The march north began before sunrise.
Roland led two hundred men out of Acre—light cavalry, scouts, and a few heavy riders. Not his full strength, but enough for what he needed:
A strike that looked effortless.
A victory that felt inevitable.
Today wasn't about conquest.
It was about sending a message.
To Tyre.
To the northern raiders.
To everyone watching Jerusalem rise.
A Village on the Edge
By midday the troops rode through a narrow valley, the smell of smoke already drifting toward them. Ferrand raised a hand, signaling the column to slow.
Roland rode forward.
A village stood ahead — or what was left of it.
Half-burned homes.
Abandoned carts.
Doors smashed open.
Lucien cursed under his breath. "The warlord's doing?"
A survivor — an old woman with soot on her face — stepped out from behind a ruined wall.
"He came at dawn," she whispered. "The northern prince."
Roland dismounted and knelt so he was eye level with her.
"Where did he go?"
"East," she said, pointing a shaking hand. "Into the hills. Said he wanted to 'cleanse the coast' before Jerusalem took it."
Roland exchanged a look with his commanders.
This wasn't just a bandit leader.
This was a fanatic.
Ferrand growled, "A cleansing? He thinks he's chosen by God."
Roland stood. "No. He thinks no one will stop him."
The Ambush in the Hills
The hills were quiet. Too quiet.
Roland's scouts found tracks—hundreds of them—leading along the ridge. The sun began to dip behind the cliffs, casting long shadows across the rocks.
Lucien rode beside Roland. "If he's watching, he knows our numbers."
"He'll attack when he thinks we're stretched thin," Roland said.
A shout came from the front.
"CONTACT! ARCHERS IN THE RIDGE!"
Dozens of arrows rained down from above. Roland's cavalry scattered, shields raised. Men ducked behind rocks.
Then came the roar.
A large figure appeared on the ridge, flanked by nearly a hundred warriors.
The northern warlord.
He wore layered hide armor painted red, a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, and a jagged blade in his fist.
"I AM PRINCE KARLEN OF THE NORTH!" he bellowed down the slope. "TURN BACK TO ACRE OR BE BURIED HERE!"
Ferrand spat. "Self-proclaimed prince. Coward on a hill."
Roland stepped into the open, cloak whipping in the wind.
"Karlen!" he shouted. "You raid the coast, burn villages, and threaten Tyre. Today you answer for it."
Karlen laughed. "You? With two hundred men?"
Roland's voice stayed level. "I don't need more."
Karlen slammed his blade into the ground. "KILL THEM!"
His warriors charged down the hillside.
Roland's Trap
The moment Karlen committed, Roland motioned with two fingers.
A silent signal.
One practiced the night before.
Hidden in the valley's lower ravine, sixty of Roland's archers stood up from cover and released the first volley. Arrows tore into the charging line.
Lucien led a flank of cavalry, roaring as he slammed into Karlen's left side.
Ferrand led the right, smashing into the raiders like a hammer.
Karlen realized too late — Roland hadn't walked into an ambush.
He set one.
Roland charged straight up the center. His horse hit the enemy line like a storm. Men scattered, rolled down the hill, or fell beneath hooves.
In the chaos, Karlen roared and leapt down from the ridge to engage Roland himself.
Steel rang out when their blades collided.
Prince Karlen Falls
Karlen was strong.
Stronger than anyone Roland had faced since Chapter Eleven in the caves.
But strength without discipline is useless.
Karlen swung wildly. Roland blocked, stepped in, and struck a clean slash across Karlen's arm. Blood sprayed.
Karlen stumbled back, eyes wide.
"You're… not normal," he growled.
Roland's expression didn't change. "I don't need to be."
Karlen roared and rushed forward.
Roland sidestepped, hooked his blade behind Karlen's knee, and brought him crashing to the ground.
The "prince" dropped to one knee.
Roland stood over him.
"This coast will unify," Roland said quietly, "with or without your permission."
Karlen spat blood. "You can't stop all of us. More will rise."
Roland's voice turned cold. "Then I'll cut them down one by one."
He drove his sword into the ground beside Karlen's head — not killing him, but marking total dominance.
Karlen froze.
Roland signaled his men.
"Bind him. He will stand trial before Tyre."
The Message Sent
By dusk, the battlefield was silent.
Karlen's forces were scattered or captured. His banner—painted with a wolf skull—was torn down and placed in Roland's saddlebag.
Lucien rode beside him. "Tyre will hear of this before the night ends."
Ferrand grinned. "And when they do?"
Roland answered simply:
"They'll stop seeing us as invaders."
"And start seeing us," Lucien said, "as the power that saved them."
Roland nodded.
The victory had not just defeated a warlord.
It had given Tyre a legend.
Roland—
the commander who crushed the northern prince in a single day.
And tomorrow, when the envoys returned to their city, Tyre's leaders would face a simple choice:
Join Jerusalem willingly…
or be left behind by history.
Roland turned his horse toward Acre.
The coast had begun to bend.
Tyre would be next.