The morning cold no longer hinted — it warned. Winter was closing in. A dense, sluggish fog lingered over Leshyna each day, like the river’s own breath. Both armies knew: the battle would begin today. During the night, soldiers had taken their positions. Barricades were reinforced with sandbags and additional logs. Archers laid out bundles of arrows along the walls. Ballista crews checked mechanisms, rope tension, and firing angles. Commanders stared into the gray horizon, waiting for the first movement. And it came.

  At dawn, the Rejected began setting fire to the fallen leaves. At first, it looked chaotic — scattered tongues of flame across yellow grass. Soon the pattern became clear: the fires were arranged in lines, at deliberate angles. A steady wind blew from the marshes toward the forest, carrying the smoke straight toward the bridges.

  The mercenaries understood quickly — the smoke was no accident. It was part of the plan. A gray mass crept across the ground before the crossings. At first, a thin veil. Then thicker layers. From the watch posts, men already had to squint. The smoke rose higher, mingled with the river fog, and turned everything into a shifting wall.

  Eyes began to burn on the towers. The river blurred into shapeless motion. Archers rubbed their lids with sleeves, blinking rapidly to keep their sight sharp. Ballista crews coughed, fighting to maintain focus. The world narrowed to a few dozen meters. Exactly as Ranuver intended.

  The smoke stayed low at first, then slowly climbed, merging with the morning haze until it became impossible to tell where nature ended and intention began.

  The Oaken warriors under Karasel waited near the southern bridge. Smoke coiled around their heavy forms, settling in a thin gray film across their armor. The bisons shifted restlessly, steam rising from their nostrils and blending with the smell of smoldering leaves.

  On the far side stood the fighters of Black Directive. Their formation was dense and silent. Atrion commanded them.

  This bridge was harder to storm: longer, with an elevation change, and narrowing at the center. A perfect trap. And yet that was where he stood — the one because of whom the Oaken warriors had once joined this army.

  This was not merely a tactical position. It was a debt to be settled.

  Varek’s men were not among them. The day before, they had quarreled with Karasel — over the Oaken warriors within Balrek’s clan, over old grudges, over the matter of honor. Varek considered it betrayal to march against his own countrymen. The argument that the assault targeted Atrion’s flank did not convince him.

  He remained aside.

  Which meant Karasel would advance today without some of the men he trusted most.

  On the other side of the city, near the second bridge, the Vishaps waited for the signal. Their dark silhouettes dissolved into the smoke, yet even through the veil their discipline was unmistakable. Opposing them were the fighters of Red Breach, reinforced by the Mosun guard.

  That battle would be different — faster, more aggressive, marked by sharp maneuvers.

  Hukan could not be present in person; his wound would not allow him into the saddle. But he had done everything else: positioned his officers, clarified the signals, and confirmed the order of assault waves. His men knew this was their chance.

  Both Hukan and Karasel had poured considerable effort into preparation. Today’s assault was not only about the bridges. Its outcome would determine whose weight carried more within this army — the Oaken warriors or the Vishaps.

  The smoke thickened. From across the river came the faint creak of ballista mechanisms. The signal could sound at any moment. Then came the point when the opposite bank vanished entirely behind the haze.

  That was the sign.

  At Karasel’s short command, the Oaken warriors surged forward onto the open stretch before the bridge. Heavy logs rested on their shoulders, bound into sections. They did not run chaotically but in sequence, keeping strict intervals.

  Twenty meters of exposed ground. Each step under the threat of fire.

  They dropped the logs, angled them, and locked them tightly together. On both sides, walls began to rise. Step by step, a narrow corridor took shape — a wooden gut leading straight to the barricades on the bridge.

  The smoke lay thick, swallowing sound, dulling shouts. The corridor grew — almost complete — when a sudden gust tore through the gray veil. The smoke parted, lifted, and for a heartbeat revealed the opposite bank.

  A horn sounded. Arrows flew nearly in unison. They thudded into timber, rang against armor, scraped across shields. The Oaken warriors inside the corridor pressed themselves to the barricades. Some crouched, some dropped to one knee, shields raised over their heads.

  But the corridor was already doing its work.

  The archers could not find a proper angle. Most arrows lodged in wood or sailed too high. Once they understood the “blind zone,” the Oaken warriors continued building. Another section. Another step forward.

  Within minutes, the log walls reached the very edge of the bridge. A tense sense of progress rippled through the ranks.

  Then a ballista bolt struck.

  A dull crack. The logs splintered along their grain. The projectile punched through timber and caught one of the warriors — not fatally, but hard enough to hurl him back with his shoulder torn open.

  A second impact followed.

  This bolt missed the corridor and smashed into the stone wall of a nearby house where reserves had taken cover. The masonry burst apart, shards scattering, dust raining down.

  It became clear: speed was everything.

  Even as the smoke thickened again, the ballista crews had found their range. They no longer aimed at targets — they fired into remembered space.

  Karasel felt the tempo turning decisive. A few more minutes, and the corridor would become a trap.

  Or the road to breakthrough.

  The Oaken warriors swiftly repaired the damaged section, dragged new logs into place, and pulled the ropes tighter. Ballista bolts still struck the timber with heavy thuds, but the corridor to the bridge stood firm.

  The next stage — clearing the bridge itself.

  Amid the debris stood a dismantled carriage. Wheels removed, axle broken, its body deliberately turned crosswise. It blocked half the passage — a perfect obstacle to shatter the momentum of an assault.

  The plan was simple: rush forward with ropes, hook it, and drag it aside with the bisons.

  Two warriors stood ready. Shields in their left hands, ropes slung over their shoulders. They waited for the archers’ signal — a dense volley meant to pin the far side of the bridge.

  The signal came.

  Hundreds of arrows surged forward like a dark cloud, crashing down on the opposite end and forcing the mercenaries into cover.

  “Forward!”

  The two charged.

  The smoke still clung low, but the bridge was visible now. They nearly reached the carriage — when arrows burst from its far side. Archers had been hidden among the barricades on the bridge itself. They had been waiting for this exact moment.

  The first warrior took an arrow beneath the rim of his shield. He dropped instantly. The second stumbled — one shaft struck his shoulder, another his thigh. He fell to one knee, rose again, seized the ropes from his fallen comrade, and forced himself a few steps further.

  Two more arrows. He collapsed beside the carriage.

  The mercenaries’ return fire grew steady and deliberate. Fewer arrows, but far more precise. Their positions on the bridge were superior: direct angles, short distance, protection from debris.

  The carriage remained unmoved. Fresh warriors prepared themselves.

  The Oaken warriors repeated the tactic — a massive volley toward the far bank, followed by a swift rush with hooks. This time, part of the archers shifted aim, trying to suppress not only the distant lines but also those firing point-blank from the bridge.

  Arrows flew again. The warriors ran again. And again they fell almost at the same spot.

  Their shields could not withstand the heavy arrows at such close range. Metal cracked, wood split apart. The smoke no longer helped — the mercenaries had zeroed in on the sector.

  Bodies began to pile up around the carriage. Blood mixed with ash and splinters. A few more failed attempts, and the bridge would become a barricade of corpses and wreckage.

  The tactic had to change. Immediately.

  This time, the rope was taken by a warrior with scars across his face — the same one who had once rotted in a prison in Kharyv. He was recognized not by name, but by his gaze. Cold as stone.

  He refused a partner.

  Both hooks tucked under one arm, a chunk of barricade wood in the other as a makeshift shield, he mounted a bison in a single motion.

  “Do not fire until I am on the bridge!” he threw over his shoulder.

  He dug in his heels. The bison surged forward.

  This they had not expected. The archers on the bridge were used to runners — men crouched behind shields. But a heavy beast charging straight at the wreckage was a different rhythm. A different speed.

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  He reached the bridge in a handful of heartbeats. Arrows flew.

  The slab of barricade wood shuddered under the impacts. Timber cracked, but held. One arrow scraped off his armor, another buried itself in the thick plank.

  He vaulted down beside the carriage, cast a glance — where it was weaker, where the hooks would bite best. His hands moved fast. One hook caught the edge of the frame. The second bit into a beam beneath the chassis.

  Another volley. A sharp crack. The wood in his hand split almost in two. The next strike would punch straight through.

  “Back!”

  He turned the bison.

  At the very end of the bridge, an arrow punched through the shattered plank and struck his back. The impact was dull and heavy. He clenched his teeth but did not fall at once.

  The bison lurched sideways, sensing blood, and threw him.

  The warrior rolled across the planks and stopped at the very edge. He pushed himself up on one elbow. Another arrow hit his leg.

  His strength gave way. He slipped over the side and fell into the water. Leshyna took him without a sound. The current seized the body at once and carried it downstream, beneath the bridge, into the fog.

  Only the ropes remained on the bridge. And they were secured.

  On this bank, the ropes were already fastened to bisons standing behind a stone building, shielded from direct fire.

  “Pull!”

  The bisons lunged. The ropes went taut, timber groaned. At first, the carriage did not move. Then it shuddered.

  Slowly, with grinding and a deep wooden roar, it began to slide across the planks. The obstruction shifted. Between splintered beams, a narrow passage opened.

  Smoke still drifted low — but the path to the far bank was no longer fully blocked.

  Then the wind shifted sharply. The gray veil that had shielded them moments ago began to thin. The smoke lifted, drawn aside, exposing the bridge.

  On the opposite bank, the infantry was now clearly visible. They stood as a solid wall at the edge of the bridge — shield to shield, spears braced over shoulders. Behind them loomed the dark outlines of archers and ballista crews.

  As soon as visibility improved, the arrows tripled. They flew thick and precise, without panic. The mercenary archers lacked numerical superiority — but not experience. They fired into open sectors, at movement, at shadows slipping past the barricades. Anyone exposed for more than a heartbeat became a target.

  The archers of the Rejected answered, but they lacked angle and stability. The smoke no longer served as cover, and the open stretch before the bridge once again turned into a killing strip.

  At that moment, the Mosun guard began dragging new obstacles forward — beams, shattered furniture, blocks of stone. They were trying to seal the passage again.

  The window was narrowing. Karasel saw it.

  The carriage groaned; a few more pulls and the gap would be fully open. But give them time, and the bridge would become a trap once more.

  “Prepare,” he said curtly.

  The Oaken warriors already stood in formation. Heavy armor. Spears lowered. Bison's pawing at the planks. Their eyes were calm — no frenzy. They knew what came next.

  The carriage shifted completely. A meter. Half. Another half. The passage opened.

  On the far bank waited the final ranks — those holding the armada at this side of the river. Behind them lay the fortified shore, the streets of Mosun, the ballistae.

  “Forward!”

  The Oaken warriors surged.

  The bisons struck the bridge with heavy hooves; the planks thundered. Arrows burst again from the far bank — dense, precise. In answer, the Rejected loosed a counter-volley, trying to force the defenders’ heads down.

  But this was no longer a fight for a single meter. It was a direct impact. The bridge shuddered under the weight of the charge as the riders slammed into the line of Black Directive.

  The collision was dull and crushing. Bisons smashed into shields like battering rams. The Oaken warriors — massive, encased in metal — pressed the mercenary infantry back step by step. Shields cracked. Spears splintered. Men fell beneath hooves.

  From the flank, the Mosun guard hurried to reinforce the Compact. The narrow edge of the bridge became a cramped cauldron. The Oaken warriors drove forward as if they themselves were part of a siege engine. Their sheer weight now worked in their favor — backed by bisons and resolve.

  Arrows jutted from shoulders and thighs. Spearheads lodged in the thick hides of the beasts. Riders stumbled over bodies — their own and others — but did not halt.

  The flank began to waver.

  From the other bridge, most of the local forces had already been redirected. Only Red Breach remained there, with minimal cover.

  And this was the moment the Vishaps had been waiting for. Their method was different. They did not halt before obstacles. Their bodies — flexible, fast — allowed them to climb over wreckage without losing momentum. Seeing that the main pressure centered on Karasel’s bridge, they began their phase.

  The Rejected archers blanketed the enemy line on that bank. The arrows were still in flight — and the Vishaps were already running.

  They vaulted debris, slid across logs, and leapt from beam to beam. Where the Oaken warriors broke through by force, the Vishaps passed through by speed.

  There were few archers left in Red Breach — most had been transferred to the other flank. The effect was immediate. There simply were not enough arrows per Vishap. They reached the line nearly unharmed.

  Ranuver saw it. And understood — the line was breaking here.

  He threw additional forces onto that bridge. Reinforcements moved in waves. The Rejected archers shifted focus, fully suppressing the already thin ranks of Red Breach bowmen.

  The number of Vishaps grew. They now outnumbered the mercenaries within the shield wall. The formation began to crack.

  On Karasel’s bridge, the situation was turning worse.

  Without full Archer support, the pressure of Black Directive stabilized. The Mosun guard sealed the breaches. The Oaken warriors still pushed — but now at a cost.

  More of them were falling.

  The bisons roared, slipping on blood-slick planks.

  Karasel saw it.

  His reserves were thinning. Fewer and fewer remained who could enter a breach and hold the pressure. Reinforcements were needed at once.

  But from where?

  Karasel broke away from the bridge and rushed toward Ranuver. The boards trembled beneath his boots; the air was thick with smoke and iron.

  Meanwhile, on the other flank, the Rejected had densely reinforced the Vishaps. They hurled themselves forward in wave after wave. But without success. Losses mounted. Cries blended with the clash of steel — yet Red Breach held. With scattered shots from their remaining archers, without ballista support, outnumbered — but holding formation.

  Hukan saw his influence thinning along with his men. Ranuver had wagered on his flank — and still there was no breakthrough.

  Karasel reached Ranuver, eyes burning.

  “Give me men! We will finish it! You are wasting fighters here!”

  Ranuver did not turn immediately.

  “They are fewer. They will crumble soon. If I start shifting forces to that bridge, everything will be for nothing.”

  “Then give me archers at least!”

  “I cannot. The mercenaries will reclaim the sky.”

  “Give me something!”

  Ranuver fell silent. He surveyed the field. One bridge — a bloody equilibrium. The other — pressure without rupture.

  He called out sharply:

  “Officer!”

  The man ran up.

  “Your archers — to that flank. Under Karasel’s command. Quickly.”

  The officer nodded and was already signaling, reorganizing his men.

  Karasel did not waste time. While the archers took position, he gave sharp, precise orders — sector, angle, rhythm of volleys. On both bridges, the picture was the same: Black Directive held stubbornly, nearly equalizing the tempo, while Red Breach stood as if carved from stone.

  Karasel turned back to his flank. “All of you — with me! Short axes in hand! Shields forward! As soon as the archers give cover, we run. Press the edge of their wall!” He raised his hand. “Three. Two. One. Forward!”

  Arrows rose into the sky in a dark cloud. The mercenary archers ducked into cover — and that was enough. The Oaken warriors surged. They reached the edge of the bridge almost at once. Karasel struck first: a short axe swept in an arc — a shield split; a second blow — a helmet twisted aside. His comrades poured in behind him.

  More of the Mosun guard stood on that section than mercenaries, and they could not withstand the impact. The shield line cracked. A gap opened — and the Oaken warriors flooded into it. The mercenaries stepped back to avoid being flanked, but that step was already a mistake. Another Oaken warrior stepped over a body, and two more forced their way inside. The breach widened, and for the first time in the battle, the bridge ceased to be a narrow corridor — it became a breakthrough point.

  Ranuver saw the rupture and did not hesitate. “There! All reserves — there!”

  A wave of the Rejected poured onto the bridge. The foothold on the far bank began expanding almost visibly. Each new fighter added weight; the defensive line wavered.

  Red Breach began a controlled withdrawal, trying to stabilize the situation. But they were already losing space. The Rejected multiplied, spreading into the streets, seizing crossroads, pressing the second line.

  Mosun was beginning to fall.

  Archers abandoned their positions on towers and rooftops, retreating to the next defensive line — weaker, improvised for the possibility of a breach. And that possibility had come.

  The defenders’ reserves were thinning. Even fighters of the Blue Cohort were committed — those kept as the final argument.

  But the wave did not stop.

  The Rejected took district after district. The Oaken warriors advanced at the vanguard — a heavy blade carving through defense. They smashed doors, broke shield walls, and forced defenders from their positions.

  The battle was nearing its end.

  Then a gong sounded from the forest — deep, metallic, prolonged. From the trees burst cavalry. Banners streamed above helms, steel flashed in the morning light — and at their head rode King Serain. With him came tens of thousands of fresh fighters.

  They struck without pause. The flank of the Rejected shuddered. Serain’s cavalry drove straight into the city, slicing through the attackers’ extended lines, infantry closing the ruptures behind them. The foothold began to shrink. The Rejected collapsed like a wall without support, and streets that had been theirs moments before turned into traps.

  Only one direction still held — the bridge of the Oaken warriors. Karasel understood at once. The battle was lost.

  “Retreat! Form a corridor!” His voice cut through the chaos.

  The Oaken warriors turned and locked into a wall, creating a narrow passage back to the bridge. They fought not for victory, but for time — so others could escape.

  On the far side, Atrion saw the maneuver as well. He gathered his men.

  “After me!”

  Black Directive moved to break the corridor of retreat. And on the bridge, amid blood and splintered timber, the two forces met again — Black Directive and the Oaken warriors.

  No smoke. No maneuver. Only direct, crushing combat.

  Now the mercenaries pressed, and the Oaken warriors fought defensively, yielding ground step by step. Behind them, the Rejected scrambled back toward the bridge, slipping on blood and splintered wood, while the Oaken warriors held the line with clenched jaws.

  Karasel saw Atrion first. Atrion did not look away — he attacked.

  They met among shattered shields, too close for words. Blades moved before speech ever could. There, near the bridge, steel met oak.

  Atrion fought with twin swords — fast, sharp, coldly precise. Karasel guarded with his shield and answered with short, crushing strokes of his axe. Atrion’s speed was matched by Karasel’s force. Every swing made metal groan. Atrion could not take such blows head-on; he slid aside, gave half a step, and countered into openings.

  During one such counter, he found his moment — a blade slipped beneath the shield’s rim and cut across Karasel’s upper arm. Blood sprayed over steel. Karasel did not break the rhythm. He reversed the axe and struck with its wooden haft straight into Atrion’s head. The impact was dull and brutal. Even through the helmet, Atrion staggered; his ears roared, his vision dimmed.

  Half-blind, he slashed once more — deeper, harsher — and stepped back. He could not continue.

  When his sight cleared, Karasel was already withdrawing across the bridge with his warriors. Two men supported him under the arms. Atrion’s final strike had wounded him badly; blood ran dark along his armor.

  Atrion stood breathing hard. He felt something warm trailing down his face. Blood. Karasel’s blow had been no less devastating.

  He removed his helmet. For a fleeting instant, he saw the blurred shoreline, the river flowing beneath the bridge — and then he fell. The helmet slipped from his hand, rolled across the planks, struck the edge with a metallic ring, and vanished into Leshyna below.