The horn sounded again.
It was not the clean call of Kaeldor brass, nor the harsh bark of Draeven war-horns. This sound was lower, rougher, as if torn from the throat of the land itself. It rolled across the river valley and settled into men's bones, vibrating through armor and muscle alike.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then everything moved at once.
Kaeldor's front ranks tightened, shields lifting instinctively. Draeven's formations faltered, officers shouting conflicting orders. Horses stamped and reared, catching the fear of their riders. On the riverbank behind me, civilians froze, hands clenched around weapons that suddenly felt too small.
Ril's voice cut through the noise. "North treeline. Movement."
I followed his gaze.
Figures emerged from the mist along the northern bank—dozens at first, then hundreds. Not in neat lines. Not with banners held high. They moved like hunters, spaced apart, cloaks dark and mottled, weapons slung low. Their shields were oval and scarred, their spears shorter, heavier at the head.
River clans.
Elren exhaled sharply. "They're real, then."
"They were always real," I said. "We just forgot them."
The river clans had no king. No capital. They lived along the upper tributaries, in marsh and forest where armies bogged down and maps lied. Kaeldor taxed them once, decades ago. The collectors never returned.
The horn sounded a third time.
This time, closer.
The first clash did not come with a charge.
It came with a mistake.
A Kaeldor cavalry unit broke formation, spurred forward by a captain desperate to assert control. They thundered toward the river clans, lances leveled, discipline snapping into place.
The clans did not run.
They stepped aside.
The ground gave way.
Horses screamed as hooves sank into mud disguised by reeds. Riders pitched forward, armor dragging them down. Spears punched upward, short and brutal, finding bellies, throats, gaps beneath breastplates. One man tried to crawl free; a stone axe ended that effort with a wet crack.
Ril swore under his breath. "They planned that."
"Of course they did," I said. "They live here."
Kaeldor archers loosed in panic. Arrows vanished into fog, thudding into mud or striking nothing at all. The clans melted back, dragging bodies with them, leaving only silence and the stink of blood.
That silence broke Draeven's nerve.
Valen Draegor raised his arm, black banner snapping behind him. His voice carried, sharp and commanding. Draeven infantry surged forward, shields high, trying to seize the crossings before Kaeldor could regroup.
This was the moment the valley tipped into hell.
"Hold the ford!" Ril shouted.
"Left bank—now!" Elren yelled.
I didn't shout. I ran.
The riverbank was chaos—men slipping on blood-slick stones, boats smashing together, civilians screaming as arrows hissed overhead. I slammed into a Draeven spearman, my shoulder taking the impact, blade skidding off his shield. He shoved back, strong, trained. His second thrust caught my arm, scraping metal and skin. Pain flared hot and immediate.
Good. Real.
I kicked his knee sideways, felt it give, and drove my sword into the gap under his arm. He sagged, heavy, and I shoved him into the river, where the current took him without ceremony.
Around me, the fight was ugly and close. No grand sweeps. Just bodies colliding, weapons jamming, men screaming when steel met flesh at the wrong angle. A fisherman went down clutching his throat, blood pumping through his fingers. Another stepped over him without slowing, teeth bared, swinging a hammer into a helmet again and again until it dented inward.
Draeven pressed hard. They were good. Too good. Their shields locked, their line advancing by inches, boots digging into mud.
"Fall back!" someone screamed behind me.
"No," I shouted. "Anchor here!"
A Kaeldor arrow struck a Draeven shield, glanced, and buried itself in a civilian's back. He dropped without a sound.
I felt the anger rise then—not hot, not wild. Cold and focused.
This was what happens when kings argue over maps.
The river clans struck again, this time from behind the Kaeldor left flank. Not a charge. A series of precise, vicious ambushes. Officers went down first. Signal horns vanished into the fog. Commands died in throats that filled with blood.
Kaeldor formations buckled.
Draeven saw it and pushed harder, trying to break through before the crown army collapsed entirely.
And that was the mistake I had been waiting for.
"Ril!" I shouted. "Release the chain!"
He hesitated only a second, then nodded.
Men ran to the boats lashed together across the narrowest point of the ford. Axes fell. Ropes snapped. The makeshift bridge shuddered and tore free, spinning sideways into the current.
Draeven's front ranks were on it when it went.
Planks buckled. Men screamed as the river dragged them under armor and all. Shields collided, pinning bodies beneath the surface. The current did the rest.
The ford was gone.
Valen Draegor's banner dipped.
Just for a moment.
The fighting dragged into the afternoon.
No clean lines remained. Just pockets of violence scattered along the banks and shallows. I lost track of time, of how many times my arm shook with fatigue, how many blows glanced off my helm hard enough to ring my skull.
At one point, a Kaeldor sergeant recognized me.
"You!" he shouted, eyes wild. "Traitor!"
He charged, sword high, form breaking under rage. I met him head-on, steel clashing. He was strong, trained—but tired. We grappled, boots sliding in mud. He tried to headbutt me; I caught his chin with my pommel instead. When he fell, I did not finish him.
I kicked his sword away and moved on.
I did not have time for vengeance.
By dusk, the valley was a ruin.
Kaeldor forces had pulled back north, shattered but not destroyed. Draeven held the southern ridges, bloodied and furious. The river clans faded into the fog once more, leaving behind only their dead and a message written in absence.
They had chosen the river.
Not me.
That was enough.
I stood on a rise overlooking the ford, chest heaving, hands slick with blood that wasn't all mine. Ril joined me, limping, his spear snapped and replaced with a fallen sword.
"We're still standing," he said, almost surprised.
"Yes," I replied. "But this isn't a victory."
Elren approached from the other side, face grim. "Scouts report Kaeldor is sending messengers. Likely to the capital."
"And Draeven?" I asked.
He grimaced. "Valen's setting camp. He's not retreating."
Of course he wasn't.
As night fell, fires dotted the valley like dying stars.
I walked alone to the river's edge. The water ran dark, carrying away the day's cost without comment. Bodies snagged on rocks downstream, armor glinting faintly before slipping free again.
Ril came to stand beside me.
"They'll blame you for this," he said quietly. "Both of them."
"I know."
"They'll say you orchestrated it. That you lured them here."
I watched the current swirl around a broken shield. "History will say many things."
He studied me. "And what will you say?"
I thought of the river clans' horn. Of civilians bleeding for borders they never drew. Of kings who would sleep warm tonight while messengers raced to condemn me.
"I'll say this," I answered. "No one owns this river. And anyone who tries will drown."
Ril nodded once.
Behind us, a new horn sounded—Kaeldor this time. Formal. Declarative.
A runner approached, breathless, holding a sealed parchment.
I broke it open.
The words were precise. Legal. Final.
By decree of the Crown of Kaeldor, Cairos of the River is hereby declared enemy of the realm. All who aid him share his guilt. All who kill him earn the crown's favor.
I folded the parchment carefully and handed it back.
"Burn it," I said.
Ril hesitated. "That makes it real."
"It was real the moment they needed it to be," I replied.
Across the valley, Valen Draegor's campfires flared brighter, as if answering the decree.
Two armies still breathing.
A crown sharpening its knives.
And me, standing between steel and water, with no name left to lose.
The river flowed on.
And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep and heavy in my chest—
This war had just learned my face.