Altan stood on the upper terrace of Bastion Vrael when Stormwake, his silent hand, approached and passed him a sealed message.
He broke the wax seal. His eyes scanned the contents. The paper was plain. The news wasn't.
"The Dazhum Empire and the Zhong exile vanguard have been spotted," Altan said. "Across the water. Western shores of Misty Grove. They're building a forward base of operations. A staging point before crossing the Kaldoran Strait."
Stormwake said nothing.
"They chose the only pass." Altan's voice was low. "They think they've found the way in."
North of the Kaldoran Isthmus, there was nothing but the Frozen Grave, a white desert of ice and wind. No scouts returned from it. The cold killed in an hour. No army could cross it. Which meant Misty Grove was the gate. And Gravemarch Bastion was the wall behind it.
"The Warden of Recruits will continue training the freed slave legions," Altan said. "They'll defend the southern Gale. If the Dazhum try a long flank, they'll find nothing but broken fields and scorched routes."
He turned and looked west. The light was dull. The wind tasted of steel.
"Send orders to the Warden of the North. He will take command here in Bastion Vrael. Two Stormguard legions and three Gale legions. Hold the western coasts of the new Protectorate."
Stormwake nodded once. He began walking away, but stopped.
"Word came from Supreme Warden Chaghan," he said. "His scouts spotted a Dazhum fleet. Approaching Tidescar."
Altan didn't hesitate. "Send message. He is to defend Tidescar. Two Stormguard legions and five Free Cities legions are positioned inland, as planned. The Warden of the West will command."
He glanced north. "I'll take the reserve force to Gravemarch. One Stormguard elite legion. Three Free Cities legions. We let them land. And bleed for every step."
Four months had passed since Altan dismantled the Free Cities spy networks. The Dazhum and the Zhong exiles hadn't realized the old loyalist cities were already crushed. Their maps were outdated. Their allies were ghosts. Their march north was blind.
They would learn too late.
Eastern Shore of Misty Grove — Dazhum Vanguard
Sergeant Kyang of the Dazhum 9th Advance watched the fog curl from the trees across the strait. The grove was silent, except for the water lapping against the shore.
Mist drifted low over the earth. Not a dreamlike haze. It choked the light and clung to the skin.
Kyang spat into the dirt and adjusted his furs. "Still think it's abandoned?" he asked.
Lieutenant Zho knelt beside a flat rock, studying a rough map. "No signs of movement yet. No smoke. No scouts. But they know we're here. They'll be watching."
The 9th had landed three nights earlier. The shoreline had been cleared. Ditches dug. Wooden barricades hammered into wet ground. Nothing elegant, a temporary forward base, just enough to stage men and store grain. The real army was behind them. Forty thousand strong.
But this, Misty Grove, was the pass.
"Frozen Grave's up north," Zho said. "Command says even steel snaps in that cold. Only route is here. Narrow. Choked by trees and cliffs."
Kyang stared into the fog. "That's not a road. That's a death march."
He wasn't wrong. The grove narrowed into a tight, winding defile. Trees too thick for cavalry. Ground too wet for siege platforms. The only path was by foot. And Altan's men, if they were here, would be dug in.
Scouts said no fortress stood in the Grove. But that didn't mean there were no defenses. Trenches. Spike pits. Mages. Crossbows in trees. And worse, traps that couldn't be seen until you'd lost your feet.
Zho stood up and pointed at the cliffs ahead. "That ridge will be a kill zone. If I were Altan, I'd rig the whole slope. Then pull back. Make us chase them into another trap."
Kyang's face was grim. "We keep marching?"
Zho said, "Orders are to probe forward at first light. Just enough to bleed them. Break the choke. Then the rest of the army moves in."
Kyang said nothing for a while.
"The ground feels wrong here," he muttered. "I've marched twenty years. I know what dead land feels like."
Later — Bastion Grove Command
Altan watched as the updated map was pinned to the table. His finger traced the flow of the enemy's advance.
"We bleed them in the Grove. That's all," he said.
He pointed at the area behind the grove, a shallow caldera, nestled in a broken ring of hills.
"They pass through the Grove, they hit the next defense, here. Narrower ground. Less cover. Easier to trap. We fortify the caldera, force them into a bottleneck. Wards will trigger the deadfall. Then we fall back again."
Stormwake looked at the southern approach. "What if they swing south of the strait?"
"They can't. The Kaldoran shores are too narrow. No beach to land. If they try, they're exposed to ballista fire from above."
"And if they dig in and wait?"
"Then we bleed them with time."
Altan stood. "This isn't about holding the Grove. That's the mistake they'll make. We let them have it. Slowly. At a cost. Let them think they're winning."
"And then?" Stormwake asked.
Altan's voice was quiet. "Then they reach Bastion Grove. Where the walls are real. Where their blood will feed the soil."
He looked west.
"Send word to the front scouts. No glory. Just patience. Let the Grove devour them."