The fog clung to the valley like a damp shroud, hiding movement, masking intentions. The river, dark and unyielding, cut through the lands like a scar, its currents whispering of blood and loss. I stood on the northern rise, surveying the battlefield from yesterday, yet it felt different now—smaller, insignificant, as if the world had shifted while we slept.
Ril approached, his boots sinking into the mud, breath forming clouds in the chill morning air. "They're moving again," he muttered, nodding toward the southern tree line. Draeven's forces had regrouped, but they were cautious this time, wary after the river claimed so many of their men.
"They should be," I said quietly. "They've learned fear. That will make them dangerous."
Elren appeared behind us, his expression grim. "They're not alone."
I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Movement upstream," he said, pointing. Shadows shifted through the morning mist. Dark, uniform, and purposeful. The river clans—or someone worse—were approaching again. They moved like a living tide, swift and silent, leaving no trail of smoke or fire. My heart sank. We had survived the first day, but now the valley had changed entirely.
The first skirmish was subtle, almost invisible. Archers caught the edge of Draeven's camp, their arrows striking with lethal precision. Horsemen attempting to flank were dragged into ambushes. A single line of river guards appeared, dragging bodies from the fog as they reformed the front.
I moved down toward the riverbank, sword in hand, surveying the chaos. Ril joined me, spear at the ready. "We can't hold them forever," he said, voice low.
"I don't intend to," I replied. "We adapt."
We had no formal army. What we had were civilians trained to fight, scouts who understood the terrain better than any noble, and an instinct honed in the last two days: the river is an ally. It can shield, trap, or drown those who underestimate it.
By midday, Draeven forces had formed their lines again, visibly frustrated. Kaeldor's patrols were nowhere to be seen; they had retreated north, shaken and beaten, their pride shattered. Draeven now bore the brunt of our attention.
I moved through the ranks of our militia, checking defenses, nodding at those who held. "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes," I reminded them. The river's edge was narrow here, forcing Draeven to compress their forces. Perfect. Every man packed into that chokepoint became a target.
A sudden horn echoed from the forest edge. Not ours. Not Draeven's. The river clans.
Ril's eyes widened. "They're joining the fight. Or testing us."
"Either way," I said, "we exploit it."
The river clans struck from the north first, moving like shadows among trees and rocks. Their spears were short, axes cruelly weighted, and every swing precise. Draeven tried to resist, but confusion spread. Officers shouted orders that never reached the front, while soldiers stumbled over the muddy banks, horses panicked, and archers missed in panic.
I led a small detachment downstream to intercept another flanking attempt. Steel clashed, mud flew, and the river carried screams away, swallowing them in its indifferent flow.
One Draeven officer lunged at me. I sidestepped, felt the whip of his blade graze my arm, and drove my sword into the space under his shield. He fell into the river, gasping, carried off by the current. Around me, the battlefield was a living organism—shifting, unpredictable, brutal.
This is what war was: not glory, but calculation, reflex, and endurance. Every swing, every dodge, every choice mattered.
Hours passed like this, the battle stretching into an exhausting dance. Ril fought beside me tirelessly, his eyes scanning for threats I could not see. Civilians became fighters, fighters became leaders. Even Elren, usually composed, began to show signs of fatigue, sweat streaking his mud-smeared face.
By late afternoon, Draeven had suffered heavily. Their lines were fractured, their morale broken. But the river clans were still unpredictable. One misstep and their silence could turn into chaos that swallowed my own forces.
I took a moment to breathe, standing on a rock overlooking the ford. The sun reflected off the water, making it glitter deceptively like a calm, innocent stream. How many had died in its depths already? How many more would it claim? The thought was fleeting—I had no time for reflection now.
A new threat emerged, and it was the one I had feared the most: Valen Draegor himself.
He rode through the southern mist, black banner snapping. His presence immediately refocused Draeven's forces. Men straightened, orders shouted, and the rhythm of the assault resumed with renewed precision.
I signaled Ril and Elren. "Anchor the center. Protect the ford. Let him come to us."
The initial clash was explosive. Horses collided with militia, steel rang against steel, and arrows filled the sky. Draeven pushed hard, forcing our civilians into defensive positions they were barely trained for. A misstep, and it could become a slaughter.
I moved like a shadow along the line, directing archers, repositioning spearmen, and striking when necessary. Every encounter was messy, every victory temporary, every loss painful. This was not cinematic war. This was human war—frustrating, chaotic, bloody.
Ril appeared beside me, breathing hard. "We need a decisive strike," he said.
"Already planned," I replied. "Follow me."
I led a small strike force upstream, targeting Draeven's supply lines. Boats laden with provisions and reinforcements drifted into our control, captured or sunk. Draeven's army began to falter not just physically but psychologically. Without supply, without certainty, their discipline cracked.
Valen Draegor, seeing this, cursed under his breath and spurred his horse forward. His intent was clear: kill Cairos, break the river line, reclaim authority.
I awaited him at the narrowest point, a natural chokepoint reinforced by mud and fallen timber. When he arrived, it was not just a fight—it was a clash of everything the battle had become. Steel rang, shields shattered, and the river's current added a new layer of unpredictability.
The duel was brutal and tactical. I could not overpower him with strength alone. I had to use the terrain, the mud, the momentum of the river. I dodged a swing, twisted, and struck at an exposed side, forcing him back into the shallows. He recovered quickly, eyes blazing, and lunged again. Every strike, every parry, carried consequence. Neither of us could afford a mistake.
The fight continued for long minutes, exhausting both of us. Around the ford, our militia exploited every pause, every misstep, forcing Draeven's forces to retreat inch by inch. By the time the sun began to set, the riverbanks were littered with bodies, armor dented, shields cracked, and the scent of blood thick in the air.
Valen Draegor, realizing the day was lost, pulled back. His eyes met mine across the river. Rage, fear, and calculation burned in them simultaneously. He would not forget this day. Neither would I.
By nightfall, the valley was quiet but tense. Fires dotted the banks where survivors huddled. Ril and Elren joined me at the northern rise. "We survived," Ril said, voice hoarse.
"Yes," I replied, wiping blood from my gauntlet. "But only barely. And this… this is only the beginning."
From the mist, I could hear the faint call of the river clans again, their presence a reminder that the world was far larger and more dangerous than either Draeven or Kaeldor. They were unpredictable, powerful, and patient.
I turned to Ril. "Tomorrow, we prepare. Not just for Draeven, not just for Kaeldor, but for everything this river can throw at us."
He nodded. "We'll be ready. Or we die trying."
I looked down at the river, its dark waters flowing relentlessly, uncaring, unstoppable. It reflected the truth of war: survival is temporary, control is fleeting, and the cost is always human.
And yet, as I tightened my grip on my sword, I knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Aereth had not yet seen the full measure of Cairos.