The crows appeared, drawn to the scent of blood.
Their black wings rustled in the frosted branches, their beady eyes unblinking as they watched the aftermath unfold across the blood-soaked soil of the Misty Grove. One perched on Altan's shoulder, three-eyed, calm, as though it belonged there.
No one dared touch it.
The war tent stood under the thick canopy of firs, silent save for the occasional flutter of ash on wind. Within, Altan stood at the center of a circle of commanders. His war-mask hung from his belt, and his cloak of silverwolf fur still held the scent of burnt pine and blood.
Stormwake of the QORJIN-KE stepped forward, eyes flicking toward the strange bird.
"It follows you."
Altan didn't look at the crow. "It was feeding on the eyes of the enemy. Skipped the brothers."
Bruga let out a low grunt. "Omen."
"Maybe," Altan murmured. "But until it speaks, I'll call it a reminder. Now…" he turned to the table, where a frost-etched map of the Misty Grove and surrounding territories was laid open. "Tonight, we honor the dead of the United Armies of the Gale. Stormguard ashes will be gathered, sealed in obsidian urns, and sent to Gravemarch Bastion. The rest of the fallen will be cremated in the rites of their nations."
He let the silence sit before continuing.
"Nyzekh," Altan looked to the dark elf, cloaked in voidsilk, his face pale as marble. "Your Virak'tai will deploy to the northern hills. The Dazhum may attempt to circle behind us. I want them blind before they even start climbing. Have your war mages lay traps along every trail. When they ascend, they burn or freeze."
Nyzekh nodded once. "It shall be done."
Altan turned to Bruga. "The Skarnulf stay in the Grove. One of your legions will hold the trees alongside two Stormguard legions. You've seen how they fight in mist. You'll do better."
Bruga grinned, revealing broken teeth. "Let them come. We'll decorate the bark with their skulls."
"Commander Varin," Altan said, addressing the Free Cities commander—slender, armored in engraved plate, flanked by aides. "Your regulars will guard the southern shoreline. The Dazhum might send boats to circle the trench. Your men will be supported by two thousand Stormguard and the light cavalry of the Stormriders."
Varin gave a crisp nod. "We've begun fortifying the dunes. There will be no beachhead."
Altan then looked toward Daalo, the chief engineer, who was already sketching something with a charcoal stick.
"I want the edge of the Grove strengthened. Trenches. Wood spikes. Frozen walls, grown by our mages. Mangonels and ballistae facing west. If they try to rebuild the bridges across the trench, I want them shattered before the first plank settles."
Daalo didn't look up. "Already in motion. The earth will rise where you point."
"Wen Tu," Altan called next.
The war mage stepped forward, crimson robes flickering with runes. His staff glimmered with frost.
"Coordinate with the elementalists. I want the trees protected. They'll try to burn them—pitch or napalm, maybe both. Every trunk that burns brings down our shield. Place fire-wards throughout the Grove."
"They won't light a twig," Wen Tu replied, bowing his head.
Altan then glanced at Ryoku, the Warden of the Stormriders, whose heavy cavalry banners hung in the cold wind just outside the tent.
"Hold in reserve. If they breach the north or the south, I want your riders crashing into their flanks like winter thunder."
Ryoku's eyes narrowed. "They will not leave the Grove standing."
The commanders exchanged glances. The wind outside picked up, scattering ash.
Altan looked last to Stormwake, whose face was obscured behind a shroud of shadow-fur.
"The canisters. The ones the Whispershell buried in their camp?"
Stormwake tilted his head slightly. "Set. Beneath the latrines, under the mess tents, inside the fire pits. The first scream will be at the second hour past midnight."
Altan said nothing. The three-eyed crow clicked its beak.
"Good," he said at last. "Then let them sleep."
And the tent fell into silence again, save for the whisper of feathers overhead.
Midnight, West Camp of the Dazhum Empire
There was a hiss.
A faint whisper beneath the frostwind. Then another. And then a pop, like the cracking of knuckles beneath the earth. The first canister burst open under a latrine pit, releasing darkness that moved.
Hundreds of soldier ants, each the size of a man's hand, black as oil and twice as fast. They crawled up from the pit, their jaws clicking, eyes gleaming like garnet in moonlight. The nearest sentry barely had time to scream before they covered his body, chewing through leather, cloth, and skin in seconds.
Another canister erupted beneath a mess tent. Out poured venomous spiders, sleek and bone-white, with red hourglass marks that pulsed like beating hearts. They moved in coordinated waves, climbing, dropping from tent poles, scuttling into sleeping rolls. The silence shattered with shrieks.
"Spiders! They're—oh gods—"
Then came the death beetles. Huge, armored things with mandibles like butcher knives. No larger than a man's hand, they moved with uncanny force, smashing into tents, slicing through canvas and bone alike. One beetle latched onto a horse's neck and tore it open with one twist.
Flames lit the camp as torches were overturned. Officers shouted. Archers loosed arrows into the darkness, but it was already too late. Black tide poured through every gap.
And then the final canisters opened.
From inside fire pits, from beneath frozen barrels, they came—
Fire cicadas.
Their wings buzzed like a funeral dirge, trails of burning ash in their wake. They burst into flame midair and hurled themselves into tents, igniting whole clusters of soldiers in seconds. Screams became howls as men thrashed, clothes melting into skin.
A captain ran, his hair on fire, only to stumble and fall face-first into a writhing pit of ants.
The sky turned orange. Blood soaked the snow. Less than two thousand lay dead by dawn, burnt, shredded, and consumed. No more.
And somewhere in the chaos, a lone crow circled overhead, three eyes gleaming.
Watching.
Feeding.