The smoke lingered long after the battle ended.
A crimson sun rose above the valley, casting light upon a field littered with shattered weapons, splintered shields, and the still forms of men who had marched beneath proud banners only hours before. The air reeked of iron and ash. Carrion birds descended in lazy spirals, their wings slicing through the pale dawn.
From a ridge overlooking the devastation, Alaric stood silent, the wind tugging at his cloak. His armor bore streaks of soot and blood — not his own — and his eyes, distant and cold, reflected the faint glow of fire still burning in the valley below.
Talia approached quietly, her usual sharp demeanor subdued. "Our scouts report the survivors have retreated behind Ashenfall's gates. Their general is still alive… barely. He's been carried into the city by what's left of his honor guard."
Alaric didn't turn. "Good. Let him speak."
"Of what?" she asked.
"Of fear."
Talia hesitated, then bowed her head slightly. "The men are waiting for orders."
"Tell them to rest and tend to the wounded. We move at dusk."
Her brows furrowed. "So soon? They'll expect us to regroup."
Alaric finally looked at her. His gaze was steady, unyielding. "That's exactly what they're counting on. We strike before they can breathe."
---
In the heart of Ashenfall, chaos ruled.
The great city that once prided itself on discipline and grandeur now trembled beneath the weight of panic. Word of the slaughter had spread faster than wildfire. Soldiers whispered of the crimson-cloaked commander who summoned hell itself from the ground. The Iron Hound — the city's undefeated guardian — had returned bloodied, broken, his armor shattered and eyes hollow.
Governor Ren Voss paced before the council table, his golden robes a mockery of calm. His advisors argued, shouted, pleaded — each one offering excuses or impossible plans to preserve what little pride the city still held.
"Seal the inner gates!" one cried.
"Send a messenger to the Zhang Empire — we can't face this alone!" another shouted.
"The men won't fight!" came a desperate voice. "They say he's a demon!"
Ren Voss slammed his hand down on the table, silencing them all. "Enough!"
The room fell still.
"He's mortal," the governor hissed. "He bleeds, as any man does. The moment we forget that, we've already lost."
But even as he spoke, his voice trembled. Deep down, he knew — this was no ordinary foe. The enemy outside his walls wasn't just a man; he was a tide, and tides could not be reasoned with.
---
Back in the encampment, dusk fell.
The men moved with quiet efficiency, their exhaustion buried beneath discipline. Fires burned low, tents stood in perfect rows, and the distant clang of hammers echoed as weapons were repaired and armor reforged.
Hagen sat beside the forge, running a whetstone along his axe. "You're pushing them hard, Commander," he said without looking up. "They'll follow you into hell, but even hell demands a day's rest."
Alaric crouched nearby, adjusting the bindings on his gauntlet. "Hell doesn't rest, Hagen."
The big man chuckled, shaking his head. "You sound like a man who's forgotten what sleep feels like."
"Sleep is for those who can afford it."
The words carried a quiet weight that silenced further talk.
Ryn Tal approached then, moving like a shadow. "Our scouts have returned. The northern wall is lightly defended — they've shifted most of their troops to the western flank, expecting another full assault."
Alaric rose, fastening his cloak. "Good. We'll remind them that the deadliest strikes come when you think you're safe."
Talia joined them, arms crossed. "What's the plan?"
He looked to the horizon, where the first stars blinked awake in the twilight sky. "We take the northern gate before midnight. Quietly. No horns, no banners. Just steel and silence."
---
The moon climbed high, pale and cold.
A handful of shadows slipped through the woods — no more than two hundred of Alaric's best. Their armor was dulled to reflect no light, their steps muffled against the forest floor. At their head, Alaric moved with predatory calm, every motion deliberate.
The northern gate loomed ahead — an ancient structure of iron and stone, guarded by two dozen soldiers bored by false security. They leaned against their spears, talking softly, unaware of the death creeping closer.
Alaric raised his hand.
Two fingers.
The signal.
From the darkness, Ryn Tal's assassins fanned out, moving like liquid shadow. The first guard never even gasped — a blade whispered across his throat, and he crumpled silently. Another followed, then another.
Within moments, the walls were theirs.
Talia emerged from the treeline, her eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "Gate secured."
Alaric nodded. "Open it."
The iron hinges groaned softly, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Beyond the walls, Ashenfall slept — unaware that its nightmare had already begun.
---
By dawn, the black banners of Alaric's army flew from the northern wall.
The city awoke to screams.
Panic surged through the streets as soldiers scrambled to respond, but confusion reigned. Fire spread from the outer districts where the fighting had begun. Civilians fled, shouting the same name again and again — not as a curse, but as a whisper of dread.
"Alaric… the Crimson Blade…"
---
And in the courtyard of the governor's palace, Ren Voss watched the smoke rise, his face pale, his composure cracking.
He could hear the drums again.
They came not from the fields this time, but from within his own walls.
The storm was no longer coming — it had arrived.