The morning fog had lifted, but the valley still smelled of yesterday's blood. Mud clung to every boot, armor, and cloak. The river flowed silently, carrying away debris, corpses, and memories alike. I stood on the northern ridge, sword in hand, surveying the aftermath. Draeven's forces had withdrawn, but their retreat was methodical, not panicked. Valen Draegor was no fool, and his mind would already be plotting the next move.
Ril approached, spear in hand, eyes scanning the horizon. "They'll strike again," he said quietly. "Sooner than we expect."
"They always do," I replied. "And we'll be ready."
Elren appeared beside us, holding a tattered map and a bundle of reports from scouts. "The northern tributaries are active," he said. "Camps, movements… something's brewing."
I narrowed my eyes. "River clans?"
"Not entirely," Elren answered, shaking his head. "Some are new. Unknown banners.
Mercenaries, maybe exiles. They move with discipline, like a small army, and they know the terrain as well as the river clans do."
I exhaled. This was no longer just Draeven or Kaeldor. The valley was becoming a crucible, and we were in the center.
By midday, the first encounters began. It started with small skirmishes—raiding parties of these unknown forces moving along the ridges, testing our lines. Archers clashed with cavalry, spears met axes, and every minor engagement was a lesson in observation.
I moved along the front, correcting positions, reinforcing weak points, and improvising defenses. Civilians now fought beside trained soldiers, and I realized that this informal army of Kaeldor remnants and river townsmen was more adaptable than any formal force.
Ril caught up to me, panting. "They're probing," he said. "Testing us. If we overcommit anywhere, they'll exploit it."
"Then we make them commit first," I said. "Pull them into terrain we control, force them to fight on our terms."
We had learned from Draeven: patience, observation, and exploitation of the environment always won more than reckless valor.
By late afternoon, the unknown force revealed its true strength. A column of men, heavily armored, emerged from the northern woods. Their banners were black with a crimson streak, unfamiliar but imposing. At their head rode a man taller than most, armor scratched but polished, a helm with a jagged crest catching the sunlight. He was flanked by trained soldiers, disciplined, moving as one.
I recognized immediately that this was not a mercenary band. This was a secondary villain of significance, someone trained, cunning, and dangerous—someone who could challenge even my strategies.
Ril gritted his teeth. "We'll need every man. Every weapon. Every trick."
I nodded, scanning the riverbanks. The river itself would be our ally again. Narrow crossing points, hidden fords, and mud traps could slow their advance, but this man would anticipate such measures. We had to innovate.
The clash began at dusk. I sent half of our force downstream to flank the approaching column. They moved silently, slipping through reeds and brush. The rest of us held the main ridge, preparing for a frontal engagement.
The first strike came from the unknown leader. He rode forward alone, seemingly daring us to challenge him. His lance struck a Kaeldor militia soldier who hesitated at the edge of the ridge. The man was thrown into the mud, screaming, before others could rescue him.
I raised my sword. "Now," I shouted.
The river militia charged the exposed flank. Civilians turned fighters wielded axes and spears with lethal determination. The unknown leader's men responded with precision, parrying and counterattacking. Every strike, every block, every maneuver was executed with discipline, proving this was no ordinary force.
I fought alongside Ril, moving through chaos. Steel clashed, mud soaked, and the screams of men—both friend and enemy—filled the air. The river below churned with bodies and debris, claiming any who fell too close.
Hours into the battle, a pivotal moment arrived. The unknown leader attempted to seize a high ridge and cut off our escape route. I anticipated this, and had prepared a trap. Hidden pits, reinforced stakes, and fallen trees blocked his advance. As he charged, his horse stumbled, throwing him off balance. Soldiers rushed to recover him, but our flanking unit struck, trapping them in a deadly crossfire.
The unknown leader's army began to falter, but he remained composed, pulling back to regroup. He had survived the trap, and his presence alone kept our forces cautious.
Ril looked at me, sweat streaking his bloodied face. "He's not like Draeven. He's… worse. Smarter."
"Smarter, yes," I admitted. "But he hasn't yet seen the river. He hasn't fought us yet."
We held the ridge until nightfall. Fires dotted the valley, illuminating the aftermath of the brutal day. Both sides had suffered, but we remained standing. The unknown leader withdrew into the woods, leaving the impression that this was only the beginning.
That night, I walked the river's edge alone.
Mud and blood clung to my boots. I thought of every decision made today, every life spent, every sacrifice required. The weight of command pressed against my chest, heavy and unrelenting.
Ril found me there, leaning on his spear. "You could've taken the easy path," he said. "Surrender, retreat, vanish… no one would've blamed you."
"I could have," I replied, watching the river swirl around a floating shield. "But then nothing changes. The river still flows, kings still bicker, and soldiers still die for orders that make no sense."
"Tomorrow will be worse," Ril said, his voice almost a whisper.
"Yes," I admitted. "And we'll be ready. Or we'll die trying."
From the edge of the woods, a faint light glimmered—a signal, or perhaps a warning. I could feel the threads of fate weaving tighter, drawing me closer to what would be the first decisive victory of my career.
The unknown leader would return. Draeven would return. Kaeldor's crown would not forget. But in the river's flow, in the chaos of human ambition, one truth remained: I had survived them all so far, and I had learned more than any of them could anticipate.
I clenched my fists, feeling the ache of every wound. Tomorrow, the valley would burn again. And this time, the embers would carry a message: Cairos is not a man to be underestimated.