The city of Sawa stretched along the western border like a natural wall, surrounded on all sides by high hills, cut through by narrow paths that led into a deep valley reaching the heart of the kingdom. The earth was cracked from war, and smoke still rose from the fields that had burned days earlier.
At the heart of the hills stood Marcus, Supreme Commander of Uruk's armed forces and the king's right hand. He watched from atop the cliffs, eyes fixed on the valley below where Ashur's army was about to walk into his trap.
"Place them there," he said calmly, pointing to the eastern hilltops. Dozens of Uruk's finest archers crept into position behind the rocks, camouflaging themselves beneath dust-covered nets and dry olive branches.
"Do not fire until commanded. Every arrow must kill."
With a silent gesture, the order vanished into the wind.
From the south, the army of Ashur surged like a black tide. Their long banners fluttered like blades in the wind. At the front marched General Valram, a massive warrior with an iron beard, alongside General Nirsa, a tall woman with white hair flowing over her black armor and eyes that blazed like fire.
"This valley is too narrow," Valram muttered. "Its scent displeases me."
"And I don't like how still they are…" Nirsa replied, eyeing Uruk's quiet formations.
But the king's orders were clear:
"Cut off the serpent's head. Take Sawa."
Ashur's forces advanced into the valley. A thousand, then two, then five thousand soldiers passed through the pass, and not a single arrow flew from Uruk's side.
As the generals discussed their formation—The whistle blew.
The sky erupted.
Arrows rained down like a storm.
From the hilltops, fire poured from the skies. Every shot struck true. Men fell, banners tore, and formations scattered. Screams of pain mingled with the hiss of steel.
"Ambush! Ambush!" shouted Valram, raising his shield against the torrent.
But the strike didn't come from above alone…
From the valley's flanks, Uruk's elite units surged forth, wielding long spears and wide blades, striking from all sides—severing legs, plunging steel into backs.
Marcus watched the chaos below like an artist admiring his completed masterpiece.
"We crushed them," he murmured, then turned to a nearby aide. "Has the message of victory reached the capital?"
"Yes, Commander."
But as any seasoned warrior knows—victory does not lie in how a battle begins, but in how it ends.
Thirty minutes passed.
Ashur's forces were retreating—burned, scattered, cornered.
But Nirsa was no mere general—she was a strategic monster.
"Stop retreating!" she screamed, raising her black banner high.
"Fire Division—move forward! Burn the hills!"
Suddenly, soldiers armed with massive slings emerged, hurling flaming oil bombs directly at the eastern hills, where Uruk's archers were perched.
The rocks ignited. Screams echoed. Thick smoke blanketed the sky.
Within just ten minutes, the tide turned.
Ashur's army pushed forward again. Their numbers surged. The flames disoriented Uruk's troops, and the archers withdrew from their positions.
Marcus realized the danger. He had not expected Ashur's army to survive the trap—let alone take control of the battlefield.
"Send in the core reserves!" he shouted, but the roar of explosions drowned his voice.
The front lines began to collapse.
Marcus himself joined the fray, his golden sword cutting down enemies around him. But hell had broken loose, and Ashur's advance seemed unstoppable.
Just as all seemed lost, an unexpected sound pierced the chaos.
Hooves thundered from the north… Uruk's war horns howled like thunder…
King Karis Krios appeared atop the northern cliffs, riding his black steed, with thousands of reserve troops behind him. Their eyes burned with fury, their blades glinted under the setting sun.
"Karis?!" a soldier from Ashur gasped, his voice trembling.
The king charged into the valley like a storm.
His mighty sword tore through ranks, his battle cry echoed through the hills.
Uruk's soldiers rallied. The fleeing returned. The wounded rose. The earth shook beneath their fury.
Marcus, bloodied and exhausted, turned and saw his sovereign.
"He came…" he whispered with a tired smile.
As night fell, Uruk regained control of its forces. Ashur, though shaken by the king's arrival, had not yet been defeated.
Karis approached Marcus through the smoke and dust.
"We were on the brink of destruction," Marcus said, catching his breath.
Karis replied firmly:
"This battle isn't over… but we won't win in this chaos. We withdraw now… and reorganize for the final strike."
Thus, Uruk's army retreated from the valley—battered, bloodied, but not broken.
For the true war… was only just beginning.