The forest smelled of blood and smoke. Aron's band buried their fallen at dawn, their graves marked with stones and branches. No songs were sung — only silence as the cold wind carried ash from distant fires.
"We can't stay here," Garron said, his voice rough. "The Black Blades will return. Or worse."
Aron nodded, his face pale with weariness but set with purpose. "We move east. Deeper into the old woods. The land will guard us better there."
Lina added, "If Jaren sends more, he'll need to stretch his forces thin. That's when we strike again."
---
By midday, the band was on the move — dozens now, hardened by battle, bound by shared loss. Children walked beside mothers; hunters kept to the flanks, eyes sharp for danger.
As they traveled, they passed the wreckage of villages Jaren's men had destroyed. Charred beams. Empty wells. Fields salted so nothing could grow.
Mara, the healer, murmured, "He means to starve the land."
Aron's fists clenched. "And still we will not bow."
---
That night, camped beneath towering pines, Garron returned from scouting with grim news.
"Riders to the south. A full company. And with them... men carrying barrels marked with the fire sign."
Lina's eyes darkened. "Flamecasters. They mean to burn the forest — flush us out, leave nothing behind."
Aron looked out into the night, his heart heavy. The forest had given them shelter, but now it would become a trap if the fire spread.
---
"We can't fight fire with blades," Garron warned.
"No," Aron agreed. "But we can fight the men who carry it."
They planned through the night — how to strike the flamecasters before they could unleash their destruction.
---
At dawn, cloaked by mist, Aron's band moved like ghosts through the trees. They reached a rise overlooking the enemy company: a hundred men, wagons loaded with barrels of oil, and the black banner of the Puppet Master.
Aron's eyes found their target. "We hit the wagons first. If the fire can't reach us, we have a chance."
---
The attack came swift and fierce. Garron led the charge, his axe splitting the first guard's helm. Lina's knives found gaps in armor.
Aron's sword struck true, cutting through rope and barrel alike, spilling oil into the dirt where it could do no harm.
But the enemy rallied fast. Horns sounded. Arrows darkened the sky.
---
The battle raged beneath the ancient trees. Fire arrows hissed past, some finding barrels that burst into flame, setting the ground alight.
Smoke filled the air. Horses screamed.
"Fall back!" Aron shouted. "Into the rocks!"
The band withdrew, harried but not broken. The enemy was forced to abandon the remaining barrels, too few to set the forest ablaze.
---
By nightfall, the land lay scarred but unburnt.
Aron stood on a rocky ledge, watching the enemy retreat. His body ached. His blade dripped with blood. But his spirit stood tall.
"We won today," Lina said, coming to his side.
"And tomorrow?" Aron asked quietly.
"We win again."
---
Far away, in his hall of ruin, Jaren stared at the map, fury burning behind the silver mask.
"The boy dares too much," he hissed. "Send the Wraiths. Let him see what true terror means."
He moved another black token on the board — closer, always closer to the prince's mark.