The morning mist clung low to the forest floor, coiling around the roots and the boots of men who moved like ghosts. The scent of damp soil and iron filled the air. Not a single voice rose above a whisper.
Alaric crouched beside a fallen oak, his eyes fixed on the faint trail carved through the underbrush. The footprints were fresh — light, deliberate, and numerous. The Ashenfall patrol had passed here within the hour.
Behind him, Ryn Tal and Hagen Voss, his lead trackers, waited for orders.
"How many?" Alaric asked, his voice barely audible.
"Eight," Hagen replied. "One mage, judging by the aura residue. They're scouting west — routine patrol from the city gate."
Alaric's lips curved faintly. "Good. Let's make this routine their last."
He stood, motioning to the shadows around him. Dozens of eyes glimmered in the dim light as soldiers emerged from concealment, every man armed, faces smeared with ash to mute their presence. These weren't green recruits anymore; they were hardened by blood, by the endless raids and battles that had shaped them under Alaric's iron will.
"Positions," he ordered.
The forest came alive with silent motion — crossbows cocked, blades drawn, traps reset. Alaric moved to the center of the formation, every step precise, measured. His aura flared just enough to sense the world around him, to feel the tremor of approaching mana from the east.
Moments later, voices drifted through the trees. The patrol.
"…Captain, this far out? The last group never even made it back."
"Orders are orders. The governor wants proof this 'Bloodstorm' actually exists."
The lead scout's voice carried arrogance, the kind born from years of being unchallenged. The soldiers around him laughed quietly — until the wind shifted, and one of them froze.
"Wait… do you smell that?"
Before he could finish, an arrow slit his throat.
Chaos erupted.
"AMBUSH!"
The forest exploded with sound — the hiss of arrows, the crack of compressed air, the sudden scream of men dying before they saw their killers. Alaric leapt from the brush, blade drawn, a surge of flame igniting the mist in his wake. His strike cut through two soldiers instantly, the heat so intense their armor glowed red before splitting apart.
The mage among them tried to cast — too slow. Alaric appeared beside him, the air twisting with spatial ripples. He seized the man's wrist, crushed it, and drove his sword through the mage's chest.
"Tell your governor," Alaric said coldly as the man gasped for breath, "that the Bloodstorm is coming."
He twisted the blade and let the body fall.
Within minutes, silence reclaimed the forest. Birds scattered. Only the faint crackle of dying flames remained.
"Round them up," Alaric ordered. "Two alive, the rest burn the corpses. Leave nothing that can be traced."
As his men obeyed, Talia Fen approached from the rear flank, wiping blood from her dagger. "They'll notice the missing patrol by tomorrow. That means the city will tighten its defenses."
"Exactly what I want." Alaric's eyes gleamed. "Fear makes men predictable. We'll use that."
She studied him. "You plan to bait their army?"
"I plan to measure it." He looked toward the horizon, where the faint outline of Ashenfall's walls glimmered beneath the sun. "We'll take their attention piece by piece, until the only thing they see left standing—"
"—is us," Talia finished softly.
He nodded.
By dusk, the outpost had shifted closer to the city's borders. The captured scouts had been stripped of weapons and bound inside a reinforced tent. Alaric stood before them, silent, eyes cold as obsidian.
"You'll answer my questions," he said, "or you'll wish I left you for the wolves."
One of them spat. "You think you can take Ashenfall? You're nothing but a ghost story."
Alaric didn't respond. He simply drew his blade, tapped it against the man's chest, and released a thin wave of heat that seared the edge of his armor without cutting skin. The man screamed anyway.
"I'm not here to be a story," Alaric murmured. "I'm here to end one."
He sheathed the sword and turned away. "Talia, get what you can. Tomorrow, we begin mapping their supply routes."
Outside, the moon rose over the frontier, pale and cold. The men around the campfires spoke in low voices, sharing rumors about Ashenfall's governor — a man said to be cruel, paranoid, and cunning. The perfect enemy.
Alaric sat alone near the rampart, watching the silver river that ran toward the city. His reflection stared back at him: scarred, grim, older than his years.
He whispered to the wind, almost to himself,
"Let's see what kind of storm you can weather, Ashenfall."
The night swallowed his words whole.