The morning air was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of smoke and scorched earth from the valley below. The Bloodline strike had left Tarek's forces fractured, disoriented, and reeling.
But while our victory had been absolute in numbers, the cost weighed heavily on my chest.
Every scar, every bloodstain, every groan of a wounded comrade reminded me that war did not forgive mistakes.
I walked the ridge above the valley, scanning the horizon with careful eyes. Below, our men moved with quiet efficiency, tending to the wounded, securing what wagons we had captured, and setting traps for anyone foolish enough to pursue.
Lysa moved among them, her daggers strapped and ready, checking the guards.
Rethan leaned against a boulder, axe in hand, muscles coiled like a spring. Joren scouted ahead, silent as a shadow, bringing back news of enemy movement.
"They're regrouping," Joren reported, voice low. "Scouts report Tarek has sent a detachment south. They're trying to cut off our retreat."
I nodded slowly. "They underestimate our speed. Or perhaps they think fear can slow us. They're wrong on both counts."
Lysa frowned. "We can't hold this valley forever. We'll be trapped if we stay."
"Then we do what we always do," I said, my voice tight but controlled. "We turn the terrain to our advantage. Make them think they're hunting us while we hunt them."
The sun had barely risen when movement flickered in the distance. Dust rose along the ridge—horsemen. Not scouts. Not small parties. Reinforcements. Tarek's cavalry, disciplined, heavily armored, cutting through the morning fog like a tide of steel.
I signaled to Rethan.
"Form the line along the cliffs. Archers above, spearmen in the narrow pass. We'll make this the costliest pursuit of their lives."
Rethan grinned. "I like the sound of that. Let's give them a welcome they'll remember."
We moved into position, every step calculated. Archers crouched along ridges, arrows ready to rain fire and death. Spearmen braced in the pass, shields angled. Our strike team slipped silently along hidden trails, ready to intercept the officers.
The first clash was brutal. Cavalry charged into the gorge, confident, disciplined, only to find themselves funneled into our traps.
Arrows rained down like a deadly hailstorm.
Horses screamed and bolted, riders falling into jagged rocks or tripping over the bodies of comrades. Men yelled orders that went unheard, their formations collapsing under precision strikes and the chaos of terrain.
Rethan swung his axe with deadly intent, cutting through the rear guard. "This is what happens when you underestimate us!" he bellowed, every blow echoing off stone walls.
Lysa darted between soldiers, daggers flashing in the sun. She moved like a shadow, striking fast, disappearing before they could retaliate. Joren moved silently, cutting down anyone isolated or distracted. And I moved to the center, seeking the officers.
They were gathered near the lead wagons, shouting orders, trying desperately to rally men. The captain noticed me too late. I lunged, blade finding the weak point between armor plates. His scream echoed across the valley before it was cut short. The second officer barely had time to react before Joren's dagger silenced him.
Smoke began to rise as fire arrows struck the wagons, canvas catching, flammable goods igniting.
Chaos enveloped the valley.
Horses reared, riders fell, and men screamed, the roar of battle drowning the wind.
I moved forward, feeling the adrenaline that came only in the midst of carnage. Every strike was measured, every movement precise. This was no longer survival—it was domination.
Suddenly, from the northern ridge, a figure emerged. Mounted, armored, unmistakable even in the distance—Tarek himself. His presence shifted the air, a wave of authority and menace that made even seasoned soldiers hesitate.
He raised a hand, signaling his cavalry. They regrouped, attempting a counterattack. But I had anticipated him.
"Now!" I shouted.
Flaming barrels tipped over, rocks dislodged from the cliffs, arrows loosed with deadly accuracy.
The cavalry was funneled into the pass, hitting obstacles at every turn. Horses screamed, men fell. The sound of metal on metal, cries of pain, and fire filled the valley.
Tarek spurred his horse forward, eyes fixed on me.
Our gazes met across the chaos. He grinned, a cold, predatory smile. "Cairos," he shouted, voice carrying across the valley, "you think yourself clever, but you are walking into ruin!"
"I know exactly where I am," I replied, raising my sword, "and I know exactly where you'll fall."
The officers around him faltered, sensing the danger but unable to react in time. I advanced toward him, moving through bodies and fire, calculating every step.
Then one of his lieutenants broke free, charging at me with a spear. I sidestepped, catching the blow with my shield, and drove him into the ground. Another came from the side—flanked, neutralized. The path to Tarek opened.
But I didn't attack recklessly. I let him see me, let him think he could predict my movements. Every glance, every feint, every step was part of a greater game.
The battle raged around us, but the duel we both knew was coming hung in the air like a storm about to break.
And then the valley shifted. Reinforcements—Council soldiers who had been waiting in the hills—appeared behind our lines. Tarek's trap was real, and it threatened to surround us.
I signaled to Lysa and Rethan. "We divide! Hold the center while I draw him out!"
Rethan's jaw tightened. "You're insane."
"I know," I replied. "But it's the only way."
I rode forward, alone, daring him to follow. The cavalry surged behind him, and the officers tried to rally their men.
Smoke and fire blurred the battlefield, but my focus narrowed to Tarek.
The man who had declared me a traitor, the predator who had hunted my men, the mastermind who thought he could corner me.
He smiled, cold and lethal. "Finally, Cairos. Face to face. Let's see if your skill matches your reputation."
I raised my sword, grip steady. "Let's find out."
The cavalry around him faltered as I closed the distance, men unsure whether to strike or follow. The wind carried the scent of blood and smoke, the cries of men and horses blending into a single roar.
We collided in the center of the valley, steel clashing, sparks flying. Each strike was met with equal force, each parry answered with a counter.
The ground beneath us was churned to mud and blood. I felt the strength of every man I had trained, every battle I had fought, every moment of survival, flowing through my arms and into my blade.
Tarek was strong, precise, and relentless—but I was faster, cleverer. Every feint I made drew him into the rhythm I controlled. Every strike tested his patience, every step drew him closer to the traps we had set.
Around us, the battle continued, men fighting for survival, for victory, for the chance to see another sunrise. But in the center, it was no longer a battle of numbers—it was a duel of wills. Two predators circling each other, waiting for the other to slip.
And I had no intention of slipping.