the training grounds. The sound of movement filled the air—bare feet shifting against dirt, grunts of exertion, the dull thud of wooden staffs meeting bone and bark.

  Kaelen sat at the edge of the field on a carved root bench, one leg crossed over the other, watching.

  His warriors—no longer the fumbling figures of months ago—moved with precision. Not perfect, not yet, but no longer uncertain. They were leaner. Sharper. Faster. Each strike had purpose. Each breath, measured.

  Rhen sparred with Vaela again, both laughing under their breath despite sweat glistening down their necks. In the far corner, Thalenya guided two newer volunteers through the intricacies of a joint-lock counter Kaelen had shown her only once.

  He leaned back, arms resting across the bench behind him.

  Then he heard it.

  A whistle.

  Three short bursts, followed by one long.

  His eyes sharpened immediately.

  The trees beyond the training grounds parted, and a scout emerged—covered in dirt, but not out of breath. He jogged lightly, approaching Kaelen with a hand pressed over his heart.

  Kaelen didn’t need to ask.

  The whistle said it already.

  But he let the boy speak.

  “Kors,” the scout said quickly. “Spotted westward, near the thicket divide. Twenty. Maybe more.”

  Kaelen’s lips curved into a calm, knowing smile.

  He stood slowly, brushing dust from his trousers.

  “Just watch them,” he said simply. “Do nothing. They’ll be blind in the forest. They’ll lose the trail long before they sniff anything near Veleth.”

  The scout hesitated, then nodded and turned, vanishing back the way he came—slipping into the woods like breath into night.

  Kaelen looked over his shoulder at the field.

  Rhen had paused his sparring, already watching him. He tilted his head—silent, waiting.

  Kaelen called to him. “Rhen. Gather the others. Quietly.”

  Rhen gave one firm nod, then moved off, weaving through the field. No words were needed—just gestures, subtle and direct. Within moments, the sparring pairs dispersed and began forming into the three-unit structure Kaelen had drilled into them for months.

  Kaelen turned then, spotting Jorin polishing the edge of a practice blade nearby.

  “Jorin,” he called.

  The boy looked up, already moving.

  “You’re fast,” Kaelen said. “Go to Elder Nayla and the others. Tell them—Kors in the forest. Don’t cause panic. Just information. No alarm.”

  Jorin nodded. “I’ll speak as you would,” he said with a faint grin.

  Kaelen smirked and waved him off.

  Jorin took off in a sprint, cloak flaring behind him, feet light across the dirt. Within moments, he was gone down the eastern path.

  From behind him, a familiar voice spoke.

  Harun.

  “I saw the formation shift. What’s happening?”

  Kaelen turned to his father, hands resting at his sides.

  He smiled.

  “Another party of Kors,” he said. “Strayed into our woods.”

  Harun’s brow furrowed, but his tone remained calm.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty,” Kaelen replied. “Maybe more. Scouts are watching.”

  Harun looked toward the trees.

  “And what will you do?”

  Kaelen shrugged. “Nothing yet.”

  He turned his eyes toward the forest’s edge where the warriors were now assembling with quiet discipline.

  “They’ll get lost,” he said. “That forest isn’t theirs. It listens to us now.”

  Harun watched his son for a long moment, seeing not just the boy—but the strategist who had shaped villagers into shadows.

  A breeze stirred the trees, and the whisper of branches sounded more like breath.

  Kaelen walked forward, Rhen falling in beside him.

  “Get them ready,” Kaelen said softly. “We don’t move yet. But we make ready.”

  Rhen gave a nod. “Tactics or blades?”

  Kaelen smirked. “Both.”

  And the jungle, listening as always, offered no answer.

  Only silence.

  The calm before something greater.