# Chapter Four
The old fort rose from the rocky hillside like a broken tooth—weathered stone walls that had witnessed centuries of war, now silent and abandoned. Dawn was still hours away, and the darkness suited Kane's purposes perfectly.
"Dismount," he commanded, his voice carrying just enough to reach his company. "Check your weapons. We hold this position no matter what comes."
His soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, the kind of discipline that came from years of training under Arthur's unforgiving eye. Kane watched them work, his scarred hands checking and rechecking his own blade. The earthquake from earlier still troubled him—something about it had set his teeth on edge, made his mark ache with warning. But Arthur had given him a mission, and Kane had never failed his commander.
*His father*, a small voice in his head corrected. *Arthur is your father in all the ways that matter.*
The memory surfaced unbidden: an eight-year-old boy, half-dead from starvation, clutching his younger brother in the ruins of Silverpeak. The Orcs had come like a plague, burning everything, killing everyone. He and Reuze had hidden in a collapsed cellar, listening to their mother's screams as she bought them time to escape with her life.
Kane's hand tightened on his sword hilt until his knuckles went white. Sixteen years later, and the sound still woke him some nights, still made rage bloom hot and sharp in his chest.
"Sir?" A young soldier approached, barely eighteen, his face still soft with youth. "Permission to speak?"
Kane forced himself to relax, to remember Arthur's lessons. *Control the rage, or it controls you.* "Granted."
"The scouts report Orc movement two miles east. At least a hundred strong, maybe more. They'll be here within the hour." The boy swallowed nervously. "Sir, you're only taking ten men with you?"
Kane's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's right, soldier. What's your name?"
"Garrett, sir. Garrett Stone."
"Well, Garrett Stone, you look like you have something to say. Speak freely."
The young man hesitated, then the words tumbled out: "Sir, it's suicide. A hundred Orcs against eleven of us? We should fortify the walls, use the high ground. Not... not charge them head-on."
Several of the older soldiers nearby chuckled, but not unkindly. Kane recognized the sound—the same laughter he'd heard sixteen years ago when he'd asked Arthur how they could possibly win against an empire that had enslaved them.
"Garrett," Kane said, his voice gentler than his reputation suggested, "go help Sergeant Thom with the barrels. You'll understand soon enough."
The young soldier saluted and hurried off, confusion written across his features. Kane turned to find Sergeant Thom grinning at him, gap-toothed and scarred from a decade of warfare.
"He reminds you of someone, eh?" Thom asked knowingly.
"Reminds me of an idiot who used to question every order Arthur gave," Kane admitted. "Took me years to understand that sometimes the most dangerous move is the one your enemy never sees coming."
"Arthur taught you well."
Kane's expression hardened. "Arthur taught me everything. Now let's make sure we don't waste those lessons. Get the barrels in position. Everything depends on perfect timing."
"Aye, sir. They'll be ready."
As Thom moved off to organize the preparations, Kane surveyed his strike team—ten of his finest riders, each carrying a coiled length of razor-wire rope specially commissioned from the finest Libran craftsmen. The wire was thin enough to be nearly invisible in darkness, strong enough to support a man's weight, and sharp enough to cut through leather and flesh like a hot knife through butter.
"Listen up," Kane called to his chosen ten. "We have one chance at this. The formation is everything—Vex and Hallam take the extreme left, Jorren and Pike on the extreme right. The rest of you, standard wedge formation behind me. When I give the signal, left and right break away at full gallop. Understood?"
"Understood, sir," came the unified response.
Kane mounted his horse, a massive black destrier named Shadow that had been with him since Arthur first put him in the saddle. The horse sensed his tension, stamping and snorting with barely contained energy.
"One more thing," Kane said, his voice dropping. "Some of you won't make it back. That's the truth of war—the enemy gets a vote too. But I swear to you, on the memory of everyone we've lost, that I will personally carry every fallen brother back to this fort. No one gets left behind. Not today. Not ever."
The ten riders straightened in their saddles, and Kane saw it in their eyes—not just loyalty, but love. These men would ride into hell itself if he asked. The weight of that trust settled on his shoulders like armor.
"Mount up," he commanded. "It's time to teach these Orcs why they should fear the name Libra."
---
The thunder of hooves echoed across the barren landscape as Kane and his strike team charged toward the advancing Orc army. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten, providing enough illumination to see the enemy force—a dark mass of armor, tusks, and hatred spreading across the valley like a plague.
From his position at the front of the Orc column, War-chief Grakthar watched the eleven riders approach and laughed so hard his armor rattled.
"Look!" he bellowed to his troops, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "The great Arthur has sent children to face us! Eleven riders against a hundred of the finest warriors in the Grimfang clan!"
His soldiers erupted in laughter, beating weapons against shields in a cacophony of mockery. Grakthar's second-in-command, a scarred veteran named Urgash, spat on the ground.
"Perhaps Arthur has finally lost his mind," Urgash suggested. "The earthquake must have addled his brains."
"No," Grakthar mused, his pig-like eyes narrowing as he watched the riders approach. "Arthur is many things, but never stupid. This is either a distraction or..." He trailed off, something nagging at the edge of his awareness.
"Or what, War-chief?"
"Or we're about to learn why the Librans were once feared across twelve kingdoms." Grakthar raised his battle-axe high. "Archers! Ready your bows! Let's cut down these fools before they even reach—"
"NOW!" Kane's voice cut through the morning air like a blade.
The formation split with perfect precision. Vex and Hallam broke left, Jorren and Pike broke right, their horses galloping at full speed as they pulled away from the main group. The remaining six riders, Kane at their head, continued their charge straight down the middle.
"What are they doing?" Urgash muttered, confused by the strange maneuver.
Grakthar saw it a heartbeat before it happened. "THE ROPES! THEY'RE CARRYING—"
Too late.
The razor-wire, stretched between the outermost riders and held at perfect height by years of practice and trust, became visible only when it was already cutting. The front line of the Orc charge hit it at full gallop, and the results were catastrophic.
Horses went down first, the wire slicing through their legs with surgical precision. The sound was horrible—the screaming of animals, the wet tearing of flesh, the thunderous crash as dozens of riders tumbled forward in a catastrophic pile-up. Orcs were thrown from their mounts, bones snapping as they hit the ground at speed. Some fell directly onto their own weapons, dying before they understood what had happened.
The razor-wire, now painted red and slick with blood, continued its work as the momentum of the charge pushed more Orcs into its path. Bodies tangled with bodies. Horses trampled their own riders in panic. What had been an organized cavalry charge became a nightmare of blood and chaos in the span of five heartbeats.
Kane and his remaining riders plowed into the confusion like wolves into sheep. His sword found throat after throat, each strike economical and lethal. Beside him, his men worked with similar efficiency, targeting the Orcs who were struggling to rise from the carnage.
"REFORM!" Grakthar's voice roared over the screaming. "ARCHERS! SHOOT THEM DOWN!"
The Orc archers, positioned at the rear, finally recovered from their shock. Arrows began to fly, black-fletched death seeking Libran flesh.
"BREAK OFF!" Kane shouted. "Back to the fort! NOW!"
The strike team wheeled their horses, releasing the bloodied ropes as they galloped back toward the fort. But one of the outermost riders—Jorren, a young man of twenty-three who laughed too loud and loved his horse more than people—wasn't fast enough.
The arrow took his mount in the chest, a perfect shot that punched through muscle and into the heart. The horse screamed—a sound no creature should make—and went down hard, its legs folding like broken sticks.
Jorren tried to throw himself clear, but fifteen hundred pounds of dying horse was unforgiving. He hit the ground with his left leg pinned beneath the animal, and Kane heard the snap of breaking bone even over the chaos of battle.
"Keep riding!" Kane roared at the others. Then, to Jorren: "Hold on, brother! I'm coming!"
He wheeled Shadow around, ignoring the arrows that hissed past his head. Behind him, the Orc army was recovering from the initial shock, their rage transforming chaos into deadly purpose. Kane could see Grakthar rallying his troops, pointing toward the fallen rider.
Jorren was trying to pull himself free, his face white with pain, when the first Orc reached him. The warrior raised his axe high, ready to split the helpless Libran from skull to sternum.
Kane's throwing spear was in his hand before conscious thought. He'd practiced this throw ten thousand times—in sunlight and darkness, on foot and mounted, in calm and in storm. Arthur had made him practice until his arm was numb, until he could hit a target the size of a man's head from a hundred paces.
The spear left his hand with such force that the air itself screamed.
It caught the Orc in the throat, the momentum so tremendous that it tore his head clean from his shoulders. The body stood for a moment, arterial blood fountaining from the neck stump, before collapsing in a heap. The head, still wearing an expression of surprise, landed next to Jorren with a wet thud.
Kane reached the fallen rider just as three more Orcs closed in. He didn't dismount—that would mean death. Instead, he leaned from the saddle, grabbed Jorren's outstretched arm, and used Shadow's momentum to literally tear the young man free from beneath the dead horse.
Jorren screamed as his broken leg dragged across the ground, but Kane hauled him across the saddle like a sack of grain and spurred Shadow into a gallop that would have killed a lesser horse.
"No man in my company gets left behind!" Kane shouted over the thunder of pursuit. "You hear me, Jorren? No one!"
Behind them, Grakthar's enraged bellow echoed across the battlefield: "AFTER THEM! KILL THEM ALL!"
---
The fort's gates slammed shut just as Kane and his strike team thundered through, Jorren moaning in pain across Kane's saddle. The young man's leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, but he was alive, and that was what mattered.
"Get him to the surgeon," Kane commanded, sliding from his horse. "The rest of you, positions on the walls. They'll be here any moment, and they'll be furious."
His soldiers scattered to their assigned positions with practiced efficiency. Kane took the stairs to the wall-walk two at a time, his heart still hammering from the close call. From the elevated position, he could see the Orc army approaching—no longer charging recklessly, but advancing with deadly purpose.
"WHERE ARE THEY?" Grakthar's voice echoed off the stone walls, filled with apoplectic rage. "WHERE ARE THOSE LIBRAN DOGS?"
Kane allowed himself a thin smile. The War-chief had taken the bait perfectly. Now came the part that required not just courage, but something Arthur had spent years drilling into him: patience.
"Sir," Sergeant Thom appeared at his elbow, "the barrels are in position. The liquid's ready. We just need your signal."
"Not yet," Kane said quietly, watching the Orcs pour through the fort's gate like a dark tide. "Let them all get inside first. Every last one."
Below, the Orcs were spreading through the fort's courtyard, confused and suspicious. It was Urgash who first noticed the barrels positioned around the walls, half-hidden in shadows.
"War-chief," he called out, "there's something wrong here. Where are the defenders? Why isn't anyone—"
The scream cut him off.
It came from high up on the eastern wall—a sound of pure agony that made even hardened Orc warriors flinch. Every eye turned upward to see an Orc soldier, one of their own, hanging from chains. His limbs had been severed, cauterized to keep him alive and screaming.
"Master!" the mutilated Orc wailed, blood and spittle flying from his lips. "It's a trap! RUN! RUNNN!"
Grakthar's eyes widened with sudden, terrible understanding. "BACK TO THE GATE! EVERYONE BACK TO THE—"
The explosion was deafening.
The barrels nearest the gate, packed with Libran explosive powder, detonated in sequence. The massive iron gate—already weakened by years of neglect—was blown inward in a shower of stone and metal. The concussive force killed a dozen Orcs instantly and sent dozens more flying through the air like rag dolls.
When the smoke cleared, the gate was a twisted ruin, completely impassable. The Orcs were trapped.
That's when they noticed the liquid leaking from the remaining barrels, spreading across the stone floor in gleaming rivulets. It had a distinctive smell—lamp oil, but thicker, more potent. Urgash dipped a finger in it and brought it to his nose.
"No," he breathed. "No, no, no..."
"Looking for us?" Kane's voice rang out from the walls.
Every Orc head turned upward to see the Librans lining the walls above—three hundred strong, bows and spears ready, and in their eyes, the cold promise of death.
Kane stood at the center of the formation, holding the chains that suspended the mutilated Orc. In his other hand, he held a torch.
"You came to take our fort," Kane said, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtyard. "You came to kill us, to enslave us, to break us as you've broken us before. But you forgot something important."
He looked down at Grakthar, and the War-chief saw something in those eyes that made his blood run cold. This wasn't just anger. This was something older, deeper. This was hate distilled to its purest essence.
"You forgot that we remember," Kane continued. "We remember Silverpeak. We remember Thornhold. We remember every village you burned, every child you murdered, every mother you made scream as she died."
Kane began speaking in the Orcish tongue, the words harsh and guttural but perfectly pronounced. It was a curse, one of the oldest in the Orc culture, reserved for enemies so hated that death was too good for them.
Then he kicked.
The mutilated Orc, still screaming, fell from the wall into the courtyard below. The torch fell with him, tumbling end over end, trailing sparks like a falling star.
The oil ignited with a sound like the world ending.
Fire exploded across the courtyard, transforming stone and flesh into an inferno. Orcs scattered in panic, but there was nowhere to run, no escape from the flames that climbed walls and consumed everything they touched. The screams were immediate and terrible—dozens of voices crying out in mortal agony as flesh melted and armor became ovens that cooked the warriors inside.
Some tried to climb the walls, but Libran arrows and spears drove them back. Others tried to ram through the collapsed gate, but the rubble was impassable. They were trapped in a perfect killing box, and Kane had just lit it on fire.
The Librans on the walls began to cheer, their voices rising in triumph as their ancient enemies burned below. Kane watched it all with cold satisfaction, his jaw set, his hands steady. This was justice. This was vengeance. This was—
Garrett appeared at his side, the young soldier who'd questioned the plan hours earlier. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock at the carnage below.
"Sir," Garrett said quietly, "is this... is this what war is always like?"
Kane turned to look at the boy, really look at him. He saw himself at eighteen, still innocent enough to believe that war could be clean, that violence could be righteous, that vengeance could fill the empty places in your soul.
"No, Garrett," Kane said, his voice gentler than it had been all day. "Sometimes it's much worse."
He turned back to address his company, raising his voice to carry over the roar of flames and screaming:
"Brothers! Sisters! Today we struck a blow that will echo across these mountains! Today we reminded the world that Libra still lives, still fights, still refuses to bow!" The cheering intensified. "Arthur gave us this mission, and we have succeeded! Tonight, we rest as free people, defended by walls we took back with blood and cunning! Tonight—"
He never finished the sentence.
The sword that pierced Garrett from behind emerged from the young man's chest with six inches to spare, the tip stopping just short of Kane's spine.
Kane's world seemed to slow as he turned, as he watched Garrett's eyes go wide with shock and pain. The boy looked down at the blade protruding from his chest as if he couldn't quite believe it was real.
"Sir..." Garrett whispered, blood bubbling at his lips. "Did... did I do well?"
Behind him, rising from the flames like a demon from hell, was Grakthar. The War-chief's armor was blackened and melting, his tusks cracked, his flesh blistered and weeping. He'd used the bodies of his own soldiers as shields, climbing the wall while everyone was distracted by the celebrations.
But it was Garrett's face Kane couldn't look away from. The boy was smiling—actually smiling—even as blood poured from his mouth.
"You did perfectly," Kane choked out. "You did perfectly, Garrett."
The young soldier nodded once, that smile still in place. "Good... that's... that's good..."
His eyes glazed over, and he went limp on Grakthar's blade.
The War-chief kicked the body off his sword, letting it crumple to the stone. "Weak," he spat, his voice rough from screaming and smoke inhalation. "Just like all your kind. Weak and—"
Kane's sword was in his hand before conscious thought, and he lunged at Grakthar with all the skill Arthur had beaten into him over sixteen years of training.
Steel rang against steel as their blades met. Grakthar was massive—easily a head taller than Kane and twice as broad—but he moved with the fluid grace of a true master warrior. This wasn't some brutish raider. This was a War-chief who'd earned his title through decades of combat.
"There it is," Grakthar snarled, deflecting Kane's strike with contemptuous ease. "The famous Libran swordplay. Let me show you what real warriors can do."
The Orc's counter-attack was devastating. His blade moved like lightning, each strike powerful enough to shatter bone. Kane barely managed to parry, the impact sending shockwaves up his arms. They exchanged blows across the wall-walk, neither giving ground, their marks burning with exertion.
"You fight well, for a slave," Grakthar mocked, his blade carving the air in complex patterns. "Arthur taught you, yes? I can see his style. Defensive. Cautious. WEAK!"
The War-chief's blade came down in a thunderous overhead strike. Kane raised his sword to block—
The steel shattered.
Kane stared in disbelief at the broken blade in his hand, just six inches of jagged metal remaining. Grakthar's weapon was massive, forged from black iron in the deep foundries of the Grimfang clan. Against it, Kane's standard-issue blade had stood no chance.
"Now you die," Grakthar growled, raising his weapon for the killing blow.
Time seemed to slow. Kane saw the blade descending, saw death approaching, and suddenly he wasn't on the fort wall anymore.
He was eight years old, hiding in the cellar of his burning home. Through the gaps in the floorboards above, he could see them—Orcs, wearing the same armor as Grakthar. And his mother...
*"Run, my babies,"* she'd whispered through the floorboards, her voice thick with blood. *"Run and don't look back. Be strong, Kane. Protect your brother. Be strong..."*
The sound of her screaming. The sound of their laughter. The smell of burning flesh.
Reuze's small hand clutching his, trembling. *"Kane, what are they doing to Mama?"*
And Kane, just a boy, unable to help, unable to save her, unable to do anything but hide and listen as the woman who'd given him life was torn apart by monsters.
The memory crashed over him like a tidal wave, and with it came something primal, something that had been waiting sixteen years to be unleashed.
"RAAAAAAAGH!"
Kane's roar was barely human. He dropped the broken sword and caught Grakthar's descending blade with his bare hands.
The War-chief's eyes widened in shock as Kane *held* the blade, his palms sliced open but not caring, not feeling, not anything except the purest concentration of rage the world had ever seen.
"You..." Kane's voice was a guttural snarl. "You... TOOK... EVERYTHING!"
His mark erupted into searing pain, brighter than it had ever burned before. The air around his body began to swirl, visible as a violent distortion. This was Arthur's technique—the air fist—but Kane had never been able to do it before. Arthur said it required absolute focus, perfect control.
But right now, Kane's focus was absolute. His control was perfect. Every ounce of his being was concentrated on a single purpose: *destruction*.
"You murdered my mother!" Kane ripped the blade from Grakthar's grip with impossible strength, throwing it away. "You burned my home!" His fist, surrounded by compressed air that made it as hard as iron, crashed into Grakthar's chest, cracking armor. "You made me watch!" Another punch, this one to the ribs, and Kane heard them snap. "You made me LISTEN!"
Grakthar tried to fight back, landing heavy blows that would have killed a normal man. But Kane felt nothing. Pain meant nothing. His body meant nothing. There was only rage, pure and clean and absolutely focused.
The air around Kane's fists compressed further, becoming visible as a swirling vortex. Each punch carried the weight of the wind itself, backed by sixteen years of grief and loss and carefully controlled fury finally breaking free.
"This is for Silverpeak!" Kane's fist drove into Grakthar's stomach with a sound like thunder. The Orc's eyes bulged as he felt his armor crack, felt his ribs splinter, felt the air-compressed punch drive deep into his body.
"This is for my mother!" Another punch, this one to the chest. Grakthar coughed blood, his legs beginning to buckle. The War-chief who had survived a hundred battles, who had climbed through fire itself, was being beaten to death by bare hands.
"This is for Garrett!" The final punch was to the War-chief's heart. Kane's air-hardened fist punched clean through armor, through flesh, through bone. His hand emerged from Grakthar's back, covered in gore, holding the Orc's still-beating heart.
He'd never done this before—Arthur's personal technique, the one that required absolute focus and control. But right now, with Garrett's blood still warm on the stones and the memory of his mother's screams echoing in his ears, Kane found a clarity he'd never experienced.
The air around his fists began to swirl, visible as a faint distortion. It compressed, hardened, became more solid than flesh, harder than bone. Kane's punch took on the weight of a battering ram, backed by the full force of the wind itself.
"This is for Silverpeak," Kane growled.
His fist drove into Grakthar's stomach with a sound like thunder. The Orc's eyes bulged as he felt his armor crack, felt his ribs splinter, felt the air-compressed punch drive clean through muscle and viscera.
"This is for my mother."
Another punch, this one to the chest. Grakthar coughed blood, his legs beginning to buckle.
"This is for Garrett."
The final punch was to the War-chief's heart. Kane's air-hardened fist punched clean through armor, through flesh, through bone. His hand emerged from Grakthar's back, covered in gore, holding the Orc's still-beating heart.
For a moment, they stood there—predator and prey, killer and victim. Grakthar's eyes were wide with disbelief, staring down at the hole in his chest where his heart used to be.
"We... we are the Grimfang..." he whispered. "We do not... we do not fall to..."
"You fell to Libra," Kane said quietly. "And we will never stop falling on you until every last one of you burns."
He pulled his hand free and let Grakthar collapse. Then, with the last of his rage-fueled strength, Kane picked up the War-chief's body and threw it over the wall, down into the flames where the rest of his warriors were burning.
The Orc disappeared into the inferno without a sound.
Kane stood there, breathing hard, his hand still dripping with blood and worse. His knuckles were split open, his palm cut from grabbing the blade, his ribs bruised from Grakthar's desperate blows. But he felt nothing except a hollow emptiness where the rage had been.
Slowly, he turned back to Garrett's body. The young soldier lay where he'd fallen, that smile still frozen on his face. He'd died happy, believing he'd served well. Believing he'd made a difference.
*He was eighteen,* Kane thought numbly. *The same age I was when Arthur found me. He had his whole life ahead of him.*
"Sir." Sergeant Thom was at his side, his gruff voice unusually gentle. "We need to see to your wounds."
"No," Kane said flatly. "We need to see to him."
---
They held the funeral at dawn, when the fires below had finally burned themselves out and the courtyard was a blackened scar filled with ash and bones. The Librans assembled on the walls, three hundred souls standing in silence as Kane spoke over Garrett Stone's wrapped body.
"I didn't know this young man well," Kane began, his voice rough from smoke and exhaustion. "He questioned my orders. He doubted the plan. He was afraid, and he didn't hide it."
Some of the soldiers shifted uncomfortably, but Kane pressed on.
"And then, when it mattered most, he threw himself between me and death. Not because he was ordered to. Not because he expected reward or recognition. But because in that moment, he believed that my life was worth more than his own."
Kane's hands tightened on the edges of Garrett's shroud.
"He was wrong. My life isn't worth more. But his sacrifice won't be wasted." Kane looked up, meeting the eyes of every soldier on the wall. "We fight so that boys like Garrett can grow into old men. We fight so that someday, somewhere, Libran children won't have to learn how to kill before they learn how to read. We fight for a future where sacrifice isn't necessary—but until that future comes, we honor those who make it possible."
He bent and lifted Garrett's body with surprising gentleness, carrying it to the pyre they'd built. As he laid the young soldier down, Kane whispered words meant only for the dead:
"You did well, Garrett. You did so very well."
They burned the body as the sun rose, the smoke carrying Garrett Stone's soul to whatever lay beyond. The Librans sang the old songs, the ones that predated the fall of the kingdom, the ones that spoke of heroes and sacrifice and the price of freedom.
When it was done, when the last ember had cooled, Sergeant Thom approached Kane with a grim expression.
"Sir, we found something. You need to see this."
Kane followed him to the fort's entrance, where the rubble had been partially cleared. One of the soldiers was tending to a horse—a magnificent bay gelding with Libran tack, its sides heaving with exhaustion. But it was the horse's burden that made Kane's blood run cold.
Slumped across the saddle was a Libran soldier. Or what was left of one.
The man's head was missing, the neck a ragged stump that had stopped bleeding hours ago. His armor bore Arthur's personal insignia—the mark of the commander's own guard.
Kane felt ice flood his veins.
"That's... that's Derrick," Sergeant Thom said quietly, his voice shaking. "He rode with Arthur and Hector. He was in the commander's personal escort."
The implications crashed over Kane like a collapsing wall. Arthur had taken only his elite guard—twenty of the finest warriors in the company. If one had been sent back like this, headless and broken...
"No," Kane breathed, moving closer to examine the body. "No, Arthur wouldn't... he couldn't..."
But the evidence was there. The horse was exhausted, foam-flecked and trembling. It had been ridden hard, pushed beyond its limits. And Derrick's hands were still locked in the reins, frozen in death's rigor. He'd died in the saddle, tied there so the horse would bring him home.
This wasn't a message. This was a warning. Something had gone terribly, catastrophically wrong.
"Sir?" Thom's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What do you think happened?"
Kane's mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. Arthur had gone to intercept the main Orc force. But Orcs didn't fight like this—they didn't send back mutilated bodies. They took heads as trophies, sure, but this... this felt different. Calculated. Cruel.
The earthquake. The strange screaming they'd all heard. And now this.
"Sir?" Thom pressed. "What are your orders?"
Kane stared at Derrick's corpse for a long moment, his hands beginning to shake. Not with fear—with barely contained terror at what might have happened to the man who'd saved him, raised him, made him into something more than just an orphan with a blade.
"Get everyone ready to march," he said quietly. "Double-time. We're going to Arthur."
"Sir, we're exhausted. The men have been fighting all night. If we march now—"
"I DON'T CARE!" Kane's voice cracked like a whip, silencing all objections. "Arthur is out there, and he needs us. So we're going. Now. Anyone too tired to march can stay here and guard corpses."
He swung up onto his horse, ignoring the pain in his bruised ribs, his split knuckles, his cut palm. None of it mattered. Arthur was in danger. The man who'd saved him, raised him, taught him everything that made him more than just an orphan with a sword—that man needed him.
"Company!" Kane's voice rang out across the fort. "Prepare to march! We're bringing our commander home, or we're dying beside him! Those are the only two options!"
Three hundred voices answered as one: "FOR ARTHUR! FOR LIBRA!"
As they assembled and began the march, Kane touched Garrett's ashes one last time. The young soldier had asked if he'd done well. Kane was about to find out if he could do half as well—if he could be half as brave, half as selfless.
*Hold on, Arthur,* he thought as they rode out into the breaking dawn. *Hold on. We're coming.*
Behind them, the fort stood silent and victorious, purchased with blood and sacrifice. But the war was far from over.
In fact, Kane suspected with sick certainty, it had only just begun.