The city of Droswade also under the banner of Haldria and a hard three days march from Vexmoor had been holding the northern border for months, the fighting never stopped, and the ground had not been dry since the first attack.
General Aldros, the Iron Sentinel of Rengard, rode into the forward camp with General Mirelle. Soldiers stopped talking when they saw him, men and women who had been through weeks of battle standing straighter without thinking. Aldros was built like a siege wall, his armor dented but clean, Mirelle walked beside him, her eyes sharp and watching everything.
The camp commander, Rauthen, came forward. He looked like he had not slept in days.
"General Aldros," Rauthen said, bowing his head.
Aldros didn't slow his step. "Status."
Rauthen hesitated. "Western barricades hold, eastern front is breaking. If they push tonight, we might last until morning."
Mirelle folded her arms. "We're not here for reports, we're looking for survivors. Not nobles, not priests. The kind who stay alive when they shouldn't."
Rauthen's mouth tightened. "I know a few. But they're still in the fight."
Aldros looked toward the sounds of steel and shouting over the ridge. "Then we'll see them for ourselves."
The three of them reached the ridge. The field below was chaos.
A man in a torn mail shirt swung a two-handed axe that split a demon from collar to hip. Another soldier, younger, with two short swords, cut through his enemies like he had been born for it. A veteran with a scarred face used his shield like a hammer, breaking teeth and bone. And a girl with a black bow dropped her targets without wasting an arrow.
Aldros nodded toward them. "These four. Get them off the field when the next line rotates."
Rauthen hesitated. "They won't like it."
"They don't need to like it," Aldros said.
---
Vexmoor
Asmodara's column moved through the fields like a slow tide, the banners of the Seven Hells dragging behind her carriage. Prisoners walked in chains at the front, their heads down, some limping from wounds that hadn't been treated.
A man was shoved to his knees before her. His face was pale, his eyes darting to her throne seat at the front of the carriage. His voice cracked as he tried to speak.
"Please… I have a family, I—"
She didn't answer. She simply flicked her fingers, and one of her demon guards split his chest open before he could finish. His body hit the ground hard, his eyes still open.
Another was thrown forward, a woman with dirt in her hair and blood dried on her cheek. She crawled forward, hands clasped together.
"Mercy, my Queen… I'll serve you… anything you want…"
Asmodara tilted her head slightly. "You beg well," she said. The woman's eyes lit with a spark of hope.
"Feed her to the rift-hounds," Asmodara added. The hope vanished instantly as the demons dragged her away, her screams fading into the distance.
A third man was pushed forward. He didn't beg. He spat at the ground, breathing hard. One of the guards moved to kill him, but Asmodara raised a hand. She studied him for a moment.
"Interesting," she murmured. The man flinched as though her voice was a blade on his skin. She didn't give him the dignity of a longer look. "Break his legs, leave him for the crows."
Her second-in-command, General Throzak, approached.
"We will reach Droswade within three days, my Queen. From there, it is two days to Haldria."
"Then burn Vexmoor to the ground," she replied coldly. "I want the smoke to greet Droswade before we arrive."
Throzak grinned, saluted, and turned away to give the order. Behind them, the line of prisoners grew smaller with every mile, their bodies left scattered for the crows.
---
Kendros
Kendros skies burned gold with the setting sun, but James Halewart wasn't out there riding his dragon or commanding soldiers. He was inside his lavish chamber, half-buttoned shirt, boots off, sprawled on a couch with a bottle of rum in one hand and a smug grin on his face. A silver platter with diced fruit sat on the table, untouched.
"Lord Halewart," a deep voice called from the doorway.
James groaned without looking. "If it's another speech about honor and duty, save it for my funeral. Or better yet, yours."
General Strathmore stepped in, full armor and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Word came from Varethorn. General Aldros is moving between kingdoms, recruiting fighters who can actually survive a demon war. He's headed this way."
James tipped the bottle to his lips and let the rum burn its way down before answering. "Aldros, huh? Tall, broad, stiff as an oak tree?"
"You know him," Strathmore said flatly.
"I know he's got no sense of humor," James replied. "And no taste in rum."
The General's frown deepened. "He'll want you. You're one of the finest riders in Kendros. One of the deadliest swordsmen I've seen. Your magic—"
"—is not for hire," James cut in, grinning. "I told the High Council four times already, Strath. I'm not a general. I'm not a commander. I'm a man who enjoys his life. Fighting wars means missing the next episode of The Velvet Court, and that's not happening."
Strathmore stepped closer. "This isn't a tavern brawl. The kingdoms are falling. You can't drink through this one."
James leaned back, resting the bottle on his knee. "Watch me."
The General sighed. "I'll tell Aldros you're… unavailable."
"Tell him I'm dead," James said with a lazy wave. "Might buy me more time."
As Strathmore left, James smirked to himself and took another swig. He didn't mind Aldros, but the thought of being stuck at the front lines instead of here... comfortable, drunk, and maybe with company later—was reason enough to stay exactly where he was.