The Tale of Asleiryia

Within the cramped belly of the supply wagon, Varson sat wedged between crates and barrels while the wagon dragged itself along the broken road. Every jolt rattled through the wood beneath him, making the cargo groan against its bindings. The smell of damp canvas, old sweat, lamp oil, and road dust hung thick in the stale air.

Varson adjusted the parchment against his knee before another bump ruined the line he was writing. “Godsdamned road,” he muttered beneath his breath.

The quill scratched unevenly across the page. Ink smeared near the corners whenever the wagon lurched too hard. He frowned at the mess he was making. Sydra deserved better than crooked lines and blotched ink scratched out by a tired soldier in the back of a supply wagon. Still, he kept writing.

Dear Sydra, I miss you with all my heart. I hope this letter finds its way to you, and that it brings even a sliver of comfort. We crossed the border a fortnight past. So far, there’s been no fighting, though we remain ever ready. The land is grim, haunted by the remnants of battles. But our advance continues. We press deeper into demi-human territory, trailing their lead army. With luck, we’ll overtake them soon. By the time you read this, the battle may be done. I swear to you, I will return to you. I will see our daughter. I imagine she is already walking, already smiling. I know she’ll have your grace. Be safe my lily. Love, Varson 24th of Tibern, 1332AIU.

When he finished, his hand lingered at the bottom of the page, fingers curling over the edges of the parchment as though reluctant to let it go. His eyes scanned the letter once more, a frown touching his brow. The words were clumsily written, affected by Varson’s limited education , it was smudged, cramped by limited space and limited rest, but they held his heart. That had to be enough.

A long breath escaped him. “I miss you, my dear Sydra,” he murmured, voice barely more than a whisper. “I will return to you.”

For a moment, the world outside faded. In the dimness, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift, to summon the image of her face. He saw her as she had stood in the doorway that morning so long ago, sunlight catching in her long white hair, her expression calm, eyes full of quiet strength. A woman of rare stillness, of boundless warmth. His anchor.

The memory cut both ways, solace and sorrow intertwined, his smile faded. That vision was what kept him going, and what made each step heavier.

“Captain!” a voice called sharply from outside, distant but urgent, cutting through the creak and groan of the moving wagon. “Captain Varson!”

The vision shattered, scattering like fog beneath the harsh light of day. Varson opened his eyes slowly. The softness was gone. In its place returned the rigid weight of armor and duty. With a grunt, he rose.

Then he let out a sigh , he straightened, bracing himself for the duties that awaited him. His moment of reverie dissolving as the canvas flap of the wagon rustled open. A young soldier scrambled inside, nearly tripping over the uneven floorboards as he pulled himself up into the cramped space. The boy couldn’t have seen more than eighteen winters, his face still bore the softness of youth, marred only by the flush of exertion and a sheen of sweat that clung to his brow despite the crisp morning chill. Each breath came in shallow bursts, fogging in the cold air as he struggled to compose himself.

The chainmail he wore still caught the light with a silvery gleam, unweathered by the grime and blood that marked a veteran’s armor.

Varson set his unfinished letter aside, careful not to smear the still-drying ink. His expression a practiced blend of alertness and measured calm.

“Captain Varson!” the youth blurted out, his voice tight with breathlessness as he stepped forward, boots clanking against the wagon’s wooden floor. “A letter from Lord Commander Manstein!”

He extended a parchment with both hands, folded crisply, the seal unmarred. Despite the tremble in his arms and the strain behind his eyes, he made the effort to stand straight. A soldier’s salute followed: right fist pressed to his chest with sharp finality. Formal. Dutiful. Eager to please.

Varson held his gaze a moment longer before responding. “At ease, son.”

The lad exhaled with visible relief, his shoulders sagging as the stiffness in his posture began to fade. He nodded once, almost bashfully, then stepped back, allowing the commander space.

Varson accepted the letter, unmarred by dirt or haste, a testament to the boy’s careful, if desperate, delivery. The seal, pressed in deep crimson wax, bore the familiar mark: a red and black serpent coiled around a blade, fangs bared, a symbol of Lord Commander Manstein’s authority.

Varson broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes moved swiftly across the message, but each line seemed to carry the weight of a stone, anchoring his thoughts deeper with every word:

This is a direct order. Captain Varson, Organize your forces and establish a base camp in the surrounding region. Take Segment Five. Establish a defensible camp in the surrounding region. Prepare stations for the wounded. Fortify and hold. Hold your position until further instructions. I cannot explain it fully, Something is amiss. Signed Tarath Lothen Ver Manstein

Varson read the letter twice, brow furrowed as he absorbed its implications. The phrasing was clipped, decisive, yet laced with unease, a rare thing from Manstein, whose instincts had earned respect across half a dozen campaigns. Varson knew a gut feeling from the Lord Commander was never to be taken lightly.

He refolded the parchment with care, sliding it into a leather pouch beneath his breastplate. Already, the rhythm of duty began to return, the slow, grinding momentum of preparation, command, and resolve.

“What are our orders, Captain?” the young soldier asked, voice tight with a mix of nerves and anticipation. He lingered just inside the wagon, the folds of the canvas door swaying behind him with each gust of wind. Though he tried to appear composed, his eyes betrayed him, wide and restless, flicking between Varson’s face and the parchment now tucked away.

Varson looked up, his expression unreadable beneath the quiet storm of thought behind his gaze. “Gather the other officers,” he said with measured calm. “We’ll be establishing base camp in this region. Segment Five is under my command, we’ll begin fortifications and set up medical stations by sundown.”

The boy hesitated. “Yes, sir. But…”, his voice faltered slightly before pressing forward, “will we be seeing combat later today?”

The question lingered in the confined air like smoke from a snuffed-out torch. It was spoken not with fear, but with a young man’s curious blend of eagerness and unease, the desire to prove himself wrapped in the unspoken dread of what that proof might cost.

Varson’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer. “Most likely not,” he replied, voice even and unhurried. “Our orders are to hold and prepare. That means digging in, not charging forward.”

He studied the soldier more closely now. The way the lad’s fingers twitched at his side, how his jaw clenched and unclenched unconsciously. That nervous energy, barely contained beneath the surface, was all too familiar.

“Don’t worry, son,” he said, voice firm, but not unkind. “There’ll be fighting. That much is certain. War always finds its way. But for now, we prepare the camp. That’s our duty.”

The boy shifted uneasily, eyes dropping to the mud-streaked boots beneath him, as if the answer offered little comfort. His voice came quieter now, barely above a murmur. “I understand, Captain. It’s just… this is my first real deployment. First time facing the demi-humans. I want to,” He paused, searching for the right words. “I want to test my steel. To prove I belong here.”

Varson’s expression softened, the sharp lines of his brow easing with the weight of understanding. He had once spoken nearly those same words, long ago. He placed a gloved hand gently on the young man’s shoulder.

“You’ll have your chance,” he said. “But don’t be too eager to find it. Battle isn’t what they sing about in the taverns. There’s no glory in a man’s scream or the stench of blood…”

The lad straightened, the uncertainty in his posture giving way to the glint of resolve. He saluted once more. “I understand Captain.”

Varson returned the salute, a small nod accompanying the gesture. “Good. Keep your wits sharp and your blade sheathed until it’s needed. You’ll see your first battle soon enough.”

With that, the young soldier turned and climbed down from the wagon, his boots thudding against the churned earth. Shouts echoed in the distance, mingling with the clatter of hooves and the metallic march of soldiers.

Varson remained where he stood for a moment longer before leaning back against the rough planks of the wagon wall. A long breath escaped him.

The boy will get his wish, he thought grimly. But will he survive it?

He closed his eyes, just briefly, and let the noise of the world fall away.

The coming days will be blood-soaked. That much is certain. My duty now is not to chase glory, but to hold the line. To keep as many of them alive as the gods will allow.

The wind outside had begun to shift, bringing with it a new chill.

Shaking off the fog of brooding thought, Varson shifted within the narrow confines of the supply wagon. Brushing his gauntlet along the curves and dents of his battered cuirass. With a grunt, he reached for his helmet, its surface dulled by age and the grind of a dozen campaigns, and slung it under one arm.

Around him, the wagon brimmed with tightly packed provisions, bundles of canvas tents, barrels of salted pork, and sacks of nails and spades. The cramped interior bore the scent of prolonged travel: damp wood and sweat-soaked leather mingled with the persistent tang of iron and oil.

Pushing aside the canvas flap, he spoke. “Soldier.”

The driver turned with a start. A broad-shouldered man in his late fifties.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, already anticipating command.

“Signal the halt,” Varson ordered, his tone firm. “We’ve received new orders. We make camp here.”

The old driver, Garth, nodded once, curt and efficient. “Understood, Commander.”

Without wasting motion, Garth raised one arm high and swept it forward in a practiced arc, catching the attention of a nearby cavalryman pacing the edge of the convoy.

The rider, wheeled his destrier around with a fluid tug on the reins. His hardened face was marred by a jagged scar that ran from cheek to jaw, half-lost beneath the shadow of his helmet. As he approached, the heavy chainmail he wore rustled softly with each movement.

“What is it, Garth?” he called out, voice gravelly but composed.

“Orders to halt,” Garth replied with a crisp nod. “Base camp’s is to be established. Spread word down the line, no stragglers.”

The rider acknowledged with a sharp jerk of his chin. “Aye. Consider it done.”

He turned his mount with a flick of the reins, muttering a low “Hiya!” as the destrier surged forward. Its hooves thundered against the soft earth, kicking up tufts of loam as the rider darted through the length of the column. His voice rang out clear as a war horn.

“Orders from Commander Varson, halt the caravan! Prepare to make camp!”

The words rippled outward, passed from voice to voice like a stone cast into still water. Drivers reined in horses with experienced hands, drawing wagons to a steady stop. Axles groaned. The rhythmic creaking of wheels gave way to stillness broken only by the occasional snort of a horse or the clink of shifting armor.

Infantrymen slowed their march, confusion flickering across some of their faces. Others turned instinctively toward the wagons, boots squelching in the softening earth as they began unloading supplies.

Varson stepped down from the wagon, the soles of his boots sinking slightly into the rain-damp soil. A cool wind rustled the trees at the edge of the clearing, tall oaks whose canopies stretched into the pale afternoon sky, their leaves shimmering like dull silver in the shifting light. The air carried the scent of damp leaves and distant rain.

He surveyed the convoy, eyes sweeping over the controlled chaos now unfolding. Veteran soldiers moved with a solemn efficiency, already unloading supplies. But among them, younger troops stood out, too eager, too slow, their movements uncertain. Fresh recruits, still untouched by real battle, their armor too clean, their eyes too bright. He watched them fumble with gear and shouted instructions.

“They’re not ready,” Varson murmured under his breath, his hand reflexively brushing the hilt of his sword, worn smooth by years of use. “Let them rest while they can… They’ll need every ounce of strength for what’s to come.” He said, tightening his gauntlet.

Adjusting his thick woolen cloak, now heavy with the dust of the long march, Varson set his jaw and moved down the line. Soldiers straightened at the sight of him, boots snapping together, eyes fixed ahead. As he passed, one by one they raised their fists to their chests in salute.

“Glory to the Empire,” they said one after another, voices ringing in solemn cadence. The phrase echoed through the clearing like a liturgy, spoken with the weight of duty and the fervor of loyalty.

Varson returned each salute with a silent nod, his gaze sharp. He offered no grand words of encouragement. Not yet. Words, he knew, could only carry so far.

He passed into the heart of the clearing, oak trees flanking the rising bustle of preparation. Beneath the shade of their sprawling branches stood the men and women of the Asleiryian Empire.

As the last echoes of “Glory to the Empire” faded into the rustling leaves and the slow roll of thunder in the far-off sky, Varson’s thoughts darkened once more.

This forest will drink blood before the moon wanes. And I must see to it that it isn’t all ours.

As Varson moved through the shifting tide of soldiers and supply wagons, his eyes locked onto a pair of younger recruits standing idle near a cart laden with bundled spears and bolts of linen.

“You two!” he barked, lifting a hand in a sharp beckoning motion.

The young soldiers stiffened at once, straightening as if yanked upright by invisible cords. “Yes, Commander!” they answered in unison, offering quick salutes, right fists to chests, eyes locked forward.

Varson wasted no time. “Find Cavalry Squad Rasen,” he ordered, voice crisp and unyielding. “Inform them they’re to move to the front of the caravan immediately. I want them positioned and ready within the quarter-hour.”

“Sir, yes sir!” the pair echoed again, pivoting on their heels without delay. One broke into a jog while the other veered toward a nearby cluster of soldiers, both barely masking their inexperience

Varson resumed his march down the length of the caravan, ahead, near the lead wagon, a gathering of officers stood beneath the canopy of a great oak. They formed a loose circle, their polished plate armor catching what little light filtered through the overcast sky. Even dulled by the gloom, their cuirasses gleamed.

Each officer’s breastplate bore the ornate seal of their noble house: lions rampant, soaring falcons, crescent moons and gilded hounds, crests carefully etched with silver filigree. Their cloaks, woven from fine velvet and embroidered with metallic thread, hung from their pauldrons in waves of crimson, sapphire, and forest green. The breeze tugged at the fabric, giving them an air of theatrical grandeur.

Varson’s jaw tightened as he approached. His gaze swept across the circle, narrowing on one officer whose boisterous laughter rang out over the murmurs of discussion. The man’s armor, immaculate and ostentatiously engraved, shone like a mirror, too pristine to have seen real battle. He leaned slightly on an ornamental sword, its edge likely dulled from disuse rather than wear. A court blade, Varson thought. Useless in the mud.

They wear their armor like jewelry, he thought bitterly. Every inch gleams with privilege. Their titles bought their commissions, not their merit. How many of them have stood knee-deep in corpses, deafened by the screams of dying men? How many have watched comrades bleed out in the muck while arrows rained from the treetops?

His fists clenched instinctively at his sides, the leather of his gauntlets creaking as the old, familiar anger surged. These men command seasoned warriors from the safety of tents and strategy tables... Yet here they stand, draped in honor, entrusted with the lives of better men. Because of their names. Their coin. Their connections.

But anger was a luxury he could not afford. With effort, Varson inhaled through his nose, steadying the tempo of his heartbeat, and released the tension in his hand. The bitterness was still there, cold and smoldering, but he buried it beneath layers of practiced stoicism.

You cannot lead if you show your disdain, he reminded himself. They must follow you without question, even if you despise them. In war, unity is armor. Division is the dagger that slips between the plates.

By the time he reached the circle of officers, Varson’s expression had transformed. The hard edge of his thoughts was hidden behind the controlled calm of a commander’s mask.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Varson announced, his voice calm and measured as he stepped fully into the circle of officers. He offered a faint incline of his head, a nod that was neither deferential nor arrogant, but precise, deliberate, and rooted in discipline. His tone carried no warmth, yet neither did it bear hostility.

Respect is earned, he reminded himself, an iron truth forged in years of hardship, field campaigns, and the blood-soaked churn of real battles. Even fools deserve the courtesy of civility… until they prove unworthy of it.

The officers turned to face him, some with the weary detachment of men accustomed to routine, others with veiled distaste curling at the corners of their lips. A few offered curt nods, their eyes betraying polite disinterest, while others barely bothered to disguise their contempt.

He met each gaze unflinchingly. He felt no need to match their disdain. Let them whisper about bloodlines and noble birthrights. Let them scoff at my lack of titles. Their approval means nothing. My loyalty lies with those who bleed for the empire, not those who posture behind polished steel.

“Captain Varson,” came a voice, firm and clipped, though not unfriendly. “Nice of you to finally join us.”

Varson turned toward the speaker.

Blackish-gray hair. Southern blood.

The twin-headed red lion of House Hornath sat across the man’s cuirass, polished enough to catch the torchlight.

Varson gave a short nod. “If memory serves me right, Lord Hornath.”

The man lifted a hand before he could continue. “Not lord, captain. Not here.” His tone was calm, but direct. “I’m under your command now. Lieutenant’s enough.”

Robert spoke like a man used to cutting through ceremony instead of bathing in it.

Varson respected that.

“As I was saying,” Varson continued, “you’ve served twelve years in the Imperial Army.”

Robert smirked faintly. “Thirteen.” He folded his arms loosely across his chest. “Five with the Foreign Army over in Outow. The rest with the regulars.”

“Outow.” Varson grunted. “Ugly campaign.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You came back alive. That already puts you ahead of most.”

Robert let out a dry chuckle. “Aye. Though some days I think the dead had the better bargain.”

Silence settled between them for a moment before Varson spoke again.

“I read parts of the reports.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “The executions afterward.”

The smirk faded from Robert’s face.

“Aye.” He scratched at the scar near his jaw. “The Otharans brought in warlocks near the end. Bound a pair of Kathul-ulek to break the siege lines.” He spat off to the side. “Damn fools thought they could leash demons without paying the price.”

“And the Wardens answered.”

“They always do.”

Robert’s voice hardened.

“The Church declared the whole host corrupted. Didn’t matter who fought beside who. Didn’t matter who never touched sorcery.” He shook his head once. “Men who’d bled for the Empire got lined up beside cultists and butchered all the same.”

Varson said nothing.

Robert glanced past him toward the campfires. “Some of them were good soldiers too. Better than half the bastards in this army.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “One Otharan captain dragged me out from under a dead horse while arrows were falling thick as rain. Three days later the Wardens cut his throat and called it holy work.”

His jaw tightened.

“And we stood there and watched.”

Varson studied him quietly.

Not a braggart. Not another officer chasing glory banners and court titles.

A man carrying ghosts.

Good.

Those were usually the ones who survived long enough to matter.

“You disagreed with the order,” Varson said.

Robert barked a humorless laugh. “Captain, half the army disagreed. Difference is most men know when to keep their mouths shut.” He looked back at Varson. “You learn quick the Empire cares more about keeping faith clean than keeping good soldiers alive.”

Varson grunted softly. “Still followed the order though.”

“Aye.” Robert met his gaze without flinching. “That’s the curse of it.”

Varson finally nodded once.

“Then you’ve seen real war.”

Robert’s expression eased slightly. “More than I’d like.”

“I won’t waste your experience.”

“That makes one commander already better than my last.”

Varson ignored the jab. “Outow’s done with.”

“Maybe for the Empire.” Robert shrugged. “Not for the men who were there.”

Varson understood that well enough.

Robert pushed off the post he’d been leaning against and glanced toward the other officers scattered throughout.

“Should probably gather the rest before they drink themselves stupid,” he said. “You’ll want their attention before orders go out.”

“Agreed.”

Robert took a few steps before Varson spoke again.

“For what it’s worth, lieutenant.” Varson adjusted the gloves at his wrist. “I’d rather have a man who questions bad orders than one too eager to obey them.”

Robert looked back at him, surprised for the first time since they’d met.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Careful, captain,” he said. “Keep talking like that and people might mistake you for a decent officer.”

With that, Robert turned and raised his voice toward the camp.

“Officers! Move your asses over here before the captain decides to hang the lot of you!”

“STAND TO ATTENTION! FALL IN LINE, MAGGOTS!”

The effect was immediate and electric. Conversations died mid-sentence, laughter choked off in the throats of men who had forgotten where they stood. Cloaks snapped as the officers scrambled into place, their polished armor clinking in a hurried symphony of movement. Within seconds, a crisp line had formed.

Robert stepped aside, the ghost of amusement in his eyes. “All yours, Captain.” he said with a grin.

“Thank you, Robert,” Varson replied.

He looked into their eyes, some uncertain, some defiant, others merely bored.

Varson’s eyes swept across the assembled officers, their lined-up forms still stiff with the aftershock of Robert’s barked command. But amid the row of gleaming helms and restless gazes, one absence stood out like a missing tooth in a soldier’s grin.

He frowned.

“One of you is missing,” he said, though the question was deliberate. “Does anyone here know the whereabouts of Lorath of House Kalan?”

A silence followed, heavy, awkward. Not a soul stirred. The clink of a gauntlet, the distant creak of saddle leather, those were the only responses.

No one stepped forward. No excuses offered. No explanations given.

Varson let the silence hang, letting it stretch just long enough to remind them all that negligence, even in silence, was noticed.

“Very well,” he said at last, drawing the sealed parchment from the leather pouch fastened at his belt. The imperial crest glinted red and gold in the morning light, Lord Commander Manstein’s unmistakable seal.

“I’ve received our orders directly from the Lord Commander himself. We are tasked with establishing a forward, this will serve as— ”

A scoff, sharp and derisive, sliced across his words.

From the second rank, an officer stepped forward with an exaggerated swagger. He was younger than the rest, no older than twenty-five, his face still bearing the softness of youth. Lairain, of House Serelmont.

His armor, an ostentatious ensemble of lacquered plate etched with silver filigree, shone like a mirror.

“Base camp duty?” he repeated with a sneer, loud enough for all to hear. “So we’re to be relegated to digging trenches and pitching tents, while others seize glory and banner honors on the battlefield?”

Varson turned slowly to face him, his features composed, though his gaze betrayed him.

“We were assigned this task by the Lord Commander himself,” he said, his voice even and clipped. “And we will carry it out with discipline and precision. It is no less critical than any battle.”

Lairain scoffed again, stepping closer. The smirk never left his face.

“You must have misread the orders, Captain,” he said, the word Captain rolling off his tongue with feigned reverence. “A mistake not uncommon for those of peasant birth. This detachment should have been placed under my command. But alas, the Lord Commander is… misguided. It is the will of the gods, that only those of noble blood are born to rule.”

Arrogant cunt

Varson’s right hand curled into a fist at his side, the leather of his gauntlet creaking under the strain. His face remained still, a mask of cold restraint, but the fury in his eyes flared unmistakably.

This little whelp wouldn’t last a heartbeat on the front lines, Varson thought bitterly. He talks of command like it’s a birthright, but he’s never seen men die because of his choices. Never heard the sound of a friend bleeding out in the mud while arrows blacken the sky.

Before the tension could tip into open confrontation, Robert stepped in, quick and deliberate. He placed a firm hand on Varson’s forearm, a wordless gesture of restraint. His grip was steady, his presence a shield between sense and impulse. “Easy, Commander,” he said quietly, his voice low but unflinching. “Lairain’s words aren’t worth the cost of your anger.”

Varson exhaled through his nose, forcing the breath to cool the rage pulsing through his veins. Slowly, deliberately, he relaxed his fist and straightened his posture, sheathing the fire behind his eyes in a mantle of icy control.

“Lairain,” he said at last, voice quiet but edged with steel, “your rank does not shield you from discipline. I could have you flogged in front of these men for insubordination.”

Lairain’s smirk faltered, ever so slightly.

“But if you take issue with these orders,” Varson continued, stepping forward until there was barely a sword’s length between them, “you’re welcome to carry your complaints to the Lord Commander. Until then, you will follow orders. Without question. Without delay. Or I will see you court-martialed before your gilded armor sees a single scratch.”

Lairain’s jaw worked, his pride visibly stung. But he said nothing. No retort came. Just a bitter glare as he took a half-step back into the line.

Robert gave a faint nod of approval. “Well said, Commander,” he remarked, before turning to the group at large. His voice rose again, commanding, confident. “Now, let’s get to work. The sooner we build this camp, the sooner we can stop bickering like washerwomen at market.”

Varson gave a small, dry smirk. “Robert,” he said, his voice shifting back to business, “I’m placing you in charge of convoy defenses and overall setup. Prioritize fortifications near the eastern approach, if there’s trouble, that’s where it will come from.”

Robert’s expression turned serious again. “And you?”

“I’ll take a scouting detachment, light cavalry. I want eyes in the forest and along the northern ridge. The terrain here is too dense, too unpredictable. I need a vantage point and suitable ground for a command post. It may take time, those hills are thick with brush and broken stone, but I’ll return before nightfall. In the meantime, prepare the men for possible contact.”

“Understood, Commander,” Robert replied with a sharp nod.

Varson gave him one final look, the unspoken weight of responsibility passing cleanly between them.

Then he turned and strode away, his mind already moving three steps ahead. The grumble of wagons, the clatter of hooves, and the distant bark of Robert’s commands.

There was no room for hesitation. The camp would be the beating heart of their campaign, its failure was not an option.

Varson’s sharp eyes caught motion along the eastern edge of the clearing. A plume of dust rose against the sunlight, and the rhythmic thunder of hooves soon followed. Cavalry Squad Rasen rode into view, fifteen riders strong, clad in hardened leather reinforced with bands of iron and mail. Their mounts were lean, disciplined beasts bred for endurance, their tack gleaming with meticulous care.

At their head rode a familiar figure.

Harnath.

Harnath caught sight of Varson and instinctively tugged at his reins, signaling his men to halt. The squad responded with practiced precision, their column snapping into an orderly line. The clink of mail and tack rang, underscored by the soft stamping of hooves.

He guided his steed forward, his towering frame cutting a commanding silhouette astride the dappled warhorse. As he drew near, he called out, his voice low and clipped.

“Varson,” he said, inclining his head respectfully. “You summoned us?”

Harnath made a move to dismount, but before his boot left the stirrup.

“Hold, Harnath. Your squad’s with me. We’re heading out to scout for a suitable campsite.”

Without missing a beat, Harnath straightened, the instinct to obey immediate.

“You heard the Captain!” he barked over his shoulder, his tone cracking like a whip. “Cavalry, prepare to fall out!”

The riders adjusted their lines, tightening formation, their movements fluid and assured. Among them, a younger soldier named Lan glanced over, then immediately guided his mount forward when he saw that Varson stood on foot.

“Lan,” Harnath ordered, gesturing with a nod, “give the captain your horse.”

The young cavalryman obeyed without hesitation. With a practiced swing, Lan dismounted and stepped aside, offering the reins with a crisp salute. “Captain,” he said, voice steady despite his youth.

“Thank you, lad,” Varson replied, mounting in one smooth, practiced motion. He settled into the saddle, the leather groaning under his weight, and adjusted the reins with a soldier’s ease. His gaze turned eastward, toward the forest’s shadowed fringe, where dense trees loomed like silent sentinels.

He raised his voice, cutting through the quiet like a blade through canvas. “All men, form up!”

The order echoed with authority, brooking no delay. Hooves shifted, armor clinked, and the column surged into motion. Riders aligned into formation behind their commander, and together, they moved, cutting through the cluttered edges of the caravan, weaving past the lines of wagons, startled onlookers, and supply carts.

The air grew cooler, laced with the scent of pine and moss. Branches swayed gently in the breeze above.

The deeper they rode, the more the noise of the caravan faded behind them, replaced by the forest’s breath, leaves rustling, unseen birds flitting between branches.

Varson rode at the front, silent and alert, his gaze ever scanning the terrain ahead.

Harnath rode alongside him, his voice carrying over the dull thunder of hooves. “Captain,” he called, tugging his cloak tighter against the cold, “have you heard if the main force has met the enemy yet?”

Varson glanced back at him, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “The Lord Commander’s letter said little,” he replied, slowing his horse to an easy trot. “But he’s ordered the healers to raise every medical tent we’ve got. Means the wounded’ll be coming soon enough.”

“Aye.” Harnath spat his dip into the dirt. “That’s never a good sign.”

The column slowed at Varson’s raised hand. Riders pulled their horses to a halt with soft commands and weary curses. Steam rolled from the beasts’ nostrils into the shaded chill beneath the trees. Leather creaked. Armor shifted. Somewhere deeper in the line, a man coughed hard into his sleeve.

For a moment, the forest settled into uneasy quiet.

Harnath nudged his horse closer.

“Once camp’s raised, what’re our orders then?” Harnath asked. “We patch up the wounded and wait?”

“Likely.” Varson scratched at the reins in his hand. “Or they’ll throw us where the line’s weakest. They always do.”

Harnath gave a dry laugh. “Gods, remember when we thought the academy’d make our lives easier?”

“It made us better at marchin hungry, that’s all.”

That earned another chuckle before Harnath grew quieter. “How’s Sydra holdin up with you gone this long?”

The question caught Varson off guard for a moment.

He looked ahead into the trees, his expression softening beneath the weariness. “Same as always. Stronger than me, probably.” A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She keeps the house standin while I’m off playin soldier.”

“She still makin that river stew?”

“Aye. Still tastes like swamp water too.”

Harnath barked a laugh loud enough for a few nearby riders to glance over.

Varson shook his head. “the girl loves it though. Near licks the bowls clean every time she makes it.”

“How old is she now?”

“Maris turned two before we marched east.” Pride crept quietly into his voice despite himself.

“That so?” Harnath smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“I’d take that over this any day.”

The words lingered heavier than either man cared to admit.

Varson opened his mouth to continue, then froze.

A glint of unnatural light sliced across his vision. Something hissed through the air.

An instant later, pain bloomed along his cheek. A jagged shard of ice grazed him. He barely had time to register the sensation before the spike found its mark.

With a sickening crunch, it embedded itself in Harnath’s left eye.

Blood sprayed warm across Varson’s face, thick, arterial, and bright against the backdrop of frost. Harnath didn’t scream. His body simply went slack. He slumped sideways off his mount, crashing into the underbrush with a lifeless thud.

Time seemed to pause, for just a second.

“AMBUSH! FALL BACK!” Varson roared, his voice raw with command.

The forest erupted.

A blinding light detonated ahead, followed by a thunderous boom that split the calm. The blast seared through the clearing, stealing sight and sound in one brutal instant. Horses shrieked and reared, metal creaked, and the screaming of men became an agonized chorus. Varson’s own steed bucked wildly, thrashing and twisting as he fought to keep hold of the reins.

He pulled hard, gritting his teeth, forcing the beast under control.

Then he saw them.

Figures emerging from the trees along the slope to his left, lithe, swift, and near-silent. Their movements were uncanny, shadows made flesh. Ears like wolves and garb of bark-dyed cloth gave them away.

Demi-humans.

“They were expecting us…” Varson growled under his breath, the realization punching through his haze of adrenaline.

Arrows rained down from above, loosed in deadly, practiced volleys. The air filled with the whistle of death. Riders screamed and fell from their saddles, their bodies pierced by barbed shafts, some dropping with gurgling moans, others lifeless before they struck the ground.

Two fell beside Varson. Then three more.

Blood soaked into the forest floor.

His voice, hoarse but unyielding, rose again. “MEN, HEAR ME! RETREAT BACK THE WAY WE CAME!”

The command cut through the terror. A few responded, rallying their panicked mounts and falling in behind him. He spurred his horse forward, not away from the chaos, but through it, creating a path with sheer will and fury.

But just as hope flared, it died again.

Up ahead, through a break in the trees, came a sudden gleam of metal, too orderly, too still.

A spear line.

Dozens of armored figures blocking the trail. Waiting.

His gut twisted in dread. “SPEAR LINE! TURN RIGHT! INTO THE WOODS!” he bellowed, wrenching his reins to the side.

The horse obeyed, leaping into the denser thickets. Branches clawed at his legs and arms, and the forest floor turned treacherous, but there was no choice.

His men followed, crashing through the brush in a desperate flight. Hooves trampled fern and root alike, and arrows hissed after them through the trees, some finding flesh, others splintering bark.

Varson dared a look back.

Only four remained.

Four out of sixteen.

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, refusing to let it show. There would be time to grieve later. Time to remember Harnath, to account for every man lost this day.

But not yet.

Not until they were safe.

Minutes passed in strained silence as the surviving riders weaved their way through the undergrowth, each heartbeat echoing louder than the thunder of hooves had moments ago. The frantic gallop gave way to a cautious trot as Varson raised a clenched fist, signaling the column to slow. The soldiers complied without question, their mounts huffing and snorting as they eased their pace, flanks heaving, nostrils steaming in the chill air.

“I don’t think they followed us, sir,” one of the soldiers called, his voice hushed, brittle with uncertainty. It was the kind of quiet people used near graves, as though speaking too loud might invite death’s attention once more.

Varson said nothing at first. He sat rigid in the saddle, scanning the treeline with narrowed eyes. The grip on his reins tightened.

“They could’ve tracked us,” another man murmured. “Could be stalking us even now.”

“Enough,” Varson said, his voice a low growl of command. He cast one last glance over his shoulder before speaking louder. “We need to return to the caravan. If this ambush was meant to delay us, it may already be under attack.”

“Sir, yes sir!” the men responded as one, their voices tinged with fresh urgency.

One rider nudged his horse forward. His face, drawn and streaked with sweat and grime, was ghost-pale beneath his helmet. “Commander… they came out of nowhere. Do you think they knew where we’d be? Where the caravan is?”

Varson exhaled sharply through his nose. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the frustration in his voice as palpable as the tension in the air. “And it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting back before it’s too late.”

His gaze swept over the ragged handful of men who remained. There was fear in their eyes, but it had hardened into resolve.

“Stay close. Don’t scatter. We move together, now.”

With a sharp jerk of the reins, he turned his horse and kicked off.

“Hiya!”

The column surged forward once more.

The terrain was uneven, treacherous, but they pressed on, weaving through root and rock, forcing their way back toward the caravan trail with grim determination.

They had to reach the caravan. And they had to reach it now.

Up ahead, the forest began to thin. A small clearing yawned open before them, sunlight breaking through the canopy.

Varson held up a hand again, slowing the pace. His eyes scanned the clearing with the wary instincts of a seasoned hunter. Too open. Too exposed. His fingers tightened around the reins.

“Keep to the trees,” he ordered, his voice low but firm. “Use the edge for speed, but stay under cover.”

The riders obeyed instantly, fanning out along the treeline. They moved like shadows now, cutting across the forest’s edge with renewed momentum, hooves pounding against the soft earth with a cadence born of urgency.

Then he saw it.

A plume of smoke. Thin at first, but unmistakable. Rising steadily in a dark, roiling column toward the sky.

It came from the direction of the caravan.

Varson’s heart slammed against his ribs. For a moment, all sound seemed to vanish save for the pounding in his ears. The smoke twisted upward, black against the morning sky.

“No,” he breathed, barely a whisper.

Then louder, voice full of command and desperation: “We need to make haste! Lighten your loads!”

The men didn’t question. Saddlebags, water skins, tools, everything but weapons, were unceremoniously tossed to the ground. The forest floor thudded with falling gear.

With their burdens eased, the horses surged forward, hooves churning up clumps of earth as they raced toward the rising smoke.

The smell of fire soon followed that curled into their lungs and stung their eyes. Varson squinted into the wind, his jaw set in grim defiance as he leaned into the gallop. His horse responded to the urgency, muscles bunching beneath the saddle, hooves striking like hammers.

A sharp, whistling cry tore through the forest’s hush like a blade through silk.

Varson’s instincts flared too late. An arrow hissed past his face, so close he felt the breath of it graze his cheek, a phantom’s kiss of death. The shot had come from the left, concealed in the shadows of the treeline. He barely turned his head before a second missile sang through the air, and struck.

A sickening thud. A scream of agony.

His horse let out a shrill, wrenching shriek as the arrow punched deep into its front leg, the beast’s momentum unraveling into chaos. It stumbled, staggered.

Sky. Ground. Sky again.

The world spun wildly before his body slammed into the forest floor. The impact drove the breath from his lungs in a hollow grunt. Pain flared white-hot in his ribs, his head ringing with the violence of the fall. He barely registered the sharp crack of bone before a far greater horror followed, a crushing weight, massive and unyielding.

The warhorse came down on top of him.

A heavy, suffocating blanket of flesh, and armor pressed down, pinning him helplessly beneath its lifeless bulk. The breath caught in his throat, ribs screaming beneath the weight. His limbs, twisted and trapped, refused to obey. He tried to push, to shift, to move anything, to no avail.

His ears rang with the clash of blades, the panicked whinnies of horses, the ragged cries of dying men. His soldiers. Their voices rose in desperation, in pain, in defiance.

“Defend the captain!” someone cried.

Then came the screams. Horrible, screams, cut short, silenced by steel.

The ring of swords colliding. The wet, sickening rip of flesh torn open. The dull, final thuds of bodies falling to the earth. he horse might as well have been a mountain.

What could I have done? The thought roared in his mind, bitter and unrelenting.

He strained again, muscles burning with futile effort, veins bulging at the effort of lifting the dead weight pressing him into the mud. But it was no use. His strength left him, until at last he collapsed back into the dirt, chest heaving.

Then, a dull thump beside him.

He turned his head just enough to see.

One of his men. A squire barely past his twentieth year. His throat had been slit so cleanly the flesh still gaped. Blood poured from his neck into the soil, pooling dark and glistening, mixing with the damp earth.

Varson tore his gaze away, nausea curling in his stomach.

They were dying. All of them. And he could do nothing.

The sounds of combat began to fade, replaced by a quieter, more sinister rhythm, the low murmur of foreign voices. The shuffle of boots. Metal scraping metal. The looters had arrived.

The enemy moved among the dead like vultures picking at a battlefield feast. Varson lay still, scarcely daring to breathe. He could feel them now, the heat of their presence, the malice in their silence.

Rough hands gripped the corpse of his horse.

He shut his eyes. Slowed his breath. Forced the rise and fall of his chest into a steady rhythm, feigning death as the cold sweat clung to his brow.

The weight was lifted.

The horse, his shield, his prison, was hauled off with a grunt and a curse, its carcass dragged aside by grizzled hands.

Varson recognized only fragments of their strange tongue. Imps… camp. Enough to understand the tone of contempt, the sneer beneath the words.

Hatar, bless me. Don’t let them know I’m alive, he prayed, heart hammering so loudly he feared it would give him away.

Then he heard it, a voice closer now. Still he could not understand

Rough fingers tugged at his armor, unfastening clasps, prying away pieces of gear with practiced efficiency. His sword was yanked from its scabbard, the familiar weight vanishing from his side.

Then, something softer. The rustle of parchment.

His letter.

He heard it unfold.

The man barked orders urgent.

Boots pounded against the earth. Orders were barked. The enemy began to scatter, their voices receding, growing distant.

Varson lay still. Had they seen him twitch? Had his breath betrayed him?

He waited. Counted the seconds.

Ten. Twenty.

The woods began to quiet. The rustle of leaves returned, the breeze whispering across the bloodstained grass.

Only then, when the last voice had faded, when no more footsteps remained, did he finally allow himself to breathe. A slow, ragged, trembling breath.

Varson’s fingers curled into the dirt.

He had to move.

He had to warn them.

Before the enemy struck again.

Varson stirred, and agony answered.

A searing jolt knifed through his chest. He gasped, the sound brittle, hoarse. His left leg throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache.

“Damn it… must’ve broken something,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice ragged and barely audible.

With grim resolve, he braced his good arm beneath him and forced his body upright. Muscles screamed in protest, nerves crackling under the strain. A wave of nausea swept through him, but he grit his teeth and endured. The dead around him would find no peace if he joined them in stillness.

The field lay in silent ruin.

My men butchered. The grass, once tall and vibrant, was matted down with blood, soaked in it, slick beneath his boots. Bodies lay twisted in grotesque poses, some with arms outstretched, as if reaching for salvation that had never come; others still gripping their weapons, knuckles white and rigid, as though death itself had failed to pry the steel from their hands.

They were slaughtered.

Only two of my men had managed to put up any resistance at all.

Staggering forward, he moved among the dead like a penitent ghost, each step weighted with sorrow. He knelt beside each fallen soldier, his fingers trembling as he closed their eyes one by one. Their expressions clung to him, peaceful, pained, resigned. He whispered a prayer for each soul, the words quiet and uncertain. If the gods still listen... let them find rest.

“I’m sorry, my friends,” he murmured. “You deserved better than this.”

There was little time to linger.

Steeling himself, Varson began to salvage what he could. He worked quickly, with grim efficiency. From one corpse, he claimed a notched sword, its edge dulled, but serviceable. From another, a dented breastplate. A belt here, a satchel there. He fashioned the sword into a crude cane, using it to brace his injured leg, every step biting with fresh pain.

The forest loomed ahead, thick with tangled underbrush and shadows. But beyond it, smoke. Rising in a dense, curling column, darkening the sky with an ominous stain.

Each step was an ordeal, but he did not slow. He pressed forward, slashing through the brambles with single-minded determination. The branches clawed at his arms, his face, drawing blood in thin, stinging lines. The forest floor was uneven and treacherous.

After a long grueling trek, the trees finally parted, and Varson emerged atop a low ridge.

Below him, the hillside had erupted into chaos.

The caravan was under siege. Wagons lay overturned and aflame, their wooden frames collapsing in upon themselves as fire devoured canvas and timber. Screams echoed across the battlefield, Imperial soldiers shouting commands, clashing with demi-human warriors in a swirling melee. Arrows streaked through the air, and the sky hung thick with the acrid stench of smoke and blood.

Varson’s heart thundered in his chest.

He scanned the battlefield, searching. Faces blurred through the haze of smoke, shapes half-lost in the shifting fog of war. Then, he saw it.

At the far edge of the conflict, beyond the reach of the frontline, stood a lone figure draped in arcane armor. Blue-white light shimmered faintly along the contours of his robes, and glyphs pulsed at his fingertips

Varson’s breath caught.

That’s the bastard.

He knew their deployments. There were no assigned mages stationed with this segment of the convoy.

No support companies. No sanctioned casters. That means…

“Damn it!” he growled, the realization hit him. They’re coordinated. This isn’t a raid, it’s a strike. A maneuver.

Panic flared hot in his chest, but he stamped it down.

Not now. Focus, Varson. Your men need you.

But as he attempted to move forward pain exploded through his leg.

The limb buckled beneath him instantly.

Varson hit the dirt hard, a curse ripping from his throat as agony shot from his hip to his ribs. His vision blurred white for a moment. The hillside spun beneath him.

“Move…” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Get up.”

Below, another wagon erupted into flames.

The distant screams carried up the ridge.

Steel clashed.

Men dying.

His men.

Varson planted the sword into the earth and tried again, forcing weight onto the ruined leg. Something shifted wrong inside it. A sickening bolt of pain nearly made him black out.

He collapsed back onto one knee with a strangled grunt.

“Godsdamn it!”

His hand slammed into the dirt.

The smoke below thickened, black against the sky. Through the haze he could barely make out imperial banners falling back toward the wagons.

Varson forced himself upright again, trembling violently now. Blood dripped from the cuts along his arms. Sweat ran cold beneath his armor.

One more step.

His leg gave out completely.

This time he fell sideways against the slope, the impact driving what little air remained from his lungs. The sword slipped from his grasp and tumbled down the hill into the brush below.

Varson tried to reach for it.

His fingers barely moved.

The battle beneath him had started to sound distant now. Muffled.

Too distant.

No…

His eyes struggled to stay open. Smoke drifted across the ridge in dark waves. The sky above blurred between gray clouds and burning orange flame.

Not yet.

Not now.

The last thing he saw was the blue-white flash of magic.

Then darkness.