Fog returned with the morning.
Thick and low, crawling across the plains like living smoke.
Aren stood beside General Caelis, watching it roll in.
"Perfect," Aren murmured.
"Or disastrous," Caelis replied.
Engineers worked through the night.
They tore down markers.
Covered solid paths.
Dug shallow channels to flood the ground.
From afar, the land looked safe.
It was not.
Scouts reported Draven's advance at noon.
Heavy infantry first.
Cavalry behind.
Confident.
Uncautious.
They believed Valenreach was weakening.
They were wrong.
Rowan rode along the line.
"Hold," he ordered. "Do not engage until they enter the basin."
Men nodded.
Sweat and fear mixed on their faces.
Draven's banners moved closer.
Black wolves swayed.
Drums pounded.
Boots crushed reeds.
Then—
A scream.
A soldier vanished into mud.
Another followed.
Then ten more.
Panic spread.
Horses sank.
Wagons tipped.
Men flailed.
The marsh swallowed them.
"Now!" Aren shouted.
Horns blared.
Arrows darkened the sky.
They rained on trapped enemies.
Steel found helpless flesh.
Cries filled the air.
Some Draven troops fought free.
They charged blindly.
Desperate.
Mad.
Valenreach met them with spears.
No mercy.
No pause.
Rowan led a flank attack.
His banner surged forward.
Draven's line cracked.
Then broke.
Men fled.
Dropped weapons.
Screamed prayers.
Few were answered.
By evening, the field was theirs.
Thousands lay dead in black armor.
The marsh was red.
Sticky.
Silent.
Caelis clasped Aren's arm.
"You've won us the north," he said.
Aren looked away.
At corpses sinking slowly into mud.
"Only for now," he replied.
Lysa approached, eyes dark.
"Draven won't forget this."
"Neither will I," Aren said.
That night, songs were sung.
Wine was shared.
Victory celebrated.
Aren stayed apart.
Watching flames dance.
Knowing every triumph carried a price.
And someday…
He would pay it.