The banners of Carrel hung limp in the smoky air, their crimson cloth smeared with soot and blood. Once, the sight of the twin falcons soaring against a black sun had been enough to command respect across the borderlands. Now, they clung like dying embers to broken battlements, flapping weakly in the foul winds that carried the stench of rot and oil.
From the eastern ridge, Baron Carrel surveyed the battlefield with a face as pale as ash. Below him stretched what had once been his pride—the Gable frames, forty of them, lined in neat formations at the start of the campaign. Now only thirteen remained standing. Their once-polished armor was gouged, scratched, and splattered with ichor. Runes flickered dimly across cracked plates as exhausted pilots staggered within.
And beyond them, stretching endlessly toward the horizon, the Crawlers came.
A carpet of chitin and claw, their shells glinting with red streaks under the noonday sun. They moved as a single organism, a tidal wave of living blades. The sound was worse than the sight: the endless, grating hiss of claws dragging over stone, the clicking of mandibles gnashing in unison. It was like listening to the earth itself being consumed.
The Baron's hand trembled on the hilt of his sword. Not from fear—at least that's what he told himself—but from the sheer futility of the fight.
Every volley of cannon fire tore apart dozens. Every sweep of glaive or hammer from his Gables smashed dozens more. But dozens meant nothing when hundreds replaced them in seconds.
He had underestimated the horde. Gravely.
"My lord." A captain staggered to his side, his armor smeared with black ichor, his face gray with exhaustion. "The men are at their limit. We've lost the western farms, the ironworks at Tarren, and half the garrisons between here and the river. At this rate…"
"At this rate, the horde will be at our gates within the week," Carrel finished coldly.
The captain swallowed hard, but said nothing. He knew. Everyone knew.
Carrel's gaze lingered on the endless swarm below. He thought of the years spent cultivating his forces, of the gold poured into purchasing Gables from the royal foundries. He thought of the speeches he had given, of his boasts at court—that his house would be the vanguard against the wild, that his men would hold where others faltered.
And now? Now those boasts were a noose tightening around his neck.
He could not win. To stand and fight meant throwing away everything: his soldiers, his fortune, his life. The horde was too vast, too relentless. Even if he survived, the stain of failure would strip him of rank and honor.
Unless…
His lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.
Unless someone else bore the brunt.
Three nights later, in the council chambers of Carrel Keep, the Baron laid out his plan. The chamber was dimly lit, candles guttering against the stale air. His advisors sat in silence, men too beaten down by loss to question him.
"The Crawlers are not like men," Carrel said, voice calm, almost measured. "They do not fight for territory or pride. They fight for prey. If prey runs, they follow. If prey resists, they overwhelm. That is their nature."
His steward frowned. "My lord, what are you suggesting?"
Carrel leaned back in his chair, the faint gleam of candlelight painting sharp angles across his face. "We will give them prey. But not us."
Confusion rippled through the table.
He tapped a finger against the map laid before them. The parchment was smeared with ink and wine stains, but the borders were clear. Beyond Carrel's lands stretched the barony of Laos, a minor domain often dismissed at court, held by a family with little clout.
"They are close enough," Carrel murmured. "The Crawlers move southward already. With a little… guidance, their swarm will cross the border. Laos will take the brunt. We can regroup, preserve our strength, and when the beasts thin their numbers, we strike what remains. The court will call Laos heroes, and we…" He smiled thinly. "…we will survive."
The steward blanched. "But, my lord, that would mean—"
"That would mean," Carrel snapped, "that we live to fight another day. Or would you rather our bones join the soil with the farmers of Tarren?"
No one spoke after that. The silence was its own kind of consent.
And so, the orders were given. Supply trains laden with grain were abandoned along paths leading southward, their scent strong enough to draw Crawlers from miles away. Patrols lit fires in abandoned villages to herd the swarms toward the border. Rumors were seeded among merchants and deserters, ensuring that whispers of Laos's vulnerability spread like plague.
Baron Carrel never admitted it aloud, but as the Crawlers shifted direction, as the tide of chitin and claw began to flow southward, relief blossomed in his chest.
It was working.
He would survive.
News traveled faster than armies.
By the time the first refugee wagons creaked into Laos territory, carrying gaunt-faced farmers and half-broken soldiers, the story had already grown twisted. Some said Carrel's men had been overwhelmed in a single night, their shining Gables torn apart like paper. Others whispered that the Baron had struck a secret bargain with the beasts, trading blood for safety. Still others claimed the Crawlers were a punishment from the gods, loosed upon the arrogant.
Whatever the truth, one fact remained: the horde was moving south.
In Laos, Logos sat at the long table in the council hall, reports spread before him like a storm waiting to break. Masen, Bal, Kleber, Desax, Lucy—all had gathered, their voices low, the weight of the news pressing down.
"The Baron is either incompetent or treacherous," Desax said flatly. "Perhaps both."
Masen slammed a fist on the table. "If he's driven the horde toward us deliberately, then this is not just war with Crawlers. It's war with Carrel."
"War we cannot afford," Kleber muttered.
Bal crossed his arms, his usual grin absent. "Makes no difference. Crawlers are coming. Talking won't stop them."
All eyes turned, at last, to Logos.
He had said nothing, his gaze fixed on the reports, fingers drumming lightly against the parchment.
Finally, he looked up, his voice calm, precise, almost chilling.
"Then we prepare the death zone."