The faint hum of cicadas filled the forest, blending with the muted clang of hammers and the low rumble of men moving supplies. The outpost had grown — what began as a makeshift camp of thirty had become a fortress of order and quiet discipline. Torches flared along the outer walls, their flames mirrored in the eyes of the soldiers who now followed him without hesitation.
Alaric stood atop the earthen rampart, cloak brushing lightly against the wind. From this vantage, the faint lights of Ashenfall shimmered on the horizon — a jeweled city nestled between two jagged ridges and a winding river that gleamed like molten silver under the dying sun. A place of trade, luxury, and blood. A city that would soon belong to him.
"Commander," a familiar voice broke through his thoughts. It was Ryn Tal, one of his earliest recruits — lean, sharp-eyed, a lady born for night raids. "Scouts returned from the western perimeter. The Ashenfall patrols are extending further out. Seems they've noticed our presence."
Alaric didn't answer immediately. He watched a flock of black-winged birds spiral upward in the distance — a sign of movement, of tension. Then he said quietly, "Let them come. We'll test their response time, their formations, their habits. Tell the men to stay in shadow and strike only when provoked."
Ryn hesitated. "And if they send a full unit?"
"Then we bury it," Alaric said flatly.
The soldier bowed slightly and left.
For a while, Alaric remained still, listening — to the night, to the rhythm of his men, to the faint echo of his own heartbeat. Every battle he'd fought over the past months had been a stepping stone, every conquered village a lesson in patience and command. But Ashenfall was different. It was large enough to matter. Powerful enough to resist.
His fingers brushed against the insignia pinned to his chest — not the army's badge anymore, but the emblem of his own making: a dragon wreathed in flame and shadow. A reminder of who he was becoming.
Behind him, laughter rose from the campfires. Men told tales of their victories, of the women and wine waiting once Ashenfall fell. But beneath the bravado, there was awe — and fear. They had seen their commander's wrath before, how entire bands of mercenaries vanished beneath a single wave of fire and steel.
As he turned to descend the rampart, Talia Fen, his lieutenant and chief strategist, intercepted him. Her silver hair gleamed faintly under torchlight.
"They're calling you the Bloodstorm Commander in the border towns," she said, handing him a rolled parchment. "A name that's already reached Ashenfall's governor."
Alaric took the parchment and scanned it. A bounty notice — his face rendered in precise charcoal strokes, cold eyes and the faint scar across his chin. The price on his head was staggering.
He smiled faintly. "Seems they're taking me seriously now."
Talia's gaze hardened. "Ashenfall isn't a village. Its walls are thick, its armies disciplined. And they have mercenary mages — high-tier ones. This won't be easy."
"It's not supposed to be." He folded the parchment neatly and handed it back. "If it were easy, it wouldn't be worth remembering."
For a long moment, the two stood in silence, the air between them charged with unspoken resolve. Then Alaric turned toward the campfires below.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice low but carrying, "we move closer. Establish forward lines within ten miles of the outer gate. I want their scouts captured, not killed — I'll need information before I burn the rest."
Talia bowed and vanished into the darkness.
As the night deepened, Alaric looked once more toward Ashenfall. The city lights flickered like stars fallen to earth, mocking in their distance.
He clenched his fists.
Soon, he thought. You'll kneel like the rest.
Behind him, the wind rose — sharp, cold, and heavy with the scent of iron.