The night still clung to the hills when the banners of House Marestel crept across the valley, carried on the wind by armored columns. Hooves struck dirt, wagons creaked, and commands barked in sharp rhythm. The orders were clear: reinforce the mine, double the garrison, ensure no weakness remained.
But weakness had already come.
By the time the riders reached the ridge above the valley, the smell of blood already lingered faintly in the air. The mine below, once a beacon of light and labor, lay strangely quiet. The torches that usually burned at the barricades had burned out. The smoke from the cookfires was gone. And the rhythmic clang of pickaxes—the steady pulse of miners under guard—was silent.
"Where are the sentries?" one knight muttered as they descended.
The captain of the Marestel detachment narrowed his eyes. "The scouts should have reported." He lifted a gauntleted hand, signaling the riders to halt.
The air was wrong. Too still.
They approached slowly, every man's hand tightening on his weapon. The barricades outside the mine bore dark stains, and closer still, the first of the bodies came into view. Men in Marestel colors, lying cold in the mud, their throats cut cleanly. No alarms, no desperate battle—just execution.
The riders shifted uneasily.
"My lord…" one soldier stammered. "This… this was no raid. This was precise."
The captain's jaw clenched. He swung down from his horse, kneeling beside one of the corpses. The wound was too neat, too silent. He rose with a curse. "Assassins. Or worse."
Another knight spoke, his voice trembling. "Should we ride back to inform the Lady?"
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Then the captain nodded grimly. "Yes. If the mine has fallen, House Marestel must know at once. We cannot risk—"
He never finished.
An arrow whistled from the tree line, striking the knight clean through the throat. He toppled before anyone could draw breath. Shouts broke out, steel flashed in the dawn light, and men scrambled into defensive lines.
The forest answered with silence.
---
High above, crouched in the branches of a towering oak, Skotos lowered his bow. His mismatched eyes glinted coldly as he watched the panic spread. Around him, shadows moved—Verentis soldiers hidden like wolves in the brush.
He whispered into the wind. "They were bound to send someone back. Achilles was right."
Sliding down the trunk with predator's ease, he signaled to his men. "No one leaves. Not a rider, not a scout. If a messenger returns, all our work is undone."
Steel flashed as the Verentis ambushers surged forward.
The clash was short, brutal. Marestel's riders fought with desperate ferocity, but they had no formation, no time to prepare. Horses screamed, blades clattered, and the morning light broke over bloodied soil. One by one, the reinforcements fell until silence reclaimed the valley once more.
When it was done, Skotos stood amid the fallen, wiping his blade clean with a strip of cloth. His men looted the bodies quickly, pulling off banners and crests, stripping the dead of anything that could identify them from afar. The last thing they needed was a distant scout spotting Marestel colors in the wrong place.
"Burn them," Skotos ordered flatly. "Scatter the ashes. Let the carrion eat what remains. Marestel will wonder why their men never returned, but they will not know why."
The Verentis soldiers obeyed without question.
---
By nightfall, Skotos returned to the war tent.
Achilles stood at the center, leaning over the sprawling map. His expression was hard, unreadable, but when Skotos entered, his cold eyes lifted at once.
"Well?" Achilles asked.
Skotos dropped to one knee, placing a bloodstained satchel at his feet. "The reinforcements reached the mine. They found the bodies we left them. One of their captains attempted to send word back. None survived."
A silence filled the tent, heavy and sharp.
Then Achilles nodded slowly, as if confirming the piece of a puzzle he already knew. "Good. If even one had returned, House Marestel would have rallied their defenses within the day."
Kael frowned from across the table. "But they will notice. When an entire detachment disappears without report, suspicions will mount."
"Of course," Achilles said flatly. His hand traced across the map, tapping the mine's marker. "That is why we bleed them slowly. They expect their soldiers to keep the mine safe. They will wait days, perhaps weeks, before assuming disaster. That delay is the knife at their throat. Every day they do not know, we grow stronger."
Orrin, arms crossed, rumbled, "And if they send another wave?"
Achilles's eyes flickered with cruel light. "Then Skotos will do what he does best."
Skotos gave a faint smile, bowing his head. "Always, my Lord."
The fire in the brazier popped, throwing sparks against the canvas.
Achilles straightened, his shadow stretching long across the maps. "Remember this: the battlefield is not only swords and shields. It is time. Fear. Doubt. If we can steal even one of those from Marestel, we control the game."
He paused, his voice dropping lower, colder.
"And when they finally realize the mine is no longer theirs, it will already be too late."
---
Far across the valleys, in the marble halls of House Marestel, Lady Ysoria sat in her chamber, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair. Reports had not come. Riders had not returned. The mine should have been secure by now.
Her gaze sharpened, suspicion twisting in her chest.
"Something is wrong."
And in the silence of the duchy, the war drums began to beat faintly in the distance.