The southern trail was treacherous, winding through dense forests and rocky ridges that cut the Amber Veil into isolated patches of farmland and woodland. Alric led a small group of riders down the path, the hooves of their mounts muffled by the soft earth. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke—villages burned in the distance, their ruins a grim reminder of Mordain’s wrath.

  The group consisted of six rebels, including Iridia, who had insisted on coming despite Alric’s protests. “You’re not riding into danger without someone to keep you alive,” she’d said, her tone brooking no argument.

  Behind them, Lyssa, the scout, rode in grim silence, her eyes scanning the forest for signs of danger. Two other fighters flanked the group, their weapons at the ready.

  “We’ll reach Greystone by nightfall,” Lyssa said, breaking the silence. “It’s the largest village in the southern Veil. If we can rally them, the smaller settlements will follow.”

  “And if Mordain’s forces are already there?” Alric asked.

  “Then we fight,” Iridia said simply.

  They reached Greystone as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in shades of gold and shadow. It was larger than Alric had expected, with rows of sturdy stone houses and a central square dominated by a weathered statue of a warrior—one of the heroes of the First Line, judging by the faded inscriptions at its base.

  But the village was a battlefield. Fires burned in the outskirts, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and blood. Villagers fought desperately in the streets, wielding farm tools and scavenged weapons against a squad of Mordain’s soldiers.

  Alric’s group spurred their horses forward, charging into the fray. The rebels moved with precision, cutting through the soldiers’ ranks and rallying the villagers. Alric’s dagger flashed in the firelight, the obsidian blade cutting through armor with unnatural ease.

  The battle was brief but brutal. When the last soldier fell, the villagers gathered in the square, their faces pale and their clothes streaked with soot and blood.

  An older man stepped forward, his hands shaking as he gripped a rusted sword. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “I’m Alric Valen,” Alric said, lowering his hood. “I’m here to fight Mordain. And I need your help.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd as the villagers exchanged glances. Some looked skeptical, others hopeful.

  The old man frowned. “You expect us to follow a prince? Where were the royals when Mordain’s soldiers came for our children? When they burned our fields?”

  Alric met his gaze, his voice steady. “I wasn’t there. And I can’t undo what’s been done. But I’m here now. I’m fighting, and I’m asking you to fight with me—not for a prince, but for your families, your homes, and your future.”

  For a moment, the square was silent. Then a young woman stepped forward, her face streaked with ash. “You drove off Mordain’s soldiers,” she said. “You’re not hiding in a castle. You’re here. That’s more than we’ve seen from anyone else.”

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  Others nodded, their expressions shifting from suspicion to resolve.

  The old man sighed, lowering his sword. “You’ve got fire in you, boy. We’ll fight. But if you lead us to ruin, don’t expect forgiveness.”

  “I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Alric said. “I’m asking for a chance.”

  Greystone became the rebellion’s southern rallying point. Over the next two days, Alric and his group worked tirelessly to organize the villagers, fortify the town, and send messengers to neighboring settlements.

  The response was overwhelming. Farmers, blacksmiths, and hunters arrived in droves, bringing whatever weapons and supplies they could spare. The people of the Veil were angry, tired, and desperate for change—and Alric had given them a spark of hope.

  But the growing army came with challenges. Supplies were scarce, tempers flared, and fear of Mordain’s reprisal loomed over every conversation. Alric felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on him, and the whispers of the Echoes grew louder with each passing hour.

  Late one night, as the camp around Greystone settled into uneasy quiet, Alric found himself alone in a makeshift command tent. Maps and reports covered the table before him, but his attention was fixed on the obsidian dagger resting in his hand.

  The blade pulsed faintly, its dark surface reflecting the flicker of the lantern light. Alric stared at it, his thoughts a whirlwind of doubt and determination.

  “They’re depending on me,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

  “And you’re breaking,” came Maltheron’s voice, smooth and mocking.

  Alric’s breath hitched as the shadows in the tent deepened. The blood mage’s spectral form materialized across the table, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement.

  “You’re running yourself ragged, little prince,” Maltheron said. “Taking on more than you can bear. It’s admirable, really—but also foolish.”

  Alric tightened his grip on the dagger. “What do you want?”

  “To help,” Maltheron said, his tone sweet as poison. “You’ve already begun to embrace our power, but you’re holding back. If you let go, if you truly accept what the bloodline has given you, you could crush Mordain’s armies with a single blow.”

  “At what cost?” Alric asked, his voice cold.

  Maltheron’s smile widened. “Oh, there’s always a cost. But think of the reward. Victory. Freedom. Isn’t that worth a piece of yourself?”

  Kaelion’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp and furious. “Don’t listen to him, boy! He’s twisting the truth to suit his own ends.”

  Maltheron sighed, feigning disappointment. “Ah, Kaelion. Always the noble fool. Tell me, how long will you protect him before he sees the truth? The blood will claim him, whether he fights it or not.”

  “Enough!” Alric snapped, slamming the dagger onto the table. The shadows recoiled, and Maltheron’s form flickered.

  “This is my fight,” Alric said, his voice steady. “Not yours. Not the Echoes’. I’ll use your power when I need to—but I won’t let it control me.”

  Maltheron chuckled, his form dissolving into smoke. “We’ll see, little prince. We’ll see.”

  By the third day, the rebel force at Greystone had grown to nearly a thousand fighters. Villagers from across the Veil had rallied to Alric’s call, bringing weapons, supplies, and stories of Mordain’s atrocities.

  Iridia approached Alric as he stood at the edge of the camp, watching the horizon. “The people are ready,” she said. “But Mordain’s forces won’t wait forever. We need to act before they strike first.”

  Alric nodded. “We’ll march at dawn. If we hit Mordain’s vanguard before they reach Blackspire, we can turn the tide.”

  Iridia hesitated. “And if we fail?”

  Alric’s gaze hardened. “Then we make them bleed for every step they take.”

  As the first light of dawn broke over the Amber Veil, the rebel army began its march northward. Alric rode at the head of the column, the obsidian dagger at his side and the weight of the rebellion on his shoulders.

  The time for survival was over. Now, it was a time for war.