Those sons of bitches. If I ever get my hands on them, I'll make them regret ever breathing the same air as me.
Freya Eldrin was tired. Filthy. And so furious she could taste it in the back of her throat, metallic and bitter. They had kidnapped her, stripped her of her weapons, dumped her in some gods-forsaken forest, and left her to wander like a kicked stray. No food. No water. No bearings—just endless trees, mocking silence, and the steady drumbeat of rage in her skull.
Two days in that green hell, stumbling over roots and through brambles, her boots caked with mud, her clothes reeking of damp rot. Then another day of crossing the plains under a sun that clawed at her skin, turning her lips to cracked leather and her tongue to sandpaper.
By the time she finally limped into camp, she was ready to kill someone just for breathing too loudly.
But the camp she knew was gone.
Tents lay flattened or burned, their ash drifting through the air like black snow. Smoke curled in lazy spirals, carrying the bitter stink of scorched cloth and something far more organic—burned meat. People darted about like startled ants, shouting orders and curses, some clutching bundles of supplies, others dragging the wounded toward makeshift shelters.
What the hell happened here? And why did everyone look one argument away from killing each other? Another faction attack? Or had the idiots somehow managed to burn down half their own camp?
"Freya! Where have you been? We thought you'd died during last night's attack!"
The voice made her grind her teeth. Durgan. The one face she didn't want to see.
The young dwarf had the morals of a rat and the ambition of a starving wolf. He'd sell his own mother for half a rung up the ladder—and had done worse. She still remembered the day he'd accused his best friend of treachery, slit the man's throat himself, and handed the chief the bloody blade as proof of loyalty. Now he strutted as an expedition leader, puffed up like a rooster who'd stolen someone else's feathers.
And he hadn't even noticed she'd been gone for three days.
No way in hell was she telling him the truth—he'd twist it until she was the villain of the story.
"I was bored," she said flatly, brushing a lock of tangled hair from her face. "Went out onto the plains to have a look around."
His beady eyes fixed on her, not with suspicion—he wasn't clever enough for that—but with the slow, ugly calculation of a man wondering if you were worth the trouble of keeping alive.
A long, unpleasant silence stretched.
"Next time," he said at last, "say something so we don't waste time looking for you. We're moving out. This operation's lost its purpose—it's time for the direct approach."
Direct approach. Oh, that was rich.
"What does that mean?" she asked. "You're going to attack with full force? Didn't the chief forbid that?"
He ignored the question, already barking orders to someone else. She didn't press. Let him play the big, bold leader for now. Watching him crash and burn would be so much sweeter up close.
Freya stayed close, silently judging every misstep. If the fight came, it wouldn't be the villagers who needed caution—it would be Durgan and his foolish leadership.
---
Preparations for the coming attack consumed the village.
The people weren't fighting for glory—they were fighting for the only things they had left. Homes. Families. The thin thread of life that tied them to this patch of earth. That kind of fear could harden into something unbreakable, the kind of stubbornness that dug in its heels and refused to die.
They herded every bleating goat, every skittish horse into the fenced heart of the settlement. Buckets of water sloshed over rooftops and walls, turning the packed dirt beneath them to mud. Old men muttered prayers as they carried crying children toward the central square, the safest ground they had.
When all was said and done, they could muster sixty young men and women who could put up a fight. Ten could string a bow without dropping it, so Syrien and Gerart drilled them hard, turning them into a shaky but serviceable firing line.
Charles and Farren handled the close-range defense. Farm tools became spears and pikes in calloused hands; doors and carts were dragged into position as barricades. A sharpened hoe or scythe might not look like much, but behind a fence and with enough desperation, it could gut a charging man just as well as any sword.
"They're here!!"
The cry came from a boy, legs pumping, face ghost-white. He should've been hidden inside with the others, but panic had dragged him into the open.
Over the crest of the hill came the enemy—two hundred strong. A ragged but dangerous mix of infantry and mounted riders, their mismatched armor clinking and their weapons catching the sun.
On one side, a tide of armed thugs. On the other, a wall of wood and sixty villagers with more will than steel.
They halted just outside bowshot, fanning into a loose semicircle around the village. The air grew still. No war cries. No charge. Only the heavy, measured breathing of men waiting for something.
Charles narrowed his eyes. What are they waiting for?
Then came the answer.
Durgan stepped forward, chest puffed, leading the negotiations. The orc remained just behind him, silent and dangerous. Between them, a fluttering white cloth—the universal sign of parley.
After a quick, tense discussion, Gerart and the village elder were chosen to meet them. Charles wasn't invited, but that never stopped him. He fell in behind the pair, keeping his eyes on Durgan.
The dwarf's grin was so slick it could've been wrung into a lamp. "Hello, friends. We heard you've been having trouble—monsters, bandits, all sorts of nasty business. So we decided to offer… our protection."
Freya stayed silent, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Watching Durgan bumble through diplomacy was almost painful. He had no plan, no subtlety—just bluster. She couldn't help but wonder how this idiot managed to lead an army.
Charles let out a slow, mocking laugh. "Clever. First they make the trouble, then they sell the cure. Crooked merchants would be proud."
Gerart smirked. "Such talents, wasted on mere hired muscle."
The orc sneered, "Don't listen to him. We've only your best interests at heart."
The elder's voice was calm, but firm. "We can discuss your… proposal. But first, have your men pull back."
Durgan's smile faltered. "Pull back? Why? We come with good intentions!" He waved at his men, trying to regain composure. Freya almost groaned inwardly. Every gesture made him look more foolish than the last.
"Step back," the elder insisted. "Then we may speak. Until then, we hold our positions."
The dwarf's grin curdled into something sharper, his voice dripping faux civility. "You should've listened. Don't blame us for what happens next."
They turned and began retreating, the orc behind them, but their shadows stretched long in the dust, threatening.
Charles didn't take his eyes off them as he and the others returned to the fence.
"Get ready," he said flatly. "They're coming—and they won't hold back this time."