The river changed its sound after a killing.
I had learned that long ago, during my first campaign—how water that had seen blood ran thicker for a time, carrying a weight that no current could wash away. That night, as I stood on the bank near Bramholt, I could hear it clearly. A low, grinding murmur, like the land itself remembering.
The villagers slept in shifts. Fires burned brighter than before, no longer hidden. Fear had not left them—but it had sharpened into vigilance. That, too, was a consequence of war.
Ril joined me without speaking, cloak drawn tight against the cold. We watched the water for a long moment.
"You let the prisoners go," he said at last.
"Yes."
"They'll report everything."
"Yes."
He frowned. "You're teaching Draeven how you think."
"No," I said quietly. "I'm teaching them how I want them to think I think."
He exhaled through his nose. "You're becoming dangerous."
"That's the idea."
At dawn, the next blow came—not from Draeven, but from within.
A courier arrived from the north bearing the seal of Kaeldor's High Council. The parchment was stiff, the handwriting formal, the tone careful in the way cowards prefer.
Your actions along the southern river have raised concern. Neutral territories report coercion. Trade partners threaten withdrawal. You are instructed to halt further seizures and return control to local authorities pending review.
I read it twice.
Ril watched my face. "They're afraid."
"They always are," I replied. "Fear is easier than responsibility."
Elren entered as I folded the letter. "The men know something's wrong. Rumors are spreading."
"Good," I said. "Let them spread."
Ril stared at me. "You're not going to obey that order."
"No," I said. "I'm going to answer it."
By midday, the answer was written in action.
Another river town—Lethwyn—sent word of Draeven agents moving among its docks. Whispers. Coin changing hands. A priest preaching peace under a foreign god.
I rode out with a small escort. No banners. No drums.
Lethwyn met us with closed gates.
I dismounted alone and walked forward until the guards could see my face clearly.
"I'm not here to take your food," I called out. "I'm here to take your lies."
The gates opened slowly.
Inside, tension hung thick. Merchants clutched account books like shields.
Dockworkers avoided my eyes.
I went straight to the temple.
The priest did not deny it when confronted. He smiled, serene, hands folded in his sleeves.
"You fear chaos," he said. "So do we."
"You serve Draeven," I replied.
"I serve peace."
I drew my blade and laid it flat across the altar—not threatening, not raised.
"Peace built on betrayal is just a slower massacre," I said. "You have until sunset to leave Kaeldor lands."
His smile faltered. "And if I refuse?"
"Then history will forget you existed," I said calmly.
He left before the bells rang.
The reaction was immediate.
By evening, three council envoys arrived, red-faced and furious. They accused me of overreach, of tyranny, of becoming the very monster Kaeldor claimed to resist.
I listened without interruption.
When they finished, I spoke.
"Stonewake is gone," I said. "Bramholt burns. Draeven probes our lines daily. And you send ink instead of steel."
One envoy sneered. "You were not elected to rule."
"No," I said. "I was appointed to win."
Silence followed.
I stepped closer. "Tell the council this: I will hold the river. I will break Draeven's advance. And when this war is judged, they may condemn me—or thank me. I don't care which."
They left without another word.
That night, Draeven answered.
Not with raiders
.
With an army.
Scouts reported movement across the southern plain—banners raised at last, torches stretching like a wound across the dark. Valen Draegor had decided subtlety had served its purpose.
"They're coming straight for the river," Elren said, grim. "Five thousand at least."
"And we have?" Ril asked.
"Less than half," Elren replied. "And scattered."
I studied the map by firelight. The river bent sharply near Redmere Ford, narrowing before widening again downstream. Marshland on one side. High ground on the other.
"They'll cross at the ford," I said. "They have to."
Ril looked at me. "Then that's where we meet them."
"No," I replied. "That's where we let the river fight first."
We worked through the night.
Villagers were roused—not to fight, but to move. Boats were sunk deliberately. Carts were overturned into the shallows. Stakes driven beneath the waterline.
Engineers redirected tributaries, flooding the low marshland until it became a sucking grave.
By dawn, the ford was a lie.
Draeven arrived confident.
They always did.
From the ridge, I watched their vanguard advance—disciplined, armored, banners snapping in the morning wind. Valen Draegor rode somewhere among them, unseen but felt.
The first ranks entered the water.
And slowed.
Then stumbled.
Then screamed.
Hidden stakes tore into legs. Mud swallowed boots. Horses reared and threw riders. The river, swollen and redirected, surged where it should not have.
Archers loosed from the high ground.
Not volleys.
Individual shots.
Precision.
Ril stood beside me, pale. "They're drowning."
"Yes," I said. "So will we if this fails."
Draeven adapted quickly.
They always did.
Engineers moved forward. Shields locked. They began building causeways under fire, sacrificing men to test depth and footing.
"Valen's here," Elren muttered. "This is his style."
"Good," I replied. "Then he'll see."
When their center stalled, I gave the signal.
Our infantry surged from concealment—not charging, but advancing methodically, forcing Draeven to fight knee-deep in water and mud.
Steel rang.
Men screamed.
The river turned dark.
I fought near the ford myself, blade heavy in my hand, boots sinking with every step. A Draeven captain lunged at me, eyes wild. I parried, twisted, drove my blade under his ribs.
He gasped, disbelief etched across his face as he fell into the current.
No time to mourn.
No time to think.
Only movement.
Only survival.
By midday, the ford was choked with bodies.
Draeven horns sounded retreat—not rout, but withdrawal. Controlled. Disciplined.
Valen Draegor did not waste lives chasing unwinnable ground.
They pulled back.
The river held.
We stood among the wreckage, exhausted, wounded, alive.
Ril leaned on his spear, breathing hard. "You broke them."
"No," I said. "I reminded them."
That evening, as the dead were counted and the wounded treated, a message arrived.
Not carried by raven.
Not by courier.
A single rider under a white flag approached the camp.
He bore no seal.
Only a spoken message.
"From Lord Valen Draegor," he said, eyes never leaving mine. "He says this: Rivers change course. So do wars. Enjoy your victory."
I nodded once. "Tell him this: So do men."
The rider departed.
That night, I walked the river again.
Bodies had been pulled free. Fires burned along the bank. The villagers watched silently, understanding now what protection truly cost.
Ril joined me once more.
"They'll sing about this," he said quietly.
"No," I replied. "They'll argue about it."
He frowned. "What's the difference?"
"Songs glorify," I said. "Arguments endure."
I looked south, where Draeven banners had vanished into darkness.
Stonewake was still lost.
The council still doubted.
Valmere still watched from its forests.
But the river had chosen its warden.
And it would remember who bled for it.
So would history.