The morning air in the hills smelled of smoke, blood, and wet stone. Even the wind seemed wary, carrying echoes of screams from the Black Gorge.
Victory had a bitter aftertaste—twenty-three men lost, wounds fresh, and a gnawing sense that Tarek al-Rhazim was already setting his next move.
We moved silently, the men marching like shadows, eyes scanning every ridge and crag.
No song. No laughter. Only the steady crunch of boots on gravel, the occasional hiss of Lysa as she adjusted a bandage, and the faint whistle of a cold wind through the broken trees.
Rethan walked beside me, axe slung over one shoulder. "Cairos, the gorge worked—but we can't keep hitting supply lines forever. He'll adapt.
And next time…" His voice trailed, but the threat was clear.
I didn't respond. I had been thinking the same thing, only I was already three moves ahead.
Tarek expected us to raid, to strike, to vanish. What he didn't expect was a direct confrontation, not yet—but soon.
We reached the crest of a ridge overlooking a valley dotted with ruined watchtowers and half-collapsed walls.
This was the remnants of Kalden's Hold, a minor fort that had once blocked the northern route into Aereth's central plains.
Now, it was nothing more than stone skeletons and twisted iron.
"Perfect place to hide," Lysa murmured,
scanning the ruins. "For him or us."
"Or both," I said.
We made camp cautiously, keeping fires low and positions flexible. Even a single torch could give us away, and Tarek's men were never far behind.
As the day passed, I walked along the broken wall, hands on the cold stone.
Thoughts of the men we'd lost, the blood we had spilled, and the war that had become something larger than any of us pressed against my chest.
The first attack came at dusk.
Not soldiers. Not an ambush. Scouts.
Shadows darting along the valleys, arrows faintly visible as they whistled through the dying light. One hit Joren in the shoulder, throwing him to the ground with a grunt.
Lysa moved faster than I expected, dragging him behind cover while cursing under her breath.
"Small force," she shouted. "They're testing us."
"Exactly," I muttered. "And they'll report."
Rethan grunted. "Then we wait. Or we strike first."
I turned to the ridge above us, surveying every angle. The wind, the cliffs, the ruins—they all told a story if you listened. And I listened.
"They'll try to trap us again," I said. "Next time, we don't just counter. We lead them where we want."
By nightfall, the valley was quiet again.
Men slept fitfully, weapons at the ready.
I sat on a fallen wall, staring at the stars as my mind replayed the Gorgefire, every detail, every misstep, every kill.
I realized that no matter how careful we were, Tarek was already adapting, planning, watching.
He wasn't a man who tolerated mistakes—not in battle, not in strategy.
A shadow moved at the edge of my camp. I didn't flinch. Steel was out before the figure fully materialized.
"Cairos," a familiar voice whispered.
I recognized it instantly. Lysa. Her eyes glinted in the firelight, face pale and serious.
"You can't keep going like this," she said.
"You're pushing us, pushing yourself… the men are tired. They're scared."
"I know," I admitted. "And so am I. But if we don't push, Tarek wins without striking a single blow."
She shook her head, frustration and fear mingling in her expression. "There has to be a line. You can't cross everything and still call yourself human."
I looked at my hands, smeared with blood, hands that had ended lives and saved others. "Lines are for those who want to survive without fighting. I don't have that luxury."
The wind whispered through the ruins, carrying distant echoes—hooves, the faint clink of armor, a shadow moving over a ridge.
"They're coming," I said, standing. "Tarek won't wait forever."
Rethan emerged from the darkness, eyes scanning the horizon. "Then we make our move. Edge of ruin, right?"
I nodded. "Yes. We force him to commit. And when he does…" My voice dropped, deadly calm. "We finish something tonight that will echo for years."
The men readied themselves, weapons in hand, hearts pounding in sync with mine.
Silence stretched over the ruined valley, thick with anticipation. Every muscle, every nerve, every thought was tuned to a single point: survival—and victory.
Above us, the stars glimmered coldly, as if warning the world of the storm to come.
Somewhere beyond the cliffs, Tarek al-Rhazim was watching.
And he would strike.
But so would we.
Because at the edge of ruin, there was no turning back. Only the war, only the fight, only the knife edge of fate.
The first torch appeared on the northern ridge.
And the valley held its breath.