The night was restless.
The forest that once whispered with the hum of insects now groaned under the weight of war. Smoke rose in twisting ribbons, painting the stars in shades of blood and bronze. The remnants of the skirmish had been cleared, the dead burned, and silence reclaimed the charred earth — but beneath that quiet, anticipation thrummed like the beat of distant drums.
Alaric stood at the edge of the encampment, gazing toward Ashenfall's outer ramparts. The city loomed in the distance, a fortress carved into the bones of the earth, ringed by walls of dark stone that gleamed like obsidian under the moonlight. Torches lined its battlements, their glow flickering against the silhouette of towering spires.
His lieutenants gathered around the map table. The flicker of the campfire danced across their faces — Talia, sharp-eyed and calculating; Hagen, his armor still scarred from battle; and Ryn Tal, silent, expression veiled beneath her hood.
"They'll strike back before sunrise," Talia said, tracing the eastern approach with a gloved finger. "They lost too many men to ignore this insult. They'll want blood."
"Let them come," Hagen growled. "We've buried their pride in that valley. We can bury their reinforcements next."
Alaric didn't speak immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the city. He could almost hear it — the faint murmur of troops assembling, the clash of armor, the hurried commands of officers too proud to admit their fear.
"They're testing our patience," he said finally. "They'll wait until dawn. They'll want to fight when they can see the faces of the men who destroyed their vanguard."
Ryn Tal's voice was quiet, measured. "Then we make sure what they see breaks them before the battle even begins."
A slow smile ghosted across Alaric's lips. "Exactly."
---
By dawn, the army of Ashenfall emerged from the city gates — an ocean of steel and banners. Their march shook the ground, and the thunder of hooves rolled like distant storms. Two thousand soldiers in perfect formation. At their head rode General Kael Dorn, known across the western provinces as the Iron Hound of Ashenfall.
He was a massive man, his armor layered in black plate engraved with runes that glowed faintly red. His halberd, etched with intricate sigils, gleamed in the morning sun as he surveyed the empty field before him.
"Where are they?" one of his officers asked, scanning the treeline.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Watching."
He turned to his standard bearer. "Advance. Slowly. Shields up."
The soldiers obeyed, moving forward in perfect synchronization, the rhythm of their march echoing like a heartbeat.
---
Hidden among the trees, Alaric watched the enemy lines stretch across the valley floor. His forces — barely eight hundred men — waited in silence, their armor darkened with soot, their banners furled.
He could feel it — the pulse of energy in the air, the pressure of the coming storm. His fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword, feeling the faint hum of the runic core embedded within it.
"Wait for my mark," he said softly.
Talia crouched beside him, bow drawn, the faint blue gleam of a spell burning in her palm. "What if they don't take the bait?"
"They will," Alaric replied. "Men like Kael Dorn always do. They mistake patience for weakness."
---
The first line of Ashenfall troops reached the center of the valley. That was when the drums began.
Deep, resonant, ancient.
The sound didn't come from the enemy camp — it came from beneath them.
Kael's eyes widened. "What—"
The ground exploded.
Hidden pits burst open, releasing jets of flame and shards of metal. Rows of spiked chains whipped upward, tearing through armor. In an instant, two dozen men were shredded before they could scream.
The forest erupted.
Arrows rained from the ridges, each tip trailing fire. The valley transformed into a hellscape — smoke, heat, and death swirling together in a violent symphony.
Then, from the haze, Alaric charged.
He moved like a phantom, his cloak a streak of crimson, his blade wreathed in violet flame. Every strike was a death sentence. Every motion precise — too fast, too deliberate for mortal eyes.
Kael roared, breaking through the chaos, his halberd spinning with monstrous strength. Their blades met in a thunderclap of sparks and force that sent shockwaves through the battlefield.
"You're the one who slaughtered my vanguard," Kael spat, his voice a growl.
Alaric's eyes were cold. "And I'll be the one who buries your city."
Kael swung again — a brutal, crushing arc. Alaric ducked beneath it, twisting to drive his knee into the general's chest before slamming his palm forward, unleashing a burst of raw energy that hurled Kael backward across the field.
The Iron Hound roared, blood dripping from his mouth. "You'll find Ashenfall doesn't bow to monsters!"
Alaric's reply was quiet. "Then it will burn instead."
He vanished — reappearing behind the general in a blur — and brought his sword down with a strike that shattered Kael's halberd in two.
The general fell to his knees, stunned. Alaric's blade stopped at his throat.
"Tell your governor," Alaric said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is mercy. The next time I come, it will be with fire."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Kael alive — humiliated, broken, and afraid.
Behind him, the battlefield smoldered. The drums faded, replaced by the sound of crows circling overhead.
Ashenfall had won nothing that day.
But they had learned the name of the storm that was coming.