The river settlement of Hareth lay quiet beneath the afternoon sun.
Low stone houses clustered near the water, their roofs patched with reed and clay. Smoke rose lazily from cook fires. Fishermen stood knee-deep along the banks, unaware that war had bent its path toward them.
I watched it from a shallow ridge, my stomach tight.
"This isn't a battlefield," Ril said softly.
"No," I replied. "That's why it matters."
Hareth fed the eastern steppe. Grain barges, dried fish, salted meat—all of it moved north and east from this place. Tarek al-Rhazim had left it lightly defended, assuming I would chase shadows deeper into empty land.
He had misjudged one thing.
I was willing to be hated.
We advanced at dusk.
The cavalry circled wide, cutting escape routes. Infantry moved in silence, shields wrapped to mute sound. No horns. No banners. Only boots against dirt and the river's slow breath.
The first Qashiri sentry never saw the blade.
The second shouted—but too late.
Steel rang. Dogs barked. Someone screamed.
The village erupted into chaos.
"Hold formation!" Captain Elren shouted. "Do not scatter!"
I forced myself forward, through the noise, through the fear. This was not a glorious charge. This was occupation—ugly, close, and mercilessly intimate.
Qashiri soldiers fought hard despite their surprise. They were not cowards. They were farmers turned spearmen, riders who knew every bend of the river. But they were outnumbered, and more importantly, unprepared.
Within an hour, it was over.
Bodies lay in the dust. Blood soaked into grain sacks split open by stray blades. Fires crackled where torches had fallen.
The silence afterward was worse.
Civilians emerged slowly.
Old men clutching staffs. Women holding children close. Eyes wide with terror and hate.
I dismounted.
Every instinct screamed at me to stay mounted—to stay above them. But wars were not won from horseback alone.
A woman stepped forward, shaking. "Why?" she demanded in broken Kaeldorian. "We fed no army."
"You fed one," I said quietly.
Her face twisted. "So you starve us instead?"
The truth lodged in my throat.
"Yes."
The word tasted like ash.
We seized the stores.
Grain wagons. Dried fish. Salt. Not burned—taken. Everything counted, cataloged, moved. Precision mattered. Excess cruelty bred rebellion. Controlled cruelty bred compliance.
Ril watched silently as soldiers worked. "They'll remember this," he said.
"I know."
"And Tarek will respond."
"I hope he does."
That night, we camped outside the village. No looting. No fires within the settlement. Guards posted, strict orders enforced.
Still, I heard the crying.
Sleep did not come.
At dawn, our scouts returned breathless.
"Movement north," one said. "Fast riders. More than yesterday."
I nodded. "He's coming."
"But not in force," another added. "He's splitting his units."
Ril frowned. "That's dangerous."
"Yes," I said. "For him."
We did not wait.
Leaving a small garrison behind, we marched west along the river, striking another storehouse by midday. Again, swift. Again, decisive. Again, restraint enforced.
By the third day, smoke rose behind us like a scar across the land.
Morale shifted.
Kaeldorian soldiers moved with grim purpose now. They understood the cost—and the necessity. Qashiri resistance hardened, but their coordination fractured.
Tarek had built his defense on patience and prediction.
I was teaching him urgency.
The counterattack came at dusk on the fourth day.
Cavalry slammed into our rear guard as we crossed a narrow ford. Arrows darkened the sky. Horses screamed. Men drowned beneath armor weight.
For a moment, everything unraveled.
Then the reserves held.
Shields locked. Spears braced. Archers answered.
I fought in the water, boots slipping, blade heavy with blood. A Qashiri rider charged me, eyes wild. I parried, stepped inside his guard, and drove steel into flesh.
He fell without a sound.
Around us, the battle churned—short, vicious, unforgiving.
When it ended, the ford ran red.
We lost forty men.
Tarek lost more.
But more importantly—he lost time.
That night, as we burned no villages and took no more stores, a captured Qashiri officer was brought before me.
He knelt, defiant even in chains.
"You think this victory matters?" he spat. "You will never break the steppe."
I studied him.
"No," I said. "But I don't need to."
He frowned.
"I only need to make it bleed long enough for others to notice."
Understanding crept into his eyes.
Velmora. Draeven. Solenna.
The war was no longer quiet.
Far to the east, Tarek al-Rhazim received the reports in silence.
Lost stores. Fractured patrols. A commander who refused to chase ghosts.
At last, he exhaled slowly.
"He's not here to win battles," he said. "He's here to change the war."
An aide asked, "What do we do?"
Tarek looked toward the south, where faith burned brighter than reason.
"We invite the faithful," he said.
And somewhere beyond the steppe, bells began to ring.