The valley was hidden between two mountain peaks, accessible only by a narrow path that snaked through rock formations. It was the perfect place to hide. To survive. To prepare.
The camp chief watched from the wooden walls as his men worked. Fifty bandits moving with purpose, following orders, preparing defenses.
They had built the walls over the last few months, thick logs driven deep into the earth and reinforced with sharpened stakes. It wasn't a professional military fortification, but it was solid. Defensible.
Makeshift watchtowers stood at the corners, offering a clear view of the only approach road. On each tower, archers with arrows ready and eyes constantly scanning the forest.
But the most important thing was the crossbows.
Six of them, mounted in strategic positions along the walls. Weapons stolen from a military convoy two months ago, heavy and lethal. Each one could fire bolts capable of piercing armor at a hundred meters.
And the poisoned-tipped arrows.
Dozens of them, prepared in quivers next to each archer position. The poison wasn't lethal, it was paralyzing. Designed to incapacitate, not to kill. Because live bodies were worth more than corpses.
The chief descended from the walls and walked toward the area where they kept the captives.
Nineteen people locked in wooden cages. Young. Healthy. Exactly what they had been asked for.
Some bandits guarded the area, spears in hand, watching the prisoners with practiced indifference.
The chief stopped in front of the cages for a moment, studying the captives. They were his life insurance if things went wrong. His final card.
"Do you really think they'll come?" asked one of the bandits near him, a young man.
"They will come," the chief replied with a grave voice. "The warning was clear."
"But who warned us? And why?"
The chief didn't answer. That question had been bothering him for two days.
"It doesn't matter who," the chief finally said. "It matters that we are ready. We have the crossbows. We have the poison. We have the hostages. We'll be fine."
The bandit nodded, though his expression showed doubt.
"What if there are too many of them?"
"Then we use the captives as shields. The Drayvar won't risk innocent lives. That gives us time to negotiate or to escape."
He didn't mention that he personally preferred the second option.
The scream came from one of the watchtowers.
"CHIEF! ENEMIES!"
The chief ran toward the walls, climbing the wooden ladder with heavy steps. He reached the top and looked where the lookout was pointing.
Through the trees, he saw movement.
Figures approaching. Not many, maybe twenty. But what made him tense was the way they were moving.
Directly. Without caution. Without trying to hide.
As if they didn't care about being seen.
"How many?" he yelled toward the lookout.
"Twenty, maybe less. But they're coming fast, chief. Very fast."
The chief squinted, watching. When the figures emerged from the trees more clearly, he saw the emblems on their armor.
A black spear piercing a silver lightning storm.
House Drayvar.
Exactly as he had been warned.
But something was wrong. Professional soldiers didn't attack fortifications like this, charging directly without siege formation, without preparation.
Unless they knew something he didn't.
"TO YOUR POSITIONS!" the chief roared, his voice echoing throughout the camp. "PREPARE THE CROSSBOWS! ARCHERS TO THE TOWERS!"
The bandits moved with practiced urgency, running to their assigned positions. Fifty men distributing themselves along the walls and in formations behind them.
The chief watched the Drayvar column approach. They didn't slow down. They didn't seek cover.
They simply advanced, inexorable as a storm.
"Damn Drayvar," he muttered under his breath. "How did they find us so fast?"
The column reached crossbow range.
"FIRE!" the chief roared.
The six crossbows fired simultaneously with a mechanical, violent sound. Heavy bolts flew through the air, immediately followed by a rain of arrows from the archers.
It should have been devastating. It should have stopped any advance.
But then he saw something that chilled his blood.
Electric blue flashes exploded around the Drayvar soldiers. Their swords glowed with unnatural light. And the bolts, the arrows, everything was cut in the air.
Split in half.
Deflected as if it weighed nothing.
None reached their target.
"Impossible," the chief whispered.
He had seen Aether users before. He had fought against some. But never against so many at once, moving with this coordination, with this level of power.
"FIRE AGAIN!" he yelled desperately. "KEEP FIRING!"
The crossbows were reloaded, the archers released another wave of arrows.
The result was the same.
The Drayvar soldiers reached the walls.
And then, to the chief's absolute horror, they didn't try to tear them down.
They simply scaled them.
As if the weight of their armor didn't exist. As if the defensive stakes didn't matter.
The first to reach the top was an older man with gray hair and gray eyes that shone with power. His Aether crackled around his body like contained lightning.
He landed on the wall with an impact that made the wood tremble.
His sword moved in a perfect arc.
Three bandits who were nearby fell, cut down so cleanly they didn't have time to scream. Their bodies slumped, blood gushing from wounds that had sliced through armor and bone as if they were butter.
More Drayvar soldiers reached the walls.
A giant with a massive axe simply shattered a section of the wall with a single blow. The wood exploded into splinters, opening a gap wide enough for three men to pass side-by-side.
A woman with a bow from an elevated position outside the camp fired arrows that pierced armor and bodies as if they were paper.
Two identical warriors with spears moved in sync, their weapons perforating everything in their path with surgical precision.
The chief drew his sword, the metal singing against the scabbard.
But before he could do anything, a shadow fell over him.
A sword passed centimeters from his neck.
He threw himself backward purely on instinct, feeling the air cut where his throat had been a second earlier.
One of the Drayvar soldiers landed in front of him, sword in guard.
The chief didn't wait. He turned and jumped from the inner wall, landing heavily on the camp floor. Pain exploded in his ankle but he ignored it.
He ran.
Toward the captive cages. If he could get there, if he could use the hostages as shields.
But when he rounded the corner, he saw that more Drayvar soldiers were already entering through the breach. They were already inside.
He was surrounded.
Too late for everything.
Rylan passed through the breach in the walls with his sword drawn and his Aether activated.
The electric blue flash enveloping his body was weaker than the veterans', his fifth-layer Apprentice power pale in comparison. But it was enough.
His heart beat like a war drum, pumping adrenaline through his veins. Every sense was amplified. Every muscle tense and ready.
A bandit appeared in front of him, emerging from between two barracks with an axe raised.
The man was yelling something, but Rylan didn't process the words.
He only saw the movement.
The axe descending in an arc toward his head.
His training took control.
He blocked with his imbued sword, the impact of metal against metal echoing in his arms. The force of the Aether in his sword repelled the axe backward, making the bandit lose balance.
Rylan advanced, his sword cutting horizontally.
The edge passed through the man's neck.
Hot blood splattered his face, the liquid thick and coppery when some drops entered his mouth.
The bandit fell, his hands going instinctively to his throat, trying to stop the bleeding. His eyes showed absolute shock, as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.
Rylan didn't stop to look.
He was already moving toward the next enemy.
Two bandits came from his left. One with a sword, the other with a spear.
The lancer attacked first, the tip of his weapon aimed at Rylan's chest.
Rylan pivoted, using the movement Torin had made him practice hundreds of times. The spear passed beside his flank, missing by centimeters.
His sword cut down, severing the lancer's arm at the elbow.
The man screamed, a sharp, animal sound.
The swordsman took advantage of the opening, attacking from Rylan's right side.
Rylan spun, blocking the blow. The impact made his arms vibrate, but he kept his grip firm.
He pushed the enemy sword aside and counter-attacked, his blade piercing the bandit's side, entering between the ribs.
The man doubled over, coughing blood.
Rylan wrenched his sword out and pushed him, letting him fall.
The one-armed lancer was trying to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood on the dirt. Rylan approached and finished the job with a clean cut that silenced the screams.
He moved deeper into the camp, his Aether crackling around his body.
Every enemy he faced was inferior in skill. They were criminals with weapons, desperate men without real training. But they were dangerous because they had nothing to lose.
Three bandits surrounded him, trying to coordinate with yells and signals.
Rylan didn't give them time.
He activated his Aether more intensely, feeling the heat in his core, the energy flowing into his arms and legs.
He moved.
Faster than they expected.
His sword sliced the leg of one, making him fall screaming.
He turned, dodging the attack of the second, and his blade found the man's neck, beheading him in one fluid motion.
The third tried to flee upon seeing his companions fall.
Rylan caught up in three steps, his sword piercing the man's back and emerging through his chest.
The bandit coughed blood, his hands weakly clinging to the blade that had passed through him.
Rylan wrenched his sword out and the body dropped.
The combat continued around him. The veterans moved like killing machines, efficient and brutal. Every movement had purpose. Every blow was lethal.
Rylan saw Garron cleave a man in half with his axe, the body separating into two halves that fell in opposite directions.
He saw Zella shoot arrows that pierced skulls with precision.
He saw the twins Vek and Tor move as if they shared a single mind, their spears perforating everything in their path.
And he saw Torin, the Master, moving among enemies like a ghost of death. His sword cut without pause, without wasted motion, without error.
Every bandit who approached him died in seconds.
Rylan found another group of enemies trying to form a defensive line near the barracks.
Five men with swords and shields, shouting orders to each other.
Rylan charged.
His Aether flared brighter as it boosted his legs, closing the distance in an instant.
He attacked the first one from the side, his sword finding the gap between the shield and the armor, piercing his flank.
The second tried to strike him with his shield.
Rylan blocked with his imbued forearm, the impact resonating but causing him no harm. He counter-attacked, his sword slashing the man's exposed throat.
The other three hesitated, seeing two of their companions fall in seconds.
That hesitation killed them.
Rylan moved among them as Torin had taught him, his sword cutting, stabbing, throat-slitting.
When he finished, all five were on the ground.
Rylan breathed heavily, his armor stained with blood that wasn't his. His sword dripped red, the metal hidden beneath a layer of blood and tissue.
He looked around.
The battle was ending.
The remaining bandits tried to surrender, throwing down their weapons and falling to their knees.
But the veterans did not stop.
Torin's orders had been clear. Complete elimination.
Rylan watched as the last bandits were executed. Without mercy. No quarter.
Only blood and death.
And he was covered in both.
The camp chief was cornered against a wooden wall in the center of the camp.
His sword was still in his hand, but his right shoulder was bleeding profusely from a deep cut. His left leg was wounded, making him limp.
Torin, Aldwen, Garron, Zella, and other veterans surrounded him in a semicircle, weapons pointed at him.
Rylan approached, watching from behind the circle.
The chief looked around, seeing all his men dead. Seeing the Drayvar soldiers barely wounded.
And he began to laugh.
First low, then louder. A laugh that sounded broken, mixed with the wet sound of blood in his lungs.
Blood ran from his mouth, staining his teeth.
Torin took a step forward, his sword still raised.
"Speak. Who warned you we were coming?"
The chief kept laughing, spitting blood.
"Warn me? That man did more than warn me. He promised us protection. He promised us power. And you, stupid Drayvar dogs, have no idea what's coming for you."
He spat more blood on the ground.
"He knew you would come. Knew exactly when. He told us how to prepare. He gave us the weapons."
His laughter intensified, sounding increasingly insane.
"And when he finds out we failed, he'll come for you. You will all die."
Torin tensed.
"What man? Give me a name."
The chief opened his mouth to reply.
And then a whistle cut the air.
An arrow pierced his throat, entering from the front and exiting the back of his neck with brutal force.
The chief choked on his own blood, his eyes widening. He fell to his knees, then face-down onto the stained earth.
Dead.
Everyone instantly turned toward the direction the arrow came from.
Len stood twenty meters away, his bow still raised, the string vibrating from the recent shot.
His expression was calm. Too calm.
Absolute silence fell over the camp.
Torin walked slowly toward Len, his presence intimidating even without his Aether activated.
"Why did you do that? We needed to interrogate him."
Len lowered his bow, his face showing something that might have been confusion.
"I thought he was going to attack. It looked like he was going to try something."
His voice was calm, without the tremble of fear or the urgency of desperation he had shown before.
The veterans exchanged glances.
They had all seen the same thing. The chief wasn't trying to attack. He was cornered, wounded, virtually unarmed.
The arrow wasn't self-defense.
It was a silencing.
The veterans' expressions showed bewilderment. None spoke, but their eyes said everything.
Something was not right here.
Len held Torin's gaze without blinking.
Before anyone could say more, a shout came from the other side of the camp.
"We found the hostages! They're alive!"
Attention was momentarily diverted.
The cages were at the back of the camp, hidden behind the main barracks.
Nineteen captives locked in wooden structures.
The veterans opened the doors, freeing the people who had been imprisoned.
"Check them," Torin ordered. "Make sure they can walk. Those who can't need help for the journey back."
The veterans moved efficiently, distributing water and basic food among the captives.
Len approached the cages, searching among the faces.
A young girl, about fourteen years old, saw him and began to cry.
"Len! You came for us!"
The boy ran toward her, helping her out of the cage, embracing her briefly before starting to help the others.
But Torin wasn't watching him.
He was watching the devastated camp. The fifty bodies. The weapons too sophisticated for common bandits. The stolen crossbows. The defensive preparations that suggested prior warning.
And a dead chief who had spoken of a powerful man behind everything.
Before he could reveal more.
Rylan approached Torin, Aldwen by his side.
The three moved slightly away from the rest, speaking in low voices.
Torin spoke first, his voice barely a murmur.
"That man said someone warned him. That someone told him we were coming."
Aldwen nodded, his expression grim.
"The only people who knew we were coming to these mountains were those at Drayvar Manor. The expedition was discussed at the family dinner. The veterans were selected by you personally. The servants who prepare the gear. No one else."
Torin looked toward the forest, toward the direction they had come from.
"A traitor. There has to be a traitor among our people. Someone with access to privileged information sent a warning to these bandits."
"Not just a warning," Aldwen added. "They gave them weapons. Military crossbows. Poison. That requires resources and connections."
Rylan listened in silence, processing the implications.
A traitor in House Drayvar.
Someone within his own family, or among his father's trusted people, had betrayed information that could have killed them all.
"What do we do?" he finally asked.
Torin looked at him directly.
"When we return, we will investigate. Discreetly. Without anyone knowing we are suspicious. Because if there is a traitor and he discovers we are looking for him, he will disappear or do something desperate."
He paused, his voice becoming harsher.
"Until then, no one speaks of this. No one. Not even among ourselves unless we are completely alone. Understood?"
Rylan and Aldwen nodded.
"There's something else," Torin continued, looking toward where Len was helping the hostages. "That boy silenced the only person who could give us answers. Just as he was about to reveal more information."
"Do you think he's involved?" Aldwen asked.
Torin didn't answer immediately.
"I don't know what to think. There are too many strange things about him. His inconsistent story. His knowledge of the mountains. That arrow that killed the chief."
"But he also guided us here directly," Aldwen pointed out. "If he was part of this, why would he help us destroy the camp?"
"I don't know," Torin admitted. "And that's what worries me. Nothing makes complete sense. It's as if we're only seeing pieces of something much larger."
The three observed the camp in silence for a moment.
Fifty men dead. Nineteen hostages rescued. A technically successful mission.
But the questions it had revealed were far more dangerous than the bandits they had eliminated.
"Let's prepare everyone for the return," Torin finally said. "The sooner we get out of these mountains, the better."
He looked at Rylan directly.
"Your first expedition has just revealed something that could shake the foundations of House Drayvar. Prepare yourself. Because when we get home, things are going to get much more complicated."
Rylan nodded, feeling the weight of those words.
He had come to these mountains to become a warrior.
He had accomplished that. He had killed. He had survived. He had proven his worth in real combat.
But he had also discovered something far more dangerous.
A conspiracy.
A traitor.
And someone powerful moving pieces in the shadows, playing with House Drayvar as if it were a chessboard.
The joyous cries of the freed hostages filled the air, contrasting brutally with the tension Rylan felt in his chest.
The mission had been a success.
But the war, the real war, was just beginning.