The Kaeldorian army had moved with quiet precision over the past three days, striking supply depots and forcing Tarek al-Rhazim to react. Yet as dawn broke, I realized we were no longer dealing with a single opponent who measured his victories in days and kilometers. Something larger had awakened.
The banners of Draeven's southern legions appeared on the horizon, their crimson and gold flapping violently in the wind. They were fewer than Tarek's formations, but their presence carried a weight beyond mere numbers. Their approach was silent yet thunderous—a shadow over the steppe that spoke of fanatic discipline.
Ril leaned close as we watched them from the ridge. "They move differently," he muttered. "Not like Tarek's forces. There's a fire in their steps… a certainty."
"Yes," I said quietly. "Faith, and the kind that doesn't bend." I tightened my grip on my reins. "And certainty is far deadlier than steel when it dictates life and death."
We had barely settled a camp near a shallow river when the first Draeven scouts arrived. They came without warning, mounted lightly, archers at their sides. They did not engage in probing attacks or feigned retreats. They came to assess, to mark, to measure.
I ordered no reaction. No volleys of arrows. No cavalry probes. Let them watch, let them calculate. The lesson I had learned from Tarek was clear: the mind was the battlefield before the ground ever was. If they saw us jittery or reckless, that would become their first advantage.
By noon, they had moved closer. Their formation was strange to me—no straight lines, no predictable ranks. Instead, small clusters advanced like a river splitting over rocks, flanking and observing simultaneously. The soldiers themselves moved with a discipline that came from years of blind obedience, but it was obedience sharpened into instinct. It was terrifying to watch.
Captain Elren approached, frowning. "They won't engage?"
"No," I said. "Not yet. But they've sent a message anyway. War has a thousand ways to speak, and right now, this is theirs."
I dismounted and drew a rough map on the dirt. The river, the ridges, the hills to the east—I traced them with a stick. "They will try to force us into predictable choices. We will make them expensive. Every step they take costs something they cannot afford."
Ril squinted at the sketch. "And what if we miscalculate? Their zeal…"
I cut him off, firm. "Then we die. But die knowing we gave them nothing without cost. That is all war ever asks."
As evening fell, the first encounter occurred—not with swords, but with words. A messenger from Draeven arrived, unarmed, riding a horse without armor. He approached under a banner of white and red, holding a sealed note.
I broke the seal. His message was brief:
"Kaeldor moves through our lands. Retreat or face judgment."
I folded the parchment. My jaw tightened. "Judgment," I repeated. Not a threat. A declaration. Draeven did not negotiate. They commanded.
Ril whispered, "We can't retreat. Not after Hareth."
"No," I said. "And we won't. But we will remind them that judgment is not one-sided."
I called the officers together. "We will hold here tonight. Position our archers along the riverbanks. Infantry in staggered defense. The first wave will meet fire. Then the cavalry hits the flanks. Make sure every soldier knows the price of stepping forward."
That night, I could barely sleep. I walked among the men, checking positions, listening to whispers. Their faces were lit by small fires, eyes wide with anticipation and fear. One soldier, barely older than a boy, muttered to himself: "I thought Tarek was the worst… and now this."
I stopped beside him. "Faith can be crueler than cunning," I said softly. "It makes men unstoppable, but also predictable."
He looked at me as if he expected a lesson or comfort. I offered neither. "Survive this night, and you will know more about war than most commanders in a lifetime."
The dawn brought chaos. Draeven sent forward a light cavalry unit, charging along the riverbank. Arrows rained from Kaeldorian archers, and when they struck the ranks, Draeven's zeal did not falter. They fell, rose, and pressed on.
It was then I remembered the words of a veteran I had once met long before the campaign:
"Wars aren't won by brave men. They're won by men who stay standing when bravery runs out."
I rode along the line, watching, shouting, calculating. Every moment, I adjusted the archers, repositioned spearmen, guided cavalry to weak points. Tarek had taught me the patience of calculation, and now Draeven tested the endurance of resolve.
By noon, the Draeven advance faltered under sustained Kaeldorian fire. The fanatic soldiers began to scatter—not entirely, but enough that we could exploit gaps. I signaled the cavalry, and with a thunderous charge, we struck their flanks. Horses crashed into men, shields splintered, and the first taste of blood washed across the riverbanks.
It was victory—but hollow.
As the survivors fled, I surveyed the battlefield. Bodies lay in twisted clusters, banners stained, horses dead or dying. My soldiers returned silently, not triumphant, not celebratory. They had learned the truth of Draeven: zeal could be broken, but at a cost measured not just in flesh, but in spirit.
Ril approached me, voice low. "We won… but I've never seen men fight like that. If they regroup…"
"They will," I said. "And next time, they will remember. And so will we."
I dismounted and walked among the corpses. Not for glory. Not for ritual. But to remind myself and the men: war demanded respect for both the living and the dead. The map of Aereth was changing in our hands, but each victory left a scar deeper than the terrain itself.
That night, as fires smoldered and winds carried the scent of blood, I wrote a note to the officers.
"Draeven will test more than our swords. They will test our discipline, patience, and resolve. The steppe is no longer empty. Our path forward is not straight. Every step is a gamble, every decision a cost. Prepare accordingly."
I sealed it and sent runners to the units.
Somewhere far to the east, Tarek al-Rhazim received reports of our engagement with Draeven. His expression was unreadable, yet I knew—he had measured the cost as carefully as I had. And like me, he knew that the tides of war were no longer flowing along a single path.
Aereth was awakening. And every kingdom, every commander, every soldier, would feel its first tide of faith.