Karl stood still for a long moment, letting his eyes roam over the assembled army. The new summons, the familiar companions, even Ember perched above—they all awaited his command, their quiet attentiveness a reminder of the responsibility now resting on his shoulders.
The clearing was calm for now, but the distant shadow of Veythar loomed in Karl's thoughts. Waiting for him to strike would be dangerous. Too dangerous.
A slow, determined resolve settled in his chest. He would not wait. He would not let the enemy dictate the terms of the battle. Instead, he would strike first—he would seize the initiative and launch the assault before they even had the chance to move.
Karl's mind ran over the plan he had been shaping even as the group had been summoned and healed.
The terrain around the Sanctuary, the paths the enemy would likely take, the new warrior they have summon, all of it could be used. He would choose the battlefield, choose the timing, and force the rival lord into their hands.
His hand rested briefly on Ember's feathers as she tilted her head, sensing his determination. A bond, unspoken but strong, pulsed between them.
Thorn's vines twitched, sensing the shift in the air, while Drael's grip tightened on his shield. Even Serathis, silent and imposing, seemed to register the change in intent.
Karl exhaled slowly, letting the plan solidify in his mind.
Inside the largest tent, torchlight crept across the canvas in long, slow shadows.
A rough wooden table stood in the center. Maps, spears, and stained cloths lay on it like evidence of a hard night.
Veythar stood at the head of the table, his bronze armor catching the flicker of firelight. Shadows danced across the engraved plates, glinting off the edges like molten gold. His eyes, however, burned cold—sharp and unyielding, like ice in a sea of flame.
Around him, lieutenants and wounded men gathered. Some sat with bandages wrapped tight around arms and shoulders. Others paced in restless circles, anger and sorrow making their fists clench.
Harrek slammed his hand onto the table until the wood thudded. "Five of our men are gone!" he cried, voice loud with grief and fury. "Toren, Ryk, and the others—cut down for nothing! We can't let their sacrifice be in vain!"
Veythar listened, then spoke with a crisp voice "I know what we lost, they died because we underestimated the enemy — especially that bird." He tapped the table with a finger. "They will pay for this."
The room went quiet for a moment. Some of the lieutenants nodded, grim and silent. The soldiers followed suit—some with hard, determined eyes, others with doubt flickering behind their gaze.
Borgas, a heavy, scarred fighter, spat a little blood onto the dirt and spoke through clenched teeth. "We must take that mine back," he growled. "If we let them keep it, they will only grow stronger."
At that moment, a young scout stepped forward, his hands trembling as he bowed.
"My lord," he began, voice unsteady. "I followed them after the fight. They dragged the serpent's corpse back to their sanctuary and took many crystals with them. Their wounds are nearly healed… and the bird from earlier—it's grown stronger."
A hush settled over the tent. The crackle of the torches was the only sound.
The scout swallowed hard before adding, "And the mine is empty now, my lord."
The words about the mine barely registered.
Veythar's gaze sharpened the instant he heard the scout mention the bird.
"A large bird?" he interrupted, his voice calm but edged with quiet intensity.
The scout hesitated, realizing what had caught his lord's attention. "Y-Yes, my lord," he stammered. "Bigger and stronger than before.
Veythar leaned back slightly, a faint, dangerous smile tugging at his lips. The loss of the mine no longer mattered—his thoughts were already elsewhere.
A heavy silence followed—until Borgas finally spoke.
"If that bird's grown to Bronze III, it's more than troublesome," he rumbled, his deep voice like gravel grinding underfoot. "A beast like that can dive from the skies, tear through ranks before we can even raise a spear."
Veythar's eyes flicked toward him, expression unreadable.
Before he could speak further, Harrek leapt from his seat, fury blazing in his eyes.
"We can't just sit here!" he snapped, voice echoing through the tent. "If we wait, they'll finish healing—and with those crystals, they'll summon more. Warriors, beasts… everything they need."
He slammed a fist against the table, teeth clenched.
"Then we'll be the ones bleeding, facing an army stronger than before!" His voice echoed through the dim chamber, thick with the scent of smoke and iron.
Around the table, the other figures exchanged uneasy glances. The flickering light from the brazier cast jagged shadows across their faces.
Ssyra leaned forward, her daggers at her hips. Her eyes were cold.
"The mine is empty now," she said. "We should take it back while it is unguarded. That way we stop them growing stronger and at the same time weaken them slowly by striking here and there."
Veythar shook his head, his finger tracing a line on the map.
"No," he said. "Their barrier will fall soon, as will ours. That's our moment."
His voice hardened. "They abandoned the mine because they know their Sanctuary is vulnerable. They're pulling back, consolidating their strength. We can't leave them alive after killing our man.
Ssyras's fists clenched, his knuckles whitening.
"But my lord," she protested, her voice rising, "if we charge in blindly, as we did before, we'll lose more than five men,"
Veythar's eyes flashed, a spark of fury breaking through his calm. he snapped. "That bird—Bronze III or not—tore through us because we didn't know its strength. We won't make that same mistake again."
He straightened, his gaze shifting to a small cluster of men lingering near the tent flap, their cloaks stained with the dust of long patrols.
"Send two scouts—your fastest and sharpest. They're to infiltrate as close as they can to Karl's Sanctuary. I want to know their numbers, their defenses, their plans. Every detail, down to the last crystal in their stores."
The scout who had spoken earlier nodded, though his face paled at the thought of returning to the enemy's domain. "At once, my lord," he murmured, bowing before slipping back into the shadows.
Ssyra tilted her head, fingers brushing the hilt of one dagger. "Fine — then we will launch an attack they will never forget."
Veythar's lips curled into a grim smile, the first hint of emotion breaking through his stoic mask.
"Yes," he said. "We strike when their barrier falls. We catch them off guard. We shatter their sanctuary and leave nothing. Karl will learn what it means to face the Fang of Ashencoil; we will grind him and his followers into dust. Only then do we take our vengeance — and with it, the mine."
Harrek stood a pace behind him, watching in silence as the others began to prepare.
Outside the tent, the camp prepared in hushed motion — men checking weapons, tents reinforced, scouts slipping away under the dense forest. In the silence, the war's next move took shape.
…
A/N: I hope you enjoy this novel. Support by adding to your library and giving a power stone or two. Thank you.