The sun rose reluctantly over the eastern ridge, bleeding crimson light across the sprawling camp of the Nine Tribes Alliance. The air was tense—too still, as if the earth itself was holding its breath before something inevitable. The clash with the Western Raiders was now only hours away, and every soul in the camp knew it.
Veer stood alone at the edge of the encampment, staring into the misty horizon where the enemy would appear. His armor was still unfastened, hanging loosely on his shoulders. He wasn't ready to put it on yet—not because he feared battle, but because he knew once the armor was sealed, the choice would be gone. War would be inevitable.
Behind him, the camp was alive with activity. Smiths hammered weapons into final shape, warriors tightened leather straps, and young messengers darted between chieftains with last-minute instructions. Fires crackled as cooks prepared what could be the last warm meal for many. The scent of burning wood mixed with the sharp tang of steel and oil.
From the far side of the camp, the low, rhythmic beat of war drums began to thump. Each strike was deliberate—slow, heavy, carrying a weight that made the ground hum beneath their feet.
A voice came from behind."You stand too still, Veer. A king should walk the camp before battle. Let your men see you."
Veer turned to see Bhairav, the broad-shouldered chieftain of the Iron Fang Tribe, striding toward him. His thick beard was braided with iron rings, each one marking a battle he had survived.
"I will," Veer said quietly, "but I wanted a moment to… feel the silence before it's gone."
Bhairav grunted. "Silence is for the dead. We're not there yet." He clapped a heavy hand on Veer's shoulder. "Come. They need your eyes. They need to believe you've already seen them victorious."
The two walked together through the camp. Everywhere they passed, warriors straightened, some touching their chests in respect, others giving short nods. A few muttered prayers to Lord Shiva, touching talismans carved in bone or metal.
One young warrior, barely seventeen, stepped forward nervously."Lord Veer," he said, voice shaking, "if I… if I fall today, will you remember my name?"
Veer looked at him, memorizing the face, the trembling hands gripping a spear."What is your name?"
"Rayan, son of Tejas of the Stone Wolf Tribe."
Veer's voice was steady. "Rayan, son of Tejas—I will remember. But fight well today, so the gods remember too."
The boy's eyes shone with sudden courage, and he stepped back, his grip on the spear tightening.
They moved on until they reached the war council's tent, where the chieftains of all nine tribes were gathered. The air inside was heavy with smoke from incense, the floor covered in furs. A large map was spread across a low table, stones marking positions and routes.
Elder Somnath, the oldest among them, was tracing the enemy's likely approach with a weathered finger."They'll try to come through the western pass. It's narrow—only enough for thirty men to stand abreast. That's where we hold them."
Veer shook his head. "That's where we pretend to hold them. The Raiders expect us to defend the pass—they'll send their strongest to break it. But if we shift the bulk of our force to the southern ridge at the last moment, we can strike from above. Gravity will be our ally."
Bhairav grinned. "Drop boulders on them until their bones are powder."
Somnath frowned. "It's risky. The southern ridge is steep—moving men there without being seen will take perfect timing."
Veer's voice hardened. "We don't have the luxury of a safe plan. The Raiders are not here to test us—they are here to erase us. If we fight them where they expect, we will lose. We must become the storm they never saw coming."
There was silence. Then, one by one, the chieftains nodded.
The plan was set.
Outside, the war drums quickened. Messengers ran to relay the new positions. The sun had climbed higher now, burning the mist away and revealing the jagged peaks in the distance. Somewhere beyond them, the enemy was marching.
As the camp shifted into its final formation, Veer returned to his own tent. The blacksmith was waiting, holding a breastplate polished to a mirror-like gleam."Your armor, my lord."
Veer nodded and allowed the man to fasten it piece by piece—the chestplate, the pauldrons, the vambraces. Each click of the buckles sounded like a closing door.
When the armor was on, Veer reached for his weapon. Not the ornate sword gifted to him by the council, but the curved blade his father had left him, forged in a small village forge long before Veer had ever dreamed of being a king.
Outside his tent, a horn sounded—long, low, and mournful. The signal that scouts had spotted the enemy.
Veer mounted his horse, a dark stallion named Kaal. Around him, the army of the Nine Tribes assembled—a sea of shields and spears, banners fluttering in the wind.
He rode to the front, raising his sword high so the sun caught its edge."Warriors of the Nine Tribes!" His voice carried over the field, cutting through the drumbeats. "Today is not the day we die. Today is the day they learn who we are!"
A roar went up from thousands of throats, shaking the very ground.
Veer's eyes narrowed as he looked toward the distant ridge. Dust clouds were rising—an entire host of Raiders moving like a dark tide toward them.
Bhairav came to his side. "Time to light the fire, King Veer."
Veer smiled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "No, Bhairav. Time to be the fire."
The drums thundered louder. The air was alive with tension. The first arrow would fly any moment.
And as the enemy began to appear in the distance—black banners snapping in the wind—Veer's heart steadied. The silence he had sought at dawn was gone, replaced by the roar of fate rushing toward him.
The storm was coming. And Veer was ready to meet it head-on.