The four Veilguards stood together again, their true identities no longer hidden from one another. The reunion was brief; duty pressed in almost immediately.
Ryoku's gaze swept over the group, his voice firm. "Five Veilguards unaccounted for. I'm sending a recon to find them."
He turned to two of them. "Teshar, Eorlas. You'll take the lead."
From the edge of the camp, Talgir paused mid-step, having caught the words. He stepped forward without hesitation. "I'll join the recon."
Ryoku's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you certain?"
"I am," Talgir said, his voice steady. He knew exactly which five were missing. They were not just comrades. They were his own cell; the same agent team he had served with on the island. If they were in danger, he would not wait for word.
A moment's pause, then a short nod from Ryoku. "Very well. Be ready. You leave before first light."
Before dawn, the three scouts slipped away from the main camp, their departure marked only by a quiet exchange of nods with the sentries. The rest of the force still slept, their fires banked low to embers. Moving in silence, the scouts followed the faint glimmer of starlight along a narrow path until the land began to rise beneath their feet.
By morning, the veil of mist would lift, revealing the crags where the three scouts would take their bearings. From their vantage point, the island's terrain would unfold as a cruel, deliberate design, ridgelines twisted through one another like ancient scars, and gullies cleaving the earth into a labyrinth. For any army, the land would be a trap of blind approaches and dead ends. For the three scouts, its depth would grant them cover enough to move unseen.
They would kindle no fire that morning; none of them would dare risk the attention. They would sleep in turns, cloaked in rock and shadow, and rely on silence, discipline, and the unspoken trust they had in one another.
Teshar would crouch beside a weathered tree stump, his gloved fingers brushing through loose dirt. Faint threads of magick would shimmer there, lacing the ground in an intricate pattern. Signals, precise and deliberate, left by agents of the Veilguard. The markings would be invisible to most, but not to those trained in their silent code or touched by the Qorjin-Ke.
Behind him, Eorlas would stand as still as the rock itself, his eyes scanning the horizon. The earth seemed to whisper to him, the wind shifting slightly at his presence. His reputation would precede him, Stormguard elite, a scout whose instincts had saved entire companies. Yet even he would give Teshar a subtle deference.
Without looking up from the soil, Teshar would murmur, "Magick threads. The Veilguard marked this path. We move."
Eorlas would answer with a single, measured nod. No further words would be needed.
Talgir would adjust his warbow and settle the round shield on his back. "I'll take rear," he would say quietly.
Each of them would be armed alike, composite warbows, flame-sigil falcatas sheathed at their hips, and medium shields strapped to their backs. Eorlas alone would carry four javelins, kept in readiness for silent and decisive use.
They would move eastward, winding along the folds of the land, hours passing in steady progress until they crested a higher ridge. There, spread below them in the basin, would be a sight that froze the breath in Teshar's lungs.
Nerathil.
At least two thousand strong, they would march in immaculate ranks, their black standards rippling like torn wings against the pale sky.
"They're heading for the Blacktide," Eorlas would say, his voice low but certain.
Teshar's jaw would tighten. "We have to warn them."
"There's no need to run," Talgir would reply, stepping forward. He would raise a gloved hand and speak in the lilting cadence of old words, summoning heat into the air until it shimmered. From that shimmer, a small drake would take form, its scales dark as polished obsidian, its wings short and keen-edged like a kestrel's. The creature would land on his shoulder and blink once.
"Fly," Talgir would murmur. "Warn the Blacktide. Tell them the Nerathil march."
With a swift beat of its wings, the drake would vanish into the clouds.
Below, the Nerathil would move in a manner both alien and unnerving. Their armor, black, angular, and segmented, would reflect no insignia, no cloth, no hint of humanity. Their masks would bear no eyes, no mouth, just smooth, unbroken surfaces that seemed to swallow the light. They would march without the beat of drums or the call of horns, their formation shifting with a unity so perfect it would suggest a single mind moving many bodies.
Teshar would unfurl a weatherworn map across a stone ledge, weighing its corners with small rocks as the other scouts and skirmishers gathered around in tense silence. His gloved finger would trace a line along the ridges.
"We'll strike them in stages," he began, his voice even but carrying a weight of certainty. "Controlled volleys to sap their vanguard's momentum. I don't need to shatter them, only to pull them into the path I've chosen."
He indicated the ridge where they now stood. "Here first. I'll strike alone, two volleys, each shot carrying more than mere steel. The arrows will take what they need from the leyline and deliver it back in force. That should fracture their front ranks."
His hand drifted to another mark on the map. "From there, I fall back to Talgir's position. We fire together, carefully timed shots meant to disrupt at close range."
Finally, his finger rested on the last ridge. "We'll draw them toward Eorlas. The ground there will not welcome them. When we arrive, he will make sure of that."
A scout spoke up. "And after that?"
Teshar rolled the map closed. "A final parting gift from the leyline," he replied. "Then we're gone."
There were no doubts voiced. All present knew this was not a fight to claim victory, only a measure to steal time.
Teshar crouched in the shadow of a jagged rock outcrop, the air around him still and cold. Before him lay the narrow mouth of the valley, a natural funnel carved between sheer stone walls. This was the place the horde would be drawn to, either by fury or by instinct, once the first volleys struck.
Below, faint movement rippled along the far ridgeline, shapes shifting in the morning haze, like waves before a storm. The enemy was out there, restless and searching, though the valley's twist hid their full numbers. Teshar adjusted the grip on his bow, his gloved fingers brushing the etched sigils along its curve.
From here, he could see everything: the open approach, the choke point, and the faint shimmer of the leyline running beneath the ground. It thrummed in his senses like a heartbeat, waiting to be called upon.
He stayed low, breathing with the wind. Soon, the others would take their positions, and the first arrow would fly. When it did, the horde would turn its gaze toward this valley, toward him.
When the Nerathil crest the far ridge, Teshar does not wait to be seen. He raises his warbow, nocks the first sigil-carved arrow, and releases.
The glyphs blaze to life as it flies, drawing power from the leyline beneath the ridge. Then it struck. A white-hot blast ripped the air, the shockwave hammering the ridge as fire and shards of stone churned skyward. A crater twenty meters wide gaped where the vanguard had stood, their ranks shattered.
He nocks another and draws deep. This arrow burns brighter, flies truer. Then it struck again. The detonation roared through the slope, hurling black-armored bodies like broken dolls and scattering fragments of obsidian plate into the smoking air.
The Nerathil do not slow.
Without a word, their formation splits, half peeling away to pursue. The rest form a perfect black wedge that climbs the slope with unnatural speed.
Teshar turns and runs, two strike bands flanking him before vanishing into gullies they memorized hours earlier. Behind them, the wedge advances in silence, each mask catching the cold light like a blade's edge.
At the second ridge, Talgir waits with bow drawn. No words pass between them.
They loose together.
The first volley arcs high, then strikes, twin bursts of ley-fed flame tearing through the front ranks, hurling smoke and debris skyward.
The second volley cuts low, raking the wedge's edges and shearing away its flanks.
The third slams into the center, a blinding flash splitting their advance.
And still, the Nerathil come, burning, armor cracked, yet unshaken, their rhythm unbroken.
Teshar and Talgir fall back.
At the third ridge, Eorlas kneels over the rune array, hand hovering above the activation sigil. The instant they cross the mark; his palm slams the sigil.
The ground roars. A pillar of fire erupts ten meters wide, flinging rock, ash, and black-armored bodies into the air. The slope glazes to glass beneath the heat.
Before the smoke settles, Teshar draws and looses again, one arrow, then another, each pulling hard from the leyline.
They strike, blooming like falling stars, scattering the staggered remnants of the wedge.
The Nerathil reel, but their advance does not falter.
The three do not linger.
They vanish into the next ridge, swallowed by mist and stone. They have not come to win, not today. Their task is to wound the silence itself and buy enough time for the fire to spread.
As dusk deepened, a shadow swept over the camp. A small, scaled shape broke through the treeline. A mini-drake, its wings flickering with faint runic light, landed silently beside Serana, the Veilguard. The creature's eyes locked on hers, and the Veilguard's secret code spilled into her mind in a single, sharp pulse.
A Nerathil horde is coming. Half a day's march to the camp's position. We will try to draw them away to give the camp time to defend or flee.
Serana wasted no breath. She went straight to Warden Ryoku and repeated the warning. Ryoku listened, then gave his order without hesitation.
"Tell the Dazhum captain a horde is coming. Civilians and those not capable of fighting are to retreat to your main line."
Not all obeyed. Some of the Dazhum refugees remained, old veterans unwilling to leave, retired soldiers who still remembered the weight of steel in their hands, mercenaries who saw profit or honor in the stand. A handful of Dazhum soldiers also chose to stay.
When the tally was made, seventy-five volunteer defenders stood ready to hold the road. Alongside them were thirty-three Bloodtide mercenaries under Ryoku's command, their true identities concealed beneath false names.