The air reeked of iron and charred wood. Elias Veyne crouched behind the splintered remains of a supply cart, his breath ragged, fingers tightening around the hilt of his spirit dagger. The blade hummed faintly, resonating with the remnants of his mana. Across the smoldering battlefield, the Twelfth Legion's banners lay trampled in the mud, their golden sigil of the unbroken circle now stained crimson.
"They're pushing east," hissed Kael, his second-in-command, pressing a hand to the gash on his thigh. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and sluggish. "If they take the ridge, we lose the pass."
Elias didn't need the reminder. The ridge was the last defensible position between the enemy and the valley beyond—where the refugees from Lethis had fled. He gritted his teeth. "Then we hold it."
A sharp whistle cut through the smoke. Arrows rained down, thudding into the earth around them. One grazed Elias's shoulder, tearing through his cloak. He barely flinched. Pain was secondary now. Survival was everything.
"Move!" He lunged forward, Kael limping behind him. The ground trembled as the enemy's war machines—hulking constructs of black iron and glowing runes—rolled closer. The air crackled with the scent of ozone, the telltale sign of aether magic charging.
Elias raised his dagger, drawing on the last dregs of his mana. The blade flared to life, casting jagged shadows across his face. "For the Twelfth!" he roared, and the remnants of his company surged forward with him.
The clash was brutal. Steel met steel, and the screams of the dying filled the air. Elias carved through the first line of attackers, his dagger humming as it sliced through armor like parchment. But for every soldier he felled, two more took their place. The enemy's numbers were endless.
A flash of movement to his left. Elias twisted, barely avoiding the swing of a massive axe. The wielder—a hulking warrior clad in obsidian plate—grinned beneath his helmet. "The Legion dies today," he growled, voice distorted by the metal.
Elias spat blood. "Not while I breathe."
Their duel was a blur of steel and desperation. The warrior was stronger, but Elias was faster. He ducked beneath a crushing blow and drove his dagger into the gap between breastplate and pauldron. The warrior staggered, choking on his own blood, and collapsed.
But the victory was short-lived. A deafening explosion rocked the battlefield, sending Elias sprawling. The world spun, his ears ringing. Through the haze, he saw it—the war machine's cannon, smoking from its latest volley. And beyond it, the enemy's standard-bearer raising a new banner: a serpent coiled around a broken sword.
The Sigil of Veymar.
Elias's blood turned to ice.
Kael dragged him behind a shattered barricade. "They're Veymar's elite," he gasped. "This wasn't just an attack—it was a trap."
Elias clenched his fists. Veymar. The name alone was a curse. The warlord had been a brother once, a fellow commander of the Twelfth. Until he'd turned. Until he'd sold them all out for power.
And now he'd come to finish what he started.
"We fall back," Elias ordered, voice raw. "Regroup at the pass."
Kael's face twisted. "And leave the ridge?"
"If we stay, we die. And the refugees die with us."
The retreat was a nightmare. The enemy harried them every step, their arrows and spells picking off stragglers. By the time they reached the narrow defile leading to the valley, less than a third of Elias's company remained.
But the worst was yet to come.
At the mouth of the pass stood a lone figure, silhouetted against the dawn. His armor gleamed like polished onyx, his cloak billowing in the ash-laden wind. Even from a distance, Elias recognized him.
Veymar.
"You always did have a talent for survival, Elias," the warlord called, voice carrying across the battlefield. "But even you can't outrun fate."
Elias stepped forward, his dagger trembling in his grip. "You betrayed us. Sold the Legion to the highest bidder."
Veymar laughed, low and mocking. "I saw the future. The Legion was a relic. The old ways are dead." He drew his sword—a blade of dark metal, pulsing with void magic. "Join me. Or die here with the rest of your ghosts."
The offer hung in the air, thick as smoke. Elias glanced back at his men—bloodied, exhausted, but still standing. Still loyal.
He turned to Veymar, his voice steady. "The Twelfth doesn't break."
Veymar sighed. "Pity."
The battle that followed was short and brutal. Veymar moved like a shadow, his void blade devouring light and life alike. Elias fought with everything he had, but the warlord was faster, stronger, his magic a bottomless well.
A final clash. A searing pain in Elias's side. He stumbled, his vision blurring. Veymar loomed over him, sword raised for the killing blow.
Then—a horn. Distant, but unmistakable.
Veymar hesitated.
Through the haze of pain, Elias smiled. "Hear that? That's the Twelfth's answer."
The warlord's eyes narrowed. "Reinforcements?"
"No," Elias rasped. "Judgment."
The ground shook as the cavalry arrived—not Legion soldiers, but the forest tribes, their mounts clad in living wood, their spears tipped with venom. At their head rode a woman with emerald eyes and a crown of thorns.
The Witch of the Wilds.
Veymar snarled and stepped back. "This isn't over."
Elias coughed, blood staining his lips. "It never is."
As the warlord vanished into the smoke, the world faded to black.
---
Elias awoke to the scent of herbs and the crackle of a fire. The pain in his side was dull now, wrapped in bandages soaked with something bitter. He turned his head—and froze.
The Witch of the Wilds sat beside him, her gaze unreadable. "You live," she said simply.
Elias swallowed. "Why?"
She tilted her head. "Because the enemy of my enemy is a fool. But a useful fool."
He laughed, though it hurt. "And what do you want?"
She leaned closer, her voice a whisper. "Veymar seeks the Heart of the Aether. If he finds it, the world burns."