The morning fog hugged the cliffs like a living thing, curling around jagged rocks and dead trees. It swallowed sound and shadow alike, giving the valley below a deceptive calm.
Our men moved like ghosts, feet padded with cloth, weapons ready, hearts pounding like war drums. After the Gorgefire and Black Gorge, Tarek al-Rhazim had learned. He had adapted. This time, there would be no rash ambushes. This time, we would strike with precision—and make him bleed.
I crouched on the ridge, scanning the narrow pass below. The main supply route stretched like a gray scar into the northern plains, wagons lined in confident formation.
Guards moved at intervals, shields shining faintly, spears ready. From here, they seemed almost peaceful. I knew better.
"Too quiet," Rethan muttered beside me, eyeing the valley. "I don't like it."
"Quiet doesn't mean safe," I said. "It means patience. Every hesitation has a reason. And he's testing us."
Lysa came up behind us, boots soft against the dirt. Her gaze swept the valley, sharp and calculating. "And what happens if he's right?"
"We hit where he's weak," I replied. "Not directly, not yet. But we strike hard enough to fracture him. Make him question every movement."
Rethan's grin was slow, dangerous. "I like the sound of that."
I traced paths on the dirt with a bloody fingertip, planning the ambush. Archers would position along the cliffs for maximum coverage, flaming arrows to ignite the wagons, smoke to blind and terrify.
Spearmen hidden in rocky outcroppings would cut down anyone trying to flee.
A strike team—myself, Lysa, Rethan, and Joren—would descend to cut the officers, destroy wagons, and vanish before reinforcements arrived.
"Divide and strike," Rethan said again. "Simple, brutal, perfect."
I didn't smile. "We don't get to enjoy it yet. This is just the setup."
By midday, positions were in place. Archers crouched, blades ready, eyes scanning the valley for movement. Spearmen waited in the shadows, muscles taut, every nerve screaming anticipation.
Our men were tired, many still bleeding from the Gorgefire, but their spirits burned with revenge.
Then the first patrol appeared. Three men, confident, disciplined, unaware of the death above them. Their armor glinted faintly in the sun. Their confidence would be their undoing.
"Fire," I whispered.
Arrows screamed from above, striking shields, knocking men off their feet, piercing flesh. One soldier screamed, the sound harsh and immediate, while another went down with a strangled gurgle. The third tried to react, sword rising—but Lysa's dagger sliced his throat before he could blink.
The first strike was clean. Precise. Efficient. But it was only the beginning.
From the cliffs, Rethan's team descended like shadows.
Axes flashed.
Spears struck with deadly accuracy. Men who had walked the path of order now found themselves stumbling in chaos, panic replacing discipline.
Screams echoed off stone walls. Horses reared and bucked, kicking up clouds of dust and smoke.
The gorge itself seemed to turn against the Council forces, guiding them into every trap we had prepared.
I dropped into the valley's center, heart hammering. Two officers coordinated the guards near the main wagons, oblivious.
My sword found its mark in the first officer's shoulder, pinning him to a wheel. I shoved him aside and spun, cutting the second across the chest. His eyes went wide in shock before he crumpled into the dirt.
Flames bloomed behind us. Archers loosed fire arrows, igniting wagons. Canvas caught quickly, spreading to grain barrels and munitions.
Smoke twisted upward, choking and thick.
Horses screamed as their harnesses burned. Men scrambled in fear, tripping over bodies and debris. The gorge had become a furnace, a crucible of fire, steel, and blood.
"Hold the line!" I roared. "Do not let them regroup!"
The Council soldiers tried. A captain shouted orders, forming a tight line, but confusion reigned.
Every movement they made was anticipated. Rethan waded into the chaos, swinging his axe with reckless precision, cutting down anyone who threatened to escape.
Lysa and Joren flanked him, daggers and blades moving in tandem, strikes lethal, methodical, perfect.
The first volley had been the signal. Now, the real hunt began.
We split forces again, cutting off retreating guards, forcing them into narrow bottlenecks where spears and arrows waited.
Every pass was covered. Every exit anticipated. Every survivor was a witness to our ruthlessness.
Hours passed in a blur of fire, screams, and the metallic tang of blood. I moved with calculated fury, targeting the officers, decimating command. Every fallen man was a message, every flaming wagon a warning: we had returned to Aereth not as rebels but as predators.
Finally, as the sun dipped low, the ravine fell silent. Smoke rose in thick pillars, obscuring bodies, wagons, and horses alike. The few soldiers still alive fled into the hills, leaving behind only ruin. Our men stood, exhausted, bruised, bloodied—but alive. Victory had come at a cost, and the weight of it pressed on all of us.
I climbed a ridge to survey the valley, taking in the destruction. Tarek would see this as more than sabotage. This was a direct affront. A challenge.
"Cairos," Lysa said softly, joining me, her eyes reflecting the glow of fires below, "he'll come for us. Soon."
"I know," I replied. "And we'll be ready."
Rethan emerged, grimy and tired, wiping blood from his axe. "You think he'll attack directly?"
"No," I said. "He's too clever for that. He'll probe, test, stretch our lines, find a weakness. But he underestimates something."
"What's that?" Rethan asked.
I let the firelight dance over my face. "We're no longer the prey. We're the hunters."
The men returned slowly to camp, wary, exhausted, eyes scanning the cliffs. Every sound made them jump, every shadow a possible threat. The valley below smoldered, a testament to our ruthlessness and precision.
Somewhere, high above, Tarek watched. Planning. Calculating. Learning. The war had escalated beyond supply lines, beyond ambushes. Now, it was personal.
And I would make sure he felt it.
The fires of the valley reflected in my eyes, not just as destruction but as a warning: every step he took would cost blood. Every miscalculation would cost lives.
Tomorrow, we would push further. Test his patience. Break his confidence. Force him to react, to move where we wanted him. The hunt had begun.
And in Aereth, no one could escape a predator once he had sharpened his teeth.