Dust and banners and the rumble of boots made the plain a living thing—black standards like a tide, drums like the measured breath of an enormous beast.
The Great Demon Lord had not whispered “destroy” as a poet might; he announced it as a plan, and his generals—ambitious, cruel, patient—obeyed as if obedience were prayer. Word had leaked from the forward scouts that the Empire’s iron mouth had set for Fellgrade, and that the flood would not merely knock but drown.
At the table beneath the carved rafters of the Empire’s war-hall, the First General ran his fingers along a map as if stroking a sleeping animal. He spoke to his lieutenants with the cold precision of a man certain of cause and consequence. “We strike now. We break the treaty and see which kings will bother to stand. The Federation will fracture when borders smell like smoke.”
Beside him, Kael’vra — the silver-horned titan whose eyes slid over potential futures like a creature reading tides — listened with a silence that was practice, not apathy. He had watched farther than most.
His mind had kept the pictures of outcomes not as menace but as inevitability: the Federation might win some battles, collapse, rise again in ugly new forms, then be broken a second time; the cycle wound itself like a wheel grinding into old spokes. He knew, intimately, the fall of Nyxarion, the end of Blade Lunaria, the end of Aethelred as the world had once written it. But there was one knot in his gallery of glimpses he could not unravel: Shujin — the Darkness Lord. The future around that name blurred, flicking like a candle in wind. Kael’vra kept that blindness secret. Better, he judged, to be the whisper in the war-hall than the scream on the battlefield.
“You know what will come,” the First General said quietly, testing Kael’vra the way a smith tests steel. “Then why not act differently? Why hold counsel instead of charging the field with every tooth and claw?”
Kael’vra’s answer was a single, measured breath. “Because there are more losses than victories in certainty. To move when the future says burn is to invite an earlier ruin. I advise. I do not march. There is vanity in every open hand.”
That calm irritated some. It was the reason Kael’vra sat where he did: a man who saw too far to throw himself into the first blaze.
Across the line, Nyxarion withdrew to his white vacuum-domain with a cold satisfaction that tasted of steel. He could not match Blade—no one could match Blade’s strange resilience—but he could set snares. His plans for the assassin still in Blade’s circle remained, and he would not be careless. He fortified his house of white light and spun webs that a man like Blade might miss only if he allowed a thread to be overlooked.
On the human side, kingdoms leaned toward one another like wary survivors. Ironwood’s King Arvedis and Princess Alisa watched the clouded horizon and spoke of levies and stores; Silverwood’s Queen Bellatrix read the runes with Alina at her shoulder; Mistwood’s King Hawthorne fussed and counted with Crown Prince Valren, and Flarewood’s Aurelian kept a reluctant distance, watching how the first blows fell before placing his crown’s weight on one side of the scale. Three crowns—Ironwood, Silverwood, Mistwood—declared quiet support for the Federation. Flarewood waited, a young mind weighing whether a promise of trade was worth a war’s cost.
Down on the plain, the army of Varkul—muscle loose and thunderous—marched in ranks carved by hatred. The men at his vanguard shouted confidence into the wind. Flat ground was their instrument, quantity their hammer; where steel met steel they would bring the press and the press would make room for victory. Yet under Varkul’s grin there flickered a caution: he was not the empty-brained brute the taverns called him. He read the Federation’s smallness and the king’s lending of light and knew that a thousand could be a wall if it had a spine that would not break.
Royal General Kael—calm, precise, the soldier of iron discipline—watched the approach from Fellgrade’s parapets and smelled what the map would not show: not merely the enemy’s banners but their hunger for the gate, their reliance on surrounding, on starving. His plan, when revealed aloud, sounded reckless: he would open the west gate—the weakest point—and make the enemy think the city’s heart was tender. He would offer them a bite.
“You want to give them blood,” a captain protested. “Why open a gate they will flood through?”
Kael’s answer was not hasty. His voice held the geometry of a trap. “Because their numbers are a liability when misapplied. If they pour through the west, they stretch thin, they get hungry, their baggage lines lengthen. I will not let them eat Fellgrade. I will let them choke on what they take.”
The plan required precision. 100 flying units would harass and cut. 400 mages would raise layered wards, collapse siege structures, and plant illusions in the dust. 500 infantry would not defend the gate; they would lead the outward thrust. The idea was to turn the enemy’s concentration into a spread and then fold the blades around their edges. Kael’s mouth twitched with a soldier’s confidence that came from knowing men’s weaknesses—their greed for a breach, their tendency to celebrate early.
What Kael did not say outside his close circle was the other piece: three species, according to the old, blood-raw taxonomies of Velgrith, walked the world. The bookish scholars might list dwarves and elves under their own pages, but in Kael’s practical mouth the world split into three kinds—Humans, Demons, and Beasts. Dwarves and elves, in the ledger of conflict and survival, often behaved like beasts: stubborn, territorial, occasionally bright, occasionally feral. Beasts were not simply animals; many counted as peoples—tribes and smithers, cunning and brutal in a way soldiers learned to fear.
He had spent months, in the quiet between councils, training certain beast packs: dune-runners tamed to flank, mountain-bear-kin schooled to break formations, and a surprising number of semi-sapient forest-kin who specialized in chaos. These were not mercenaries so much as willed forces—creatures who obeyed a pack’s logic and the discipline Kael had hammered into them. He would use them as the bite at the tip of a trap: let enemies pour in, then unleash the beasts in the narrow places where men could not rearrange quickly.
Varkul watched the west gate gleefully and smirked as the apparent easy work neared. “Bring them out, Kael,” he taunted, lips curling like a blade’s edge. “We will take the city and make a feast.”
When the gate opened and Kael’s infantry surged outward, the extremists poured through a west gap that seemed to promise loaf and coin. For a heartbeat the plan looked like a folly—men met men in blade and shield, and the line bent. Then the beasts came.
From folds in the scrub, from stone, from hidden hollows, the beasts spilled into the breach. They were not neat soldiers; they were a mixture of sharp teeth, rocket-bent hindquarters, and the kind of intelligence that finds human patterns delicious. They had been trained by Kael to move as packs, to feint, to bite near the ankles and then vanish into the like a shadow. Varkul’s front ranks, stretched and bold, found themselves grappled by teeth and hooves and claws in numbers they had not accounted for. Panic is a quick contagion among men who expect only steel; it does not travel kindly in the press of beasts that will not bleed like a man.
The 8th General cursed as his men fell around him. His infantry, the hard core of the extremist maneuver, had been tricked into a maze they could not see until the teeth were in their calves. Varkul’s officers tried to beat drums of order, but the field filled with chaotic motion; men tried to pull away and found themselves blocked by their own lines. The beasts were merciless: they did not respect ranks, they did not take prisoners, and they drove at the baggage lines where siege engines and food were kept.
Reinforcements from Varkul’s flanks attempted to close the gap—and then stopped as they saw not the city’s human defenders but a sea of beasts where they expected a man’s line. Horror—slow and sharp—uncoiled in their faces. If Varkul’s men had expected to fight soldiers, they now fought something older, something the training of their bugled youth had not prepared for: the unpredictable cunning of non-human packs brought to a battlefield with cruel, tactical intent.
The sight unhinged many. Some extremist units, seeing the carnage and the unpredictability of the beasts, retreated—first in small clusters, then as a general trickle turned into a rout. Others, under the brutal discipline of the Empire, held on stubbornly and were hammered into the ground. The field became a place of strange noises: not the noble clatter of shields but the ragged cries of men in teeth’s grip and the low, triumphant roars of beasts who had been taught to enjoy their work.
Back behind the lines, on the shielded plain, the remaining extremist leaders saw the order dissolve. Rhazek’s force—20,000 to the north—hesitated when messengers told of Fellgrade’s unexpected chaos. A plan that had assumed a clean siege and a simple march suddenly required new calculus. Lord of Cruel—the 10th general in the Empire’s proud roll—had fallen in a previous debacle, taking with him a hundred thousand men’s worth of ruin and rumor; Varkul did not relish following that step.
Men in taverns and watch towers laughed at the news as it rippled: the Empire’s best had been eaten by beasts at a city gate. It sounded like a mockery, but the laughter was raw, nervous. Even in victory, Kael knew the cost was not light. Beasts were not reliable for long sieges; they ate what they could and then sulked. The Federation’s use of them bought a day and fractured the extremist momentum—but it did not win the war.
Varkul’s surviving commanders pulled their battered troops back to regroup. He himself rode amid the ruin with a face like a sword that had not been sharpened enough. “This is not over,” he spat. “We will cleanse the field and find our honor.”
Kael watched them withdraw with a soldier’s exhaustion and a general’s wary satisfaction. He had baited an appetite, and the appetite had been the Empire’s undoing for a bell’s chime. But past the gate the plains would not remain quiet. Rhazek’s column still threatened the mountain town, the supply lines were stretched, and the larger calculations of the Great Demon Lord moved like a storm front on the horizon.
As the night closed over Fellgrade, the fires of dead men chilled into smoke. Some citizens wept. Many celebrated. Men sharpened blades and prayed; others cursed gods and generals and the beasts they had been forced to feed. Kael stood with dirt under his nails and a thousand small regrets in his chest. He had bought a reprieve; he had not bought peace.
Far away, on a ridge where the mountain’s name would be told in the next chapter, the next confrontation gathered. The mountain town—its name yet to be sung into this chapter—waited in a hush that tasted of sharp pine and colder stone. The war would move there next, and with it the question everyone had softened into their throat: would the tactics that unnerved an army at a gate be enough to hold a choke in the hills? Or would the Empire learn and come back with a cruelty that did not make room for beasts or mercy?
The night closed like a lid, and all the players—kings and generals and beasts, gods and men—held their breath. The war had begun not with a single thunder strike but with the slow, clever hinge of a trap. The cost had been paid in blood and teeth. The reckoning would be measured in what came next: a mountain town and the hard, inevitable climb.
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✦ To be continued...