Chapter 3 - The Ridge Falls

Smoke hung thick over Valdori like a funeral shroud, stinging Arin's eyes as he paced the war chamber. Dawn had barely broken, but the air already reeked of sweat and fear-sweat worse. Maps sprawled across the obsidian table—Blackridge Pass marked in red ink that looked too much like blood. Generals knelt around it, faces gaunt, armor dented from yesterday's skirmishes. One coughed wetly into his gauntlet. Plague rumors? Or just terror?"They're shitting themselves. Good. Push harder." The sly voice slithered back, amused. Arin ignored it, stabbing a finger at the pass. "Valthor's vanguard hits at noon. Ten thousand spears, plus siege rams. Our scouts confirm it."General Korran—scarred bear of a man, loyal only because alternatives died faster—grunted. "Sire, three legions hold the line. But poisoned river? That kills our own fodder too." Murmurs rippled. A younger captain shifted, eyes darting to the door like he prayed for escape.Arin leaned in, crown casting jagged shadows. "Show weakness? No. Break them." The violent whisper tasted like rust on his tongue. "Fodder buys time. Poison the upstream tributary at dusk. Feign retreat at first light. When Valthor smells blood, trigger the ridge charges."Korran paled, meaty fists clenching. "Thousands buried, Majesty. The men call you demon already." The room went dead quiet. Arin met every gaze, slow sweep. His own men—his now—saw the veins pulsing black under his skin. The crown hummed low, feeding off their dread."Lie. Or gut him." Laughter bubbled underneath, manic edge sharpening. Arin forced a smile, thin as a blade. "Demons win wars. Saints write songs." He waved dismissal. They scrambled out, boots echoing hollow.Alone, he slumped against the table. Memories crashed unbidden—not his. Valleys choked with mud and screams, catapults hurling plague-rats, emperors laughing atop corpse pyramids. Fractures? Past tyrants echoing in his skull? His hands shook. This isn't me. Stop."Liar," they chorused soft. "It always was."Noon came brutal. From the ridge tower, Arin watched through a spyglass. Valthor's host crested like a steel tide—banners snapping, horns blaring defiance. Imperial lines "broke" on cue, sappers melting back. Cheers erupted from rebel ranks. Horses charged poisoned waters, foaming black as riders convulsed mid-gallop.Horns wailed imperial counter. Archers loosed flaming oil jars—rivers ignited, screams drowning horns. Arin whispered the trigger word. Rune-charges buried overnight detonated. The ridge didn't fall—it erupted. Stone screamed skyward, swallowing Valthor's center in avalanche hell. Dust choked the sun. Five thousand gone. Flanks routed into fire-waters.A rider burst through haze—imperial scout, horse lathered. "Victory, sire! They shatter!" Arin nodded numb. Cheers rose distant, but inside? Nausea. "More," the voices demanded. "Feed the crown."Night fell sticky with blood-mud. Arin walked the valley alone, crown throbbing approval. Bodies piled like cordwood, moans fading. One rebel stirred—boy barely bearded, clutching a locket. "Mercy... mother..."Arin's dagger hovered. "End it." The blade dropped clean. Boy still. But as he rose, a deeper voice growled awake—ancient, thunder-rumbled. "Not enough. Armies need fear's father."Scouts yelled from afar. "Reinforcements! Valthor's brothers march double-time!" Six days left. And the crown's first crack spidered wide.