Far from the empire's stronghold, within the vaulted halls of the Mage Association, an aged man sat behind a massive oaken desk.
His beard, long and white as freshly fallen snow, spilled down his chest, a silent testament to centuries of wisdom.
Golden embroidery lined his robes, shimmering faintly in the candlelight, exuding an aura of quiet authority.
The letter in his hand bore the crimson seal of the empire. As his sharp eyes scanned its contents, a glint of understanding flickered within them. His fingers drummed softly on the desk.
"So… the orcs have finally moved in earnest," he murmured to himself, voice calm but carrying the weight of gravity. He looked up at the attendant waiting nervously by the doorway.
"Summon the Mage Corps immediately."
The command needed no repetition. Within minutes, the corridors outside filled with the shuffle of boots and the murmur of incantations. Staffs thrummed with stored energy, robes whispered as they swayed with the movement of their wearers.
Carriages emblazoned with the sigil of the Association rolled out into the courtyard, each drawn by steeds bred from the purest lineage—sleek, muscled, and restless, snorting steam into the chill morning air.
The old man rose slowly, joints stiff but eyes sharp, and stepped toward the window. Watching the Corps depart, he whispered, "The balance of this land teeters… and yet, this may be the chance we have long awaited."
......
At the empire's outer gates, a thousand soldiers stood assembled. The air was taut with expectation, alive with the scent of steel and leather, the quiet murmurs of men bracing themselves for war.
Archers tested their bowstrings with sharp twangs. Lancers gripped their polished spears, adjusting stances in the dirt. Swordsmen shifted uneasily, armored boots grinding against the stone.
Renher rode before them, tall and steady upon his dark warhorse. His gaze swept over the gathered host—hard faces, worn hands, eyes full of determination.
This was his army, his responsibility. His people. And he would lead them to victory.
The ground trembled as the Mage Corps arrived, their carriages pulling to a halt before the army.
Whispers rippled through the ranks at the sight of the Association's crest gleaming upon the lacquered wood. From the lead carriage descended their commander—a man with piercing blue eyes and an aura of quiet intensity. His steps carried weight, his presence undeniable.
Thymur was the first to greet him, clasping his forearm in a gesture of familiarity. "It has been too long," the old mage said softly. The warmth in their exchange was subtle, but not lost on Renher.
Then the mage leader turned toward the emperor, dropping instantly to one knee. "Your Majesty."
Renher dismounted, his steps deliberate, and placed a hand firmly on the man's shoulder, drawing him upright.
"There is no need for such formality. On the battlefield, we stand as equals."
The mage's eyes flickered with surprise, but he inclined his head. "As you will, sire."
With the final roll call taken, the army was ready. Bows strung, blades sharpened, incantations whispered at the lips of the mages.
The iron gates of the capital groaned open, revealing the road beyond.
Renher turned once, his eyes sweeping the castle walls, searching—for her. But Kaileen did not appear. His jaw tightened.
With a sharp tug of his reins, he turned away. There was no room for hesitation.
The vanguard pressed forward, Renher at their head. His warhorse trod the dirt with unyielding strength.
Behind him, soldiers marched in disciplined ranks, the mages seated in carriages or mounted upon swift horses.
The tension of silence broke not long after their departure.
A young lancer muttered under his breath, "If the orcs don't kill me, this damned armor will. Heavy as a mule on my back."
His companion snorted. "At least you've armor. All I've got is a wooden bow and prayers to the wind."
From one of the carriages, a robed mage leaned out, smirking. "You could always ask us to enchant it. Of course, it might cost you half your rations."
That drew a round of chuckles, lightening the mood. Even Renher, riding ahead, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. Fear was natural, but fear left unchecked bred weakness. A little banter was a salve.
Their journey had scarcely begun when a piercing cry split the sky.
The soldiers flinched, the column shifting uneasily. Archers nocked arrows. Lancers lowered spears. Mages' voices rose in half-formed incantations.
Renher's voice thundered across the ranks. "Hold your positions! Keep moving!"
The command cut through their fear like a blade. The column steadied, though tension lingered. Renher's hand had already tightened on his reins when recognition struck him.
A vast shadow descended. Horus.
The great hawk swept down from the clouds and alighted on his master's shoulder with practiced ease. The men exhaled, murmurs of relief rippling through the formation. Yet Renher, intent on keeping the army steady, did not notice the small parchment tied to Horus' leg.
"About time, old friend," Renher muttered under his breath, brushing the hawk's feathers.
Behind him, a swordsman whispered, "Gods, every time that bird screams, my heart leaps out of my chest."
A nearby mage chuckled. "Better his bird than an orc horn. Count your blessings."
The march continued. Roaming beasts lunged from the undergrowth, only to be dispatched swiftly—steel flashing, spells burning, Horus striking with his talons. Each small victory steadied the soldiers' nerves, sharpening their focus.
By midday, the army reached the outskirts of Bailus Forest. Before them spread the swamplands, a glistening mire that stretched like a wound across the earth. The air hung heavy with dampness, thick with the scent of decay.
Alison dismounted, his boots sinking into the mud as he surveyed the terrain.
Thymur and the division leaders joined him, their expressions tense. The forest was silent. Too silent.
"Strange," Alison muttered, crouching to examine the ground. "There should be tracks, beasts… something."
Thymur's frown deepened. "Nothing lives here. Not even scavengers."
One of the younger soldiers whispered nervously, "Maybe they heard we were coming and ran?"
The remark drew a dry laugh from an older veteran. "Boy, orcs don't run. Not unless they're leading you somewhere."
Renher's hand brushed the hilt of Excalibur. His instincts screamed. "An ambush," he said quietly.
Scouts were dispatched at once, Alison leading the vanguard with Horus circling overhead. In the meantime, soldiers erected temporary shelters—canvas tents and crude barricades, serving both as rest and fallback.
Within one such tent, Renher gathered his commanders.
"Something isn't right," Thymur said grimly. "We've crossed leagues without so much as a skirmish. Unprecedented."
Renher folded his arms, voice low. "Either the beasts fled… or something stronger has already claimed this land."
The thought silenced the room. Orcs disrupted ecosystems, yes—but to erase every predator in the Bailus Forest? That was beyond them.
"Then we adapt," Renher said finally.
Thymur outlined the plan. "The mages will solidify the swamp with earth magic. Once the ground holds, lancers advance, supported by archers and spellfire. Swordsmen flank the column to prevent losses."
The division leaders nodded in unison. Simple. Efficient.
The scouts returned far earlier than expected. Alison's face was grim.
"No ambushes. No orcs. Not a single one," he reported. "We could walk the swamp unchallenged."
Unease thickened the air.
"This isn't right," Renher muttered.
"They're planning something," Thymur said, his voice hard. "Something different from before."
A long silence followed. Until now, the orcs had thrived on ambushes, endless harassment. Yet now—they were nowhere.
Renher straightened. "We proceed. But with caution. Every step deliberate. Our aim is not only to fight, but to discover their intent."
A shift in strategy. From aggression to vigilance. A necessary adaptation.
And yet, none realized it—this very caution would soon prove their blind spot.
......
Far away, in the quiet halls of the Mage Association, the old man set aside another letter—this one bound to the leg of a hawk. His lips curved faintly as he read its contents.
"So the emperor has reached Bailus," he murmured.
A younger mage, standing nearby, ventured hesitantly, "Do you think they will prevail?"
The elder's eyes glinted. "Perhaps. But victory is not the question here. What matters… is what awaits them."
He leaned back, gaze drifting toward the horizon as though he could see across the miles. "The orcs' silence is not weakness. It is design. The battlefield itself is shifting."
The attendant shivered at his words, though he did not understand their meaning. The elder closed his eyes, whispering to himself.
"And when the curtain rises, the world will tremble."