The second horn blew through the forest like a jagged cry of war.

  Kaelen flinched as it echoed through the trees, deeper and lower than the first. Then came the sound of boots—dozens—charging through brush and leaves.

  Another ten.

  Another wave.

  The Kors stormed into the battlefield like thunder, bodies hulking and wide, their armor smeared with soot and bone ash, blades glinting with dried blood. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times—disciplined, brutal, unyielding.

  Kaelen’s eyes scanned the treetops—volunteers were scattered, breathless, shaking. They had already lost one. Another wouldn’t last.

  And then he saw it.

  A scream.

  An arrow.

  A boy—no older than Rhen—was struck high in the shoulder, thrown back. He tumbled from his perch and hit the forest floor with a terrible crunch.

  “No!” Kaelen shouted.

  But it was too late.

  A Kors warrior broke from the line, axe in both hands, and without slowing, brought it down on the fallen boy’s chest.

  The sound it made was final.

  Kaelen’s breath caught.

  He stared, heart pounding.

  We won’t hold… not like this.

  He opened his mouth to shout—

  “RET—”

  But the sky cracked first.

  A volley.

  From the opposite side of the battlefield.

  Dozens of arrows hissed through the trees—not wild, not desperate.

  Disciplined. Controlled. Precise.

  They didn’t come from above Kaelen’s volunteers…

  They came from beyond them.

  Kaelen’s head snapped toward the source—his eyes scanning the shadowed trees just east of their flank.

  Figures moved between trunks.

  Not Kors.

  Ederon.

  But not from Veleth.

  They wore dark, layered armor made from reinforced bark and hide, dyed deep greens and greys. Their faces were partially covered with patterned scarves. Their posture wasn’t the loose sway of farmers or hunters.

  These were trained.

  Their arrows struck with unflinching accuracy.

  One pierced a Kors warrior clean through the throat.

  Another struck the knee of a berserker mid-charge, dropping him in a heap.

  Then three arrows loosed in perfect rhythm toward the captain.

  The first he blocked—slammed aside with a plated gauntlet.

  The second struck his shoulder.

  The third buried deep into his upper arm, ripping through chain.

  He reeled backward, roaring in pain, staggering toward his warriors while shouting a flurry of guttural commands.

  The Kors faltered.

  Just for a moment.

  But it was enough.

  Kaelen’s voice boomed across the battlefield.

  “Fire! All of you—keep firing! Press them! Now!”

  The volunteers, still stunned, still bloodied, obeyed.

  Bows drew.

  More arrows loosed.

  The jungle roared again.

  Kaelen’s heart thundered. He adjusted his stance, raising his bow again—just as a shadow dropped behind him.

  Fast.

  Silent.

  Kaelen spun, bow halfway drawn—

  But froze.

  The figure before him—taller, older, face half-hidden—was Ederon. But his eyes were colder. Sharper.

  He didn’t flinch at the bow aimed at him.

  Instead, he raised one hand slowly in peace.

  “Easy,” the stranger said. “We’re not here to harm you.”

  His voice was rough, calm.

  Kaelen didn’t lower the bow, but he didn’t fire either.

  The stranger continued. “Name’s Varn. I’m from another tribe. West of the Serpent Root basin.”

  Kaelen’s mind stilled.

  Another village?

  His breath caught.

  “You’re… Ederon?” he asked cautiously.

  Varn nodded once. “Same as you. But we don’t sow roots. We keep the old ways. And we don’t sit quiet while war steps into our trees.”

  Kaelen lowered the bow slowly, glancing around at the archers now fanning wide through the jungle. Their formation was controlled. Their discipline—clear.

  He looked back to Varn, stunned.

  “We didn’t know anyone else was this close,” he said.

  “No one ever does,” Varn replied. “That’s the point.”

  Another Kors fell screaming behind them.

  Kaelen glanced to his remaining volunteers. Rhen was already helping two wounded off the ground.

  “You and yours—stand. We’ll finish this.”

  Kaelen didn’t hesitate.

  He took it.

  The forest burned with war.

  Not fire—this time—but steel, blood, and thunder.

  The Ederon warriors from Varn’s tribe moved like shadows between bark and vine. Not quiet like hunters—but swift, coordinated, confident. Their arrows struck like whispers of death, and their blades followed fast behind.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Kaelen crouched low, breath steady, eyes everywhere.

  Rhen was beside him again, a second shadow, as if they’d never split.

  Kaelen gave no commands. He didn’t need to. The battle had shifted. The Kors were no longer the hunters.

  They were bleeding.

  The Ederon bows fired again—arrows black-fletched and silent, falling like rain between trees. One struck a Kors square in the neck as he turned to run. Another pierced an armpit gap in heavy armor. A third slammed through a helm, ending a charge before it began.

  But this wasn’t easy.

  The Kors fought like cornered beasts—rage-fueled and thunderous.

  One roared as he ripped an arrow from his thigh and hurled a weighted chain up into the trees—snagging an Ederon by the ankle and yanking him to the ground.

  Another charged into the brush, dragging two warriors into the ferns, blades flashing.

  Kaelen moved.

  He rolled from his position, loosed an arrow mid-slide, and dropped one of the attackers before he could land the killing blow.

  Rhen followed, swinging low with a curved blade, taking out another’s leg.

  The rhythm of war was back in Kaelen’s bones.

  Not glorious.

  Not heroic.

  Just instinct. Precision. Efficiency.

  He saw the Ederon warriors up close now—how they fought.

  Their swordplay was raw, grounded in fast footwork and group positioning—but they lacked variation. Their strikes repeated. Predictable patterns. Defense second to offense.

  I could have broken their formation in two minutes, he thought coldly, if I was who I used to be.

  But they didn’t need to be perfect.

  They needed to survive.

  And they did.

  Within minutes, the field was shifting—Kors falling in clumps, bleeding into jungle moss, arrows pinning them where they stood.

  Then came the final shouts.

  Kaelen turned his head just in time to see the last four Kors cut down—one by Rhen’s blade, one by a leaping strike from a twin-sworded Ederon, two by point-blank arrows through the face.

  And then—silence.

  The jungle still buzzed with the echoes of battle.

  Kors corpses littered the undergrowth—slumped against trees, collapsed in thickets, bleeding into moss. The air was thick with iron and sweat. Arrows still trembled in trunks. The ground itself seemed to hold its breath.

  Only three remained.

  The Krothmaar captain, towering over his remaining two warriors, stood amidst a ring of drawn blades. His pauldrons were cracked, chestplate bent inward from a hammer blow, and his blood seeped steadily from an arrow buried deep in his ribs.

  Still—he did not kneel.

  He raised his head, eyes blazing.

  “I see no fear in your eyes,” Kaelen said, approaching with steady steps, bow lowered but grip still firm.

  The captain spat into the dirt, his voice gravel and disdain. “A true Kors dies on his feet. Not on his knees.”

  Kaelen's eyes narrowed, reading more in the man's posture than the words. There was no fear. No plea.

  Only cold pride.

  He knows, Kaelen thought. He knows he won’t be walking away.

  The circle of Ederon warriors stood silent, breath controlled, weapons firm.

  Then—

  A new figure emerged from the treeline.

  Even the Ederon parted for him, like the forest itself bent to let him pass.

  He moved with absolute stillness in his steps—tall, slender, but with a presence that made the air grow cold.

  His hair was black but threaded with deep silver, pulled into a braid that hung like a spine down his back. His skin was earth-barked bronze, and his eyes—dark violet and rimmed with tattoos—glowed faintly beneath the forest shadow. His cloak was layered in muted green-black scale, and on his hip hung two curved blades with roots etched along the spine.

  His expression was still.

  Unblinking.

  Unforgiving.

  This was no mere warrior. This was a chieftain.

  He stopped beside Varn without looking at him.

  His gaze fixed on the Kors captain.

  His voice, when he spoke, was not loud. But it cut like frost.

  “What business do the children of Krothmaar have, in our forest?”

  The captain lifted his chin, not cowering.

  “We chased Alkandor scum. They ran. We hunted. That is our way.”

  He shifted slightly, then pointed—not to the trees, but at Kaelen and his volunteers.

  “Your kind helped them. Hid them. Now their blood is yours.”

  A low murmur stirred in the Ederon circle.

  The chieftain didn’t react.

  He turned his head slightly toward Kaelen, studying him—young, bloodied, tired, standing tall regardless.

  Then back to the Kors.

  “Even if they did,” he said coldly, “this forest is not yours to storm through like dogs howling for meat. Your war ends at its edge.”

  He took a step closer.

  “This is not your battleground. And we are not your prey.”

  The Kors captain growled low in his throat.

  But the chieftain was already turning.

  He lifted one hand.

  A flat, silent signal.

  Varn and two others moved forward instantly.

  The Kors warriors stiffened—but didn’t run.

  They knew.

  One knelt in final defiance, whispering to his gods.

  The other lifted his blade weakly.

  The captain met Kaelen’s eyes, just for a second.

  Then—

  Three blades moved.

  Three heads fell.

  The jungle exhaled.

  The Ederon began collecting the bodies swiftly, expertly—already clearing the site before nightfall could return the shadows.

  Kaelen stood silent.

  Then the chieftain walked toward him, boots silent on the blood-wet moss.

  He stopped a few paces away, standing over the boy like a general overlooking a newly tested soldier.

  “Your name,” he said. Not a request. A command.

  Kaelen straightened.

  “Kaelen,” he replied. “Son of Harun. Twelve years.”

  The chieftain’s head tilted slightly.

  Then he nodded once.

  “I am Maereth. Chieftain of Tarethun.”

  “This forest is our home. Yours… and mine. You defended it.”

  He looked back at the ring of corpses, then toward the Ederon from Veleth, bloodied and trembling.

  “You turned farmers into warriors. Hunters into defenders. And they followed you.”

  Kaelen glanced away for a moment, uncertain how to respond.

  Maereth’s voice softened by a single degree—still cool, but with weight.

  “I see potential in you, Kaelen. Not just courage. Command.”

  Kaelen met his gaze again.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And for saving us. If you hadn’t arrived—”

  Maereth raised a hand.

  “We came because they disturbed the roots. And because you are Ederon.”

  “Unity is not our strength, boy. But it may be yours.”

  Kaelen swallowed.

  Then asked quietly, “How did your people learn to fight?”

  Maereth’s eyes darkened a little.

  “Because we had to,” he said simply.

  “Our village is near the forest’s edge. Too near. Alkandor loggers cut deep—soldiers followed. We hid. We bled. Then we fought.”

  “We taught ourselves. Because no one else would.”

  Kaelen nodded slowly.

  “It’s good they haven’t sent more soldiers after you.”

  A flicker of something passed across Maereth’s face.

  A grim half-smile.

  “Not yet, little one… not yet.”

  He turned back toward his warriors.

  The jungle trembled beneath the weight of what had just happened.

  The battlefield, once a place of ambush and blood, had quieted to little more than breath and bootfall. The scent of moss, blood, and sweat lingered in the humid air, tangled with the faint smoke rising from shattered torches and broken arrows.

  Among the tangled roots and slumped bodies, the volunteers of Veleth stood in a daze.

  Weapons lowered. Faces pale. Hands trembling.

  Kaelen’s people—hunters, woodsmen, gatherers—had just fought their first real war.

  And survived.

  But survival came at a cost.

  Harun stood near the edge of the clearing, his spear still in hand, chest heaving with breath. His eyes moved not to the corpses of the Kors, but to his son.

  Kaelen.

  The boy hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t shaken. He stood with the warriors of the other tribe as if he belonged there. As if he had always been one of them.

  Harun’s grip tightened slightly around the shaft of his spear.

  He had always known Kaelen was different—quieter, sharper. More watchful than most children, more composed under pressure.

  But this?

  This was something else entirely.

  Harun swallowed, his throat dry.

  He had led the village’s volunteers once. Had fought off wild beasts, held the palisades against raiders.

  But never had he stood on a field soaked with the blood of soldiers.

  And never had he seen someone so young speak with such certainty—to make men move with nothing more than words and belief.

  From nearby, one of the younger volunteers whispered, still stunned:

  “They… they’re like us. But they fight like Alkandor soldiers.”

  Another nodded slowly, staring after the vanished warriors.

  “I didn’t know our people could be like that. I thought we were… just the quiet ones.”

  Across the field, Kaelen stood before Maereth, the cold-eyed chieftain of the warrior tribe.

  “Will you return to your village now?” Kaelen asked, voice low.

  Maereth turned his head slightly, glancing back at the corpses, then at his waiting warriors.

  “Of course,” he said, simply. “We guard our home from afar—but not forever. The forest doesn’t forgive those who leave it unguarded.”

  He raised one hand.

  A silent signal.

  At once, the warriors moved—silent, efficient, disappearing into the thick growth like mist burning away under the morning sun.

  Then, Maereth paused.

  He turned halfway toward Kaelen, his voice quieter but no less certain.

  “We will meet again, Kaelen of Veleth. But when we do—”

  “—it may be in a different scenario.”

  Kaelen nodded once, absorbing the words like steel drawn across flint.

  “I’ll be ready,” he said.

  Maereth said no more.

  He vanished into the trees.

  Only Varn lingered.

  He grinned as he approached Kaelen, his braid stuck to his cheek with sweat.

  “You’re strange,” he said. “But I like you. You think like a chief already.”

  Kaelen gave him a tired half-smile.

  “You saved us,” he said. “We owe you more than I can say.”

  Varn waved a hand. “No you don’t. The forest is ours. All of ours. They just forgot that.”

  He offered Kaelen a firm grip.

  “I hope we fight together again. Not against each other.”

  Kaelen took the hand. “Next time, I’ll be stronger.”

  Varn nodded once. Then he turned and vanished into the jungle like smoke on wind.

  The clearing was left in silence.

  Only Kaelen’s tribe remained.

  Some stood over the fallen Kors, eyes wide, trying to make sense of the brutality. Others leaned against trees, breathless, shaking, unsure of whether to be proud… or afraid.

  Kaelen walked to where Rhen stood—bow lowered, shirt torn, hair sticking to his brow.

  Rhen looked at him.

  “We actually lived,” he muttered. Then after a pause, “We’re going to have to get better at this.”

  Kaelen exhaled slowly, nodding.

  “We will.”

  Harun approached from the side, his steps slow.

  He looked at his son not with disapproval—but with awe.

  “You… led them,” he said softly.

  Kaelen turned to him.

  “I had to,” he replied. “No one else could.”

  Harun didn’t argue.

  He only placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  Not as a father to a boy.

  But as a soldier to another who had bled for something.

  The others gathered slowly.

  Their faces were tired, wounded—scarred not by blades, but by truth.

  They weren’t just hunters anymore.

  And their forest would never be the same.

  Kaelen looked around one last time.

  At the shattered helmets. At the bent spears. At the silence that followed death.

  This is what it means to fight for peace.

  And without saying a word—

  They began walking home.