19th of Elient of the year 1492
At the Gates of Law – A Question of Presentation
With the river now well behind them and the broken foothills rising steadily toward Summit Hall, Rayek and Knack slowed their pace as the monastery’s stone walls came into view. The land here bore the marks of recent hardship—patches of earth scoured by flood, sections of brush blackened by lightning strikes, and fields that had been planted but not fully recovered from storm and drought alike. The path narrowed into uneven stone and packed dirt, climbing gently toward the fortified structure that crowned the rise. Summit Hall did not look welcoming; it looked prepared. Its walls were thick, its silhouette angular against the sky, and even at a distance one could see figures moving along the battlements. Rayek adjusted the weight of his blades at his hips, while Knack walked with one hand resting absently on the strap of her pack, her expression thoughtful rather than nervous.
The true difficulty between them was not the journey itself, but what they carried. The body inside the extradimensional space had not changed since the day it was placed there, and that fact alone unsettled them more than they wished to admit. Knack broke the silence first, glancing toward Rayek with a practical tilt of her head. “We should probably pull him out beforehand maybe clean him up a little bit.” The suggestion hung there, both sensible and awkward. Presenting a corpse at the gate of a holy order required more decorum than simply overturning a sack in the courtyard. Rayek grunted agreement, though neither of them seemed eager to be the one to lift Roger out into the fading light of day.
When they did unseal the space and draw him forth, the sight was as strange as it had been the first time. Roger lay as though asleep—armor intact, features untouched by decay, skin neither gray nor drawn as it should have been after such time. Nearly a year had passed since his death near the Spine of the World, yet there was no scent of corruption, no slackness of flesh, no creeping stain of time. Knack examined him carefully, fingers hovering just above the fabric and steel, searching for some trace of enchantment she might recognize. Whatever had preserved him was stronger than a simple ward against rot, something deliberate and intentional. No incantation had been spoken over him since he had been placed in their care, yet he remained whole.
They exchanged a look that said what neither voiced outright: this was not natural, and it was not accidental. The mystery of how Roger had traveled from ambush site to cultist crypt, and why he had been laid so carefully upon a stone sarcophagus, remained unanswered. Now another question joined it—who had ensured his body would endure untouched by time? Rayek adjusted Roger’s cloak with unexpected gentleness, brushing dirt from the fabric as though preparing a comrade for inspection. The monastery loomed ahead, rigid and disciplined, a place where questions would be asked carefully and answered more carefully still. With the body arranged as respectfully as they could manage, they resumed their climb toward the gate, carrying not just a fallen paladin, but a riddle wrapped in steel and silence.
The Bridge of Questions
Dusk settled over Summit Hall in a wash of amber light, the last of the sun catching along stone parapets and spearheads alike. The monastery stood encircled by a dug moat and thick curtain walls, its gatehouse looming forward like a clenched jaw. Lanterns burned steadily along the battlements, their glow reflecting faintly off polished helms as figures moved in disciplined patterns overhead. The surrounding farms and orchards showed the scars of recent turmoil—rows of trampled crops, patches of soil washed uneven by flood, and fencing half-repaired from storm damage. Riders patrolled the outskirts with quiet vigilance, their silhouettes passing in deliberate arcs. Nothing about the place suggested welcome; everything about it suggested readiness.
The gates remained shut as Rayek approached the stone bridge that spanned the moat. He stopped at a respectful distance, Roger’s preserved form carefully arranged behind him, and raised his voice toward the watch above. “My name is Rayek. I’ve got some buddy that was supposed to be on their way here, but he didn’t make it, but my companions thought it would be a good idea to at least return him to the monastery here, or the hall.” The words echoed faintly against the stone. There was a pause, then movement above—helm crests shifting, a voice conferring with another out of sight. When Roger’s face was revealed to the torchlight, confusion turned sharply to recognition.
“Oh, you’ve got hair all right it’s roger where’d you get Roger from”
Knight of Samular
The tone shifted immediately from suspicion to urgency. The gates did not open; instead, a small contingent emerged onto the bridge, forming a deliberate line between the travelers and the threshold beyond. Questions followed in measured sequence, each answer weighed carefully. They spoke of the ambush near the Spine of the World, of Roger’s duty escorting a Mirabar delegation, and of how he had never arrived at his intended destination. Rayek explained where they had found him, choosing his words plainly and without embellishment. “In a crypt on a sarcophagus just lying there.” The repetition hung awkwardly in the air, but the meaning was unmistakable.
Shusro Bronzecaller
The paladins exchanged glances at that detail, the name Sacred Stone Monastery spoken quietly among them like a shadow. Roger had been expected back nearly a year ago, his body meant to be returned by those traveling from Red Larch. Instead, he had been placed within a cultist crypt, preserved but unexplained. One of the knights stepped forward, eyes narrowing not in anger but in assessment. After a moment that felt longer than it was, he spoke clearly enough for both Rayek and Knack to hear. “You neither one of you are lying, which is good.” The tension did not vanish, but it lessened.
Tea Summerfang
Only then did the heavy mechanisms within the gatehouse shift. Chains rattled, wood groaned, and the reinforced doors parted just enough to admit them under escort. Roger was lifted carefully from their care, borne inward by members of his own order. Rayek and Knack crossed the bridge and passed beneath the stone archway, entering Summit Hall not as intruders, but as witnesses to a mystery that had yet to find its answer.
Law Before Comfort
Inside the walls of Summit Hall, the air felt different—controlled, measured, deliberate. The courtyard rang with the sound of steel striking steel as pairs of armored figures drilled beneath the fading light. Pages hurried between duties with buckets and bundled linens, moving quickly but never chaotically. Veterans stood in quiet clusters along the edges of the yard, watching with sharp, appraising eyes. Weapons rested within easy reach of nearly every hand, whether strapped at the hip, slung across the back, or leaning within arm’s length against stone. This was not a sanctuary built for softness; it was a fortress shaped by long memory.
The vaulted dining hall rose high overhead, banners and battle-torn tapestries lining the walls in somber colors. Meals were served in shifts, benches filled and emptied with orderly precision. Knack watched the rhythm of it all with narrowed eyes, unimpressed by the delay they had endured outside. “They kept us out on that bridge for an hour.” Her tone carried irritation, though not surprise. The order served Tyr—the god of law and justice—and their priorities reflected that devotion plainly. Law came first. Safety second. Courtesy somewhere further down the list.
Dinner was placed before them without ceremony: thick cuts of meat, boiled potatoes, root vegetables softened in broth, and heavy gravy poured generously across it all. There were no delicate greens, no elaborate seasoning, no indulgent garnish. The food was hot, filling, and efficient, meant to sustain rather than delight. Conversation flowed more freely than the hospitality, and it was there that the true weight of the valley revealed itself. They were told that Myrka Ghostroot had recently stood within these very halls, her warning sharp and urgent regarding danger to the Mosshorn settlement. She and Imar had departed that very morning, wasting no time in returning north.
Rumors had followed her like storm clouds. Hill giants had been sighted moving in the hills. Pirates under Sholar the Blue Pirate King had strengthened their presence along the river, their ships more numerous and their raids more coordinated. Sacred Stone Monastery had not fallen silent; it had grown more entrenched, reinforcing its defenses with minotaurs. Bugbears roaming the region had been found carrying bone totems that bore a curse none were eager to test. The cultists, it was said, had grown quieter in recent weeks—but not weaker. If anything, their silence suggested consolidation rather than retreat, a tightening coil beneath the surface of the valley’s unrest.
The Totem and the Rebuke
It was during the meal, amid talk of giants and pirates, that Knack produced the object. The bone totem was not large, but it carried an unpleasant weight to it, carved in crude lines and stained dark at its edges. The moment it was set upon the table, several of the knights stiffened, and one of the veterans leaned back as though it might leap at him. The reaction was not subtle. “Everyone knows not to pick those things up.” The words were not shouted, but they carried the sharpness of long familiarity and hard-earned experience. What had seemed like a trophy now looked more like a mistake.
The chaplain was summoned without delay. He was a broad-shouldered man in simple vestments bearing the balanced scales of Tyr upon his chest, his expression neither angry nor surprised—only resigned. The totem was examined with careful distance, never touched with bare skin, and its presence confirmed what the knights had already assumed. The curse clung to it like a damp chill, its precise effects unclear but undeniably malignant. Knack listened as the possibilities were described in guarded tones—embarrassment, misfortune, perhaps something worse if left unattended. There was no mockery in the chaplain’s gaze, only firm instruction as he motioned for her to follow.
Priest Nim Koduz
The chapel of Summit Hall rose in tall, solemn stone arches, candles flickering beneath painted scenes of justice delivered without mercy or favoritism. Incense thickened the air, curling upward in pale strands that softened the severity of the stone. Knack stood beneath the vaulted ceiling while the chaplain circled her slowly, murmuring steady invocations and sprinkling blessed water in deliberate patterns. His hand settled firmly upon her head, the pressure grounding rather than forceful, as the chanting grew more resonant. The sensation passed like a tightening band released, subtle but undeniable. When it was done, he stepped back with a faint shake of his head and said, “There you go in the in the future don’t pick it up or get your get your boyfriend to pick it up instead.”
Knack brushed imaginary dust from her sleeves, her expression hovering somewhere between sheepish and amused. The totem itself was removed for destruction, its carved surface already marked for breaking. The lesson, however, lingered clearly. Red totems were dangerous. Black ones were worse. If such things were encountered again, the proper course would not be curiosity, but immediate ruin—smash first, ask later.
The conversation shifted from courtesies and curses to matters of the valley itself, and they were brought into the grand hall where long tables had been cleared, and maps lay unrolled across polished wood. Tapestries depicting past battles hung along the walls, their stitched figures locked in eternal conflict. Several knights remained standing while others leaned over the parchment, gauntleted fingers tracing rivers, roads, and foothills. Candles guttered in iron stands, their light pooling over inked lines that marked Scarlet Moon Hall, Sacred Stone Monastery, Rivergard Keep, and the scattered settlements between. Rayek and Knack were not treated as outsiders, but neither were they shielded from the gravity of what was discussed.
They spoke first of the river. Sholar’s name was not uttered lightly. His operations had grown more organized, and the pirate presence at Rivergard Keep had thickened like silt after a flood. Ships had been sighted more frequently along the banks, patrols pushed farther inland than before. Trade routes that once ran uneasy but steady were now interrupted with greater regularity. The keep itself, it was said, no longer resembled a temporary stronghold but a fortified seat.
From there the talk turned to the cultist enclaves. Scarlet Moon Hall had shown renewed activity, firelight seen where none had burned before. Sacred Stone had reinforced its defenses, and reports confirmed minotaurs stationed among its ranks, creatures that did not wander aimlessly but stood in deliberate guard. Increased sightings of such beasts in the surrounding hills suggested coordination rather than coincidence. Wyverns had also been spotted wheeling above the ridgelines, their silhouettes cutting across the sky like hooked blades. Even more unsettling was reports of roc flocks with wingspans vast enough to blot out sections of the sun as they passed.
One knight gestured toward the foothills on the map, noting the peculiar absence of any confirmed passage into deeper realms beneath the stone. There were rumors, yes, but no verified entrances, no clear descent into whatever might lie below. That absence itself was troubling. It implied hidden routes, concealed movement, unseen preparations. The conversation circled back to the monastery’s own history, and Tea spoke with calm certainty. “Our monastery here… in the last 600 years it’s been attacked 30 times by orcs goblins hobgoblins giants ogres trolls bugbears humans…” The list was delivered without flourish, simply a recitation of fact carved by time.
What he did not include in that long accounting was as telling as what he had named. The cultists had not attacked Summit Hall. Not once. That omission lingered in the space between them, unspoken but heavy. The monastery stood armed and ready, yet the enemy had chosen not to test its walls. Whether that meant caution, strategy, or something more calculated remained unclear, but no one in the hall seemed inclined to dismiss it.
Borders of Ash and Antler
When the conversation turned northward, Rayek’s name was spoken with a different weight. His connection to Mosshorn Grove was not treated as rumor but as established fact, and several of the knights nodded in recognition rather than suspicion. The Elk Tribe, they said, was not a single will but many—some measured, some volatile. The moderates among them had shown restraint in recent seasons, holding to agreements and respecting territorial boundaries where they could. Yet beyond those steadier voices, other bands moved with less predictability. Further north, more violent factions roamed the hills, striking caravans or settlements without warning and vanishing just as quickly.
The knights did not conflate the tribe with lawlessness, but neither did they pretend the borders were stable. Mosshorn Enclave itself had become a point of fragile balance, a settlement trying to maintain footing between tradition and survival. Rayek listened as reports were shared of movement in the tree lines and shifting patterns in hunting grounds. Supplies had grown tighter, and communication between settlements more strained. There was no accusation in the tone, only caution layered with experience. The valley was not fractured yet, but the seams were visible.
Myrka’s warning, delivered earlier in the hall and echoed now in quieter tones, took on sharper shape against these realities. Fires had been seen rising from Scarlet Moon Hall, not as isolated flares but as sustained signs of activity. Water cult presence along riverbanks had intensified, their movements more coordinated and deliberate. Earth cultists had entrenched themselves, reinforcing positions with stubborn permanence rather than raiding in passing. Even the air cult, once centered at Feathergale Spire, had reportedly lost control of that height, suggesting fractures within their own ranks.
Each element seemed to be shifting at once, as though responding to some unseen pressure beneath the land itself. The knights spoke of it without melodrama, but the accumulation of detail carried its own gravity. The Elk Tribe stood near the edge of several converging tensions—giants in the hills, cultists strengthening their holds, pirates tightening the river routes. The valley trembled, not from a single blow, but from many small fractures widening at once.
Stone Walls and Restless Thoughts
As night settled over Summit Hall, the rhythm of the monastery shifted but did not soften. Torches were lit along the corridors, their flames steady and bright against the stone. The clangor of the training yard faded into quieter movements—boots on flagstone, low conversation, the murmur of evening prayers drifting faintly from the chapel. Rayek and Knack were shown to modest rooms carved from the inner structure of the keep, each furnished with a narrow bed, a small table, and a basin of water drawn fresh from within the walls. The accommodations were practical and clean, built for rest rather than indulgence. Outside, patrols continued their circuits along the parapets without interruption.
Roger’s body had been taken below, carried by members of his own order with solemn care. The rites would be performed beneath the monastery, where fallen knights were interred in orderly rows beneath engraved stone. There would be no delay, no uncertainty in his burial now. His name would be spoken properly. Whatever mystery clung to the preservation of his body, his return had been acknowledged and accepted. Rayek stood for a moment in the corridor after the escort departed, watching until the last torchlight disappeared down the stair.
Though the walls were thick and guarded, Knack did not entirely surrender to the comfort of stone and steel. She set her own quiet precautions within her chamber, careful measures born from habit rather than distrust of the order. The night air carried a faint chill through narrow windows, and the wind beyond the battlements whispered across the valley. Somewhere in the halls, a bell marked the passing of hours. Rayek lay back with hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling as if it might yield answers to questions not yet asked.
They would depart in the morning. East toward Mosshorn Grove. Toward Myrka’s warning and the uneasy tremor beneath the land. Behind them, Summit Hall would remain as it had always been—disciplined, vigilant, unmoving. Ahead, the hills concealed movement not yet fully understood. The valley waited in that silence between threats, holding its breath for what would come next.
20th of Elient of the year 1492
Dawn Iron and Egg Bread
The bell did not ring politely. It struck the air with iron insistence, rolling down the corridors of Summit Hall and rattling through the stone like a command rather than a suggestion. The sound came before the light, before the first gray edge of morning reached the high windows. Boots answered it almost immediately—measured steps on flagstone, the shifting weight of armor being lifted and buckled into place. Somewhere nearby, a door opened with purpose rather than hesitation. The monastery did not wake gradually; it assembled itself.
Rayek rose with a low exhale, swinging his legs off the narrow bed without complaint. Knack blinked into the dimness with less enthusiasm, her hair slightly askew as the echo of the bell still hummed in her ears. A knock followed shortly after, firm and efficient. “After you want some breakfast, you got to come downstairs and get it they only surf about an hour before dawn and we start the patrols and training.”The message was delivered as information, not invitation. There would be no lingering in rooms or second rounds of sleep.
The dining hall had already begun to cycle its occupants by the time they descended. Long tables filled quickly, then emptied just as quickly, replaced by the next shift of knights and pages. Breakfast was placed before them in thick cloth wraps, tied off neatly and still warm from the ovens. The bread was dense, crust dark and hardened by fire, shaped into a broad oval that sat heavy in the hand. “It’s about this big.” Knack held her hands apart to demonstrate, measuring it with mild disbelief.
“How many eggs are in there?” she asked, eyeing the weight of it.
“Half a dozen.”
The answer came without irony. When Rayek drove his knife into the crust, it resisted before finally yielding with a dry crack, revealing boiled eggs packed tightly within the hollowed center. Steam rose faintly from the split loaf, carrying the scent of salt and grain. Knack sprinkled what seasoning she had brought with her across the exposed filling, her expression hovering between resignation and critique. Rayek tore into his portion with little ceremony, chewing steadily as though the bread were simply another tool to carry him forward.
There was no summons to speak with Lord Summerfang. No farewell audience with Lady Stormbanner, who had already returned with her troops and entered into debriefing before dawn. The gates were opened just wide enough to permit their departure, the heavy timbers shifting with restrained purpose. Roger would be buried that night beneath the monastery’s stone. They stepped beyond the threshold with cloth-wrapped bread secured in their packs and the weight of coin newly added to their belts. Behind them, the bell rang again for another shift, and Summit Hall resumed its pattern of patrols and training without pause.
Smoke on the Horizon
The land between Summit Hall and Mosshorn Enclave offered no comfort of road or marker. It was eighteen miles of uneven country—low ridges that broke into sudden ravines, thorned scrub that tugged at cloaks, and narrow game trails winding through tall grass. The sky remained clear, but the air carried the dry scent of dust and late-season heat. Rayek moved with long, steady strides, eyes scanning the horizon as often as the ground. Knack kept pace behind him, adjusting her pack as the terrain shifted from loose gravel to packed earth and back again. There were no travelers on this path, no distant wagons or shepherds, only wind and the sound of their own footfalls.
By late day, the first sign appeared—not sound, not scent, but smoke. It rose in a dark column against the sky, thicker than any cookfire and far too heavy for a simple signal. The wind carried it unevenly, stretching it thin in places, but the source was unmistakable. Rayek stopped on the ridge and narrowed his eyes. This was not the measured burn of brush cleared by hand, nor the narrow plume of a hearth. It was ruin.
When they crested the final rise, the destruction lay fully revealed below. Yurts had been crushed inward, their frames splintered as if struck by immense force. Stone buildings had been smashed from above, walls caved and scattered across the ground in jagged pieces. The well at the center of the settlement had been obliterated, its ring shattered and its stones thrown outward as though struck by something vast and careless. Burned beams lay at uneven angles, blackened and smoking faintly where embers still smoldered. Nothing stood intact.
Figures moved among the wreckage—men in armor, digging with grim determination into the soil beside the ruins. Shallow graves were being prepared where the earth was soft enough to yield. Incomplete bodies lay wrapped in cloth nearby, some charred beyond recognition, others broken in ways no careful hand could mend. Small piles of rock marked those already laid to rest, each cairn uneven but deliberate. The air carried the bitter scent of ash and something heavier beneath it.
Then a voice cut through the stillness, sharp and unmistakable. “Rayek! Is that you?” The call carried both relief and urgency, echoing across the broken timbers. Myrka Ghostroot stood among the devastation, her posture rigid, her eyes burning with something between anger and grief. Her hair was bound back, her hands streaked with soot. She stepped forward, searching Rayek’s face as though bracing for news she already feared. “Where’s Lyra?”
Myrka Ghostroot
Rayek did not answer immediately.
What the Giants Took
Imar stepped forward from the line of armored figures, his movements calm despite the devastation around him. His maul rested easily against his shoulder; the metal head darkened with soot from the work of digging and lifting stone. He surveyed the ruin with the practiced eye of someone who had seen battlefields before and did not need embellishment to understand what had happened. “Looks like a set of hill giants and ice shield orcs assaulted it.” His voice carried no uncertainty, only conclusion. The statement did not require drama; the ground itself confirmed it.
Imar Feldar
The evidence lay everywhere. Massive footprints pressed deep into the soil, each one broad and unmistakably heavy, ran in irregular paths through the settlement. Interspersed among them were narrower prints, booted and numerous, circling structures and dragging debris aside. Stone walls had not simply collapsed—they had been struck from above, shattered by force too great for any ordinary raider. Roof beams had been snapped like twigs, and the well had been smashed inward as though struck repeatedly by something vast and impatient. There were no survivors left to recount the numbers, but the tracks themselves told the story: two or three hill giants moving with purpose, accompanied by roughly twenty ice shield orcs marching in coordination beside them.
Nine bodies had been recovered from the burned buildings. They were the ones who had not escaped the flames or the falling timber, their remains carried from the wreckage and laid out before burial. The rest of the tribe was gone. Tracks leading away from the settlement showed heavy wagon ruts pressed into the dirt, cutting a deliberate line southward. “Wagons with cages filled with the tribesmen, mostly the children and noncombatants.” The words were delivered without embellishment, but the image required none.
There were signs that the dead had not all been left behind. Drag marks veered from the settlement toward the same path as the wagons, streaked dark where bodies had been hauled across stone and soil. The meaning was grim and practical. The fallen would serve as food for the journey. The living was more valuable. Tribute, perhaps. Labor. Something else.
The attackers had left with a clear advantage. The tracks were already dry at the edges, their lead estimated at half a day or more. Myrka stood with arms rigid at her sides, jaw set as she listened. She did not shout or weep. Her voice cut through the smoke-thick air with controlled fury. “You don’t have a choice!”
There was no argument. They were going.
Wings Against the Current of Time
Before they set out along the southern trail, Myrka stepped away from the others and stilled herself amid the smoke and broken timber. She closed her eyes and reached inward, drawing upon the deeper current that had guided her before. Her question was plain and urgent: how do we catch them? The wind shifted across the ruined grove as though listening. When the vision came, it did not arrive gently.
The trees bent inward until the forest became a tunnel of ribs and shadow. Far ahead, something creaked. She never saw the orcs clearly—only motion, dark shapes moving around pale rectangles that swayed like lanterns in fog. The cages gleamed faintly, and inside them small hands pressed between the bars, then vanished as if swallowed by distance. She stepped forward.
The earth beneath her turned to damp clay. Each foot sank. Each lift dragged. She tried to hurry, but the clay thickened to water, then to syrup, clutching at her legs with relentless pull. The creaking of wheels did not grow louder. It grew softer.
She ran. Her shoulders split, and wings tore free—mismatched, ragged, half-formed. She beat them with desperate strength and rose above the trees. For one breath, the path below was visible—a pale scar through green shadow. Twenty dark shapes moved with it. Then, without warning, ten of those shadows stopped.
They turned.
Not all at once—but slowly, deliberately—like wolves catching scent. Their heads lifted in unison. They did not look at the sky. They looked at her. The air between her and the wagons folded like bent parchment. Every stroke of her wings pulled her sideways, not forward. The wagons drifted further, shrinking. The ten figures grew clearer. They began to walk back along the path, unhurried.
The land stretched. The forest elongated like a corridor in a dream. The more she struggled toward the cages, the closer the returning shapes became. A whisper threaded through the wind: “Chase, and you are the hunted.” She dove. The sky fractured. When her feet struck ground, it was cold stone. There were no tracks—only the faint echo of wheels already too distant to follow.
In the final image, she stood before an hourglass vast as a tower. Sand poured steadily through its narrow throat. Ten grains reversed direction, rising instead of falling. They drifted toward her. The rest continued downward. The vision ended before the sand ran out.
When Myrka opened her eyes, the smoke of Mosshorn Grove replaced the dream-forest. The message required no embellishment. They would not overtake the main force by speed. Not without wings. But ten were turning back.
Ambush on the Ridge
They followed the tracks south as the land tightened into rougher country, the earth rising into broken ridges of stone and scrub. The wagon ruts were still clear, pressed deep and recent, the edges not yet softened by wind. Massive prints overlapped booted ones, and the line of travel cut straight through brush rather than around it. The trail funneled into a narrow stretch where stone rose on either side, forming a natural choke point. It was the kind of terrain that invited caution. It was also the kind that punished delay.
None of them saw the orcs waiting above.
Iceshield Orcs
The first volley came without warning. Javelins hissed downward from the ridge, striking shields, armor, and stone with brutal force. The impact rang through the pass in sharp metallic echoes. Rayek staggered under one of the blows, the shaft biting into him before snapping free. Myrka was struck more than once before she could even lift her guard, the force driving her back a step and stealing her breath. The soldiers behind them shifted instinctively into formation, shields rising as more projectiles clattered down around them.
And then the ground answered.
Imar stepped forward through the chaos, his expression unbroken despite the rain of iron. He lifted his hand toward the ridge line, and fire came with it. Flame erupted across the clustered shapes above, a sudden blossom of heat and light that consumed the stone lip where the orcs had gathered. The blast rolled outward in a thunderous wave, scattering debris and silhouettes alike. Smoke surged upward as bodies were thrown from their perches or collapsed where they stood. Those caught at the center of that detonation did not rise again.
Knack’s response followed in the wake of flame. She set her stance and unleashed a shattering force that cracked stone beneath the remaining orcs’ feet. The ridge splintered where the power struck, breaking both rock and bone with equal indifference. Beside her, her cannon roared, its thunder rolling up the incline and driving enemies back from the edge. Fragments of stone rained down alongside falling forms. The ambushers’ advantage began to fracture.
Myrka’s voice cut through the smoke—not in panic, not in fury, but in something steadier and older. The sound carried like wind through leaves, firm and resonant. Where blood had begun to flow, it slowed. Where knees had buckled, they straightened. Soldiers who had faltered drew breath again and tightened their grips. The chaos on the slope found its center.
Rayek did not wait for the smoke to clear. With a roar that shook loose dust from the rock face, he charged uphill, boots striking hard against the uneven incline. Steel met flesh as he closed the distance, his blades carving a path through those who still held their ground. A knight of Summit Hall pressed forward beside him, locking blades with the orc commander in a brutal exchange that rang across the ridge. Veterans advanced in disciplined lines, finishing what had begun in fire and thunder.
Orcs fell under blade and spell alike. Some refused to remain down, sheer savagery dragging them upright long enough to strike once more before finally collapsing. But the balance had shifted. The ten who had turned back did not turn again. When the smoke thinned and the echoes faded, the ridge belonged to the living.
The Path Forward
When the ridge finally fell quiet, the only sounds left were the crackle of dying embers and the low groans of the wounded being steadied to their feet. Smoke drifted lazily across the broken stone, thinning as the wind carried it south. The bodies of the returning orcs lay scattered along the incline, their ambush undone before it could fully take shape. Rayek stood at the crest for a long moment, breathing hard, blades darkened and still. Below them, the narrow pass opened once more into the rolling stretch of hills.
The truth of the vision lingered heavier than the smoke. The ten who had turned back were dead. The rest had not slowed. The wagon ruts continued beyond the ridge, deep and deliberate, cutting southward with relentless purpose. Half a day’s lead remained between them and the captives, perhaps more now that blood had been spilled. The prisoners were still in cages. The giants were still walking.
Myrka’s jaw tightened as she studied the trail, her earlier vision now sharpened by the reality beneath her boots. There was no illusion of outrunning what had already passed. Speed alone would not close the distance. The main force moved with the weight of giants and the discipline of orc escorts, dragging their captives through terrain they likely knew well. The land offered little concealment and fewer shortcuts.
The choice was not simple, but it was clear. Follow the tracks into deeper danger, risking confrontation with the full strength of the raiding party. Or shift tactics—seek knowledge, find where the prisoners were being taken, strike when advantage favored them. The smoke behind them marked what had been lost beyond recovery. The tracks ahead marked what could still be saved. And somewhere beyond the next line of hills, giants feasted, unaware that pursuit had already begun.
