Gauis and Rebecca stood at the doorway of the small healing tent, their faces grim but calm.

  “Both of you stay here,” Gauis said firmly. “Don’t move. We’ll check what’s happening outside.”

  Gray opened his mouth to argue, but Rebecca placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Please. Just this once, listen.”

  Tamemoto looked like he wanted to protest too, but he stayed silent, pressing a hand to his bandaged chest.

  The two adults stepped out into the fading light.

  Gauis walked straight to Rorik, who was standing near the watch tower with a worried expression.

  “Thank you,” Gauis said quietly, clasping the scavenger’s forearm. “For helping us. As you always do. We owe you.”

  Rorik smiled — tired, but genuine. “I’m getting fond of the two kids. Like I want to look forward to their growth in the future.”

  Gauis returned the smile, then turned his gaze toward the western horizon. A thin column of black smoke rose in the distance — faint, but unmistakable. Ashfall was burning.

  Captain Marek stood at the center of the watch tower platform, eyes narrowed toward the same smoke.

  We can’t wait for them to come to us.

  Marek was a tall man in his late forties, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred.

  He had once been a lieutenant in the Solvaris Imperial Army before a political betrayal forced him into exile.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He had wandered for years, guarding caravans across Zharathar, until he finally settled in Camp Tile and became its de facto leader when the previous council fell apart.

  People trusted him because he never asked for more than what was fair — and because he always marched first.

  “Gather everyone who can hold a weapon!” Marek’s voice rang out across the camp. “We march forward and intercept them early. If we wait, the camp will burn!”

  In under an hour, he had assembled nearly 300 armed fighters — locals, travelers who had been staying in Camp Tile, and whoever could be convinced to fight.

  He paid mercenaries and scavengers on the spot with what little coin and supplies the camp could spare.

  “You fight with us today,” he told them plainly, “or you’ll have nowhere left to sleep tomorrow. The horde doesn’t care who you are.”

  His negotiation was calm, firm, and effective.

  People who had been arguing minutes earlier now stood in formation. It was the kind of leadership that made men follow.

  Aura and mana users were rare. In this entire force, there were only three.

  Marek himself — his aura steady and disciplined from years of military training.

  Zhulkar Sandvein, a rugged Zharathan local with sun-baked skin and a heavy stone hammer. His aura felt like packed desert earth — slow but crushing.

  Sir Rowan Hale, a bounty hunter from an Avalon guild. Tall and silver-haired, he carried a longsword and used a mix of aura and basic mana. He had arrived in Camp Tile only two days ago chasing a bounty and decided to stay when the trouble started.

  Zhulkar stepped closer to Marek. “Captain… should we ask help from one of the tribes?”

  Marek shook his head. “We would if it goes out of hand. I’ll prepare a messenger with the fastest horse in the camp. For now, we handle this ourselves.”

  They gathered around a rough map scratched in the dirt — the topology of the badlands, the river bend, the narrow passes Gray and Tamemoto had scouted earlier. Marek pointed with a stick.

  “We move in three groups. Flank them here and here. Use the high ground and the river to limit their numbers. Scouts ahead — report back the moment you see anything.”

  A young rider was already saddling the fastest horse.

  Marek looked toward the horizon once more.

  The smoke was thicker now.

  He turned to his small force.

  “Move out!”

  The camp began to march.

  Gray and Tamemoto watched from the healing tent as the armed column started moving west.

  The world outside was no longer something distant.

  It was coming for them.