Far across the trees, hidden from sight, Karl's camp stirred with its own purpose. The Sanctuary was alive with activity, but it was a different kind of motion—focused, careful, deliberate.
Karl's group worked with unbroken concentration, each task planned to counter the danger that loomed from Veythar's forces.
The forest around them was thick with tension, every leaf and branch alive with the subtle sounds of their labor. Hidden pits were dug along the paths they expected the enemy to take.
Each pit was edged with sharpened stakes, carefully concealed beneath layers of leaves and branches. Every trap was a warning, unseen until it was too late.
The summoned crafters—carpenters and miners—worked tirelessly under the cover of dense forest. They reinforced wooden palisades with iron bands and drove heavy stakes deep into the ground, shoring up walls that would have to hold against a full assault.
Brynna, the Timberjaw Beaver, dug pitfall traps with fast and precise movements.
Karl watched from a treetop, perched like a shadow. His hand rested on his spear, eyes scanning the camp below. He gave orders with short nods and gestures, each one precise.
Ember circled overhead, wings slicing through the night air. Sometimes she soared farther, patrolling the open fields and keeping watch on Veythar's camp.
Each time she returned, she dropped silently across the trees like a living shadow—a warning no enemy could miss.
As Ember scanned the forest, she caught a movement in the underbrush—a lone figure trying to slip closer to the Sanctuary.
Her golden eyes narrowed. Quiet as a whisper but fast as lightning, she dove. Talons flashed, wind screamed through the trees, and the man never stood a chance.
Before he could do anything, Ember carried him back to the Sanctuary, landing beside Karl with the same uncanny control that always made people forget to breathe.
They dragged the scout inside and started questioning him. For a long moment he spat nothing but defiance; words came hard and jagged, meant to put them off-balance.
But Ember's shadow fell over him — feathers bristling, wings half-unfurled, eyes like molten coin —which broke his will.
Slowly, he spoke. Veythar's camp was watching them. They waited for the barrier to fall, for the moment Karl's defenses would be most vulnerable. Every move, every trap, every preparation—observed.
When the truth had been revealed, Karl gave a silent nod. The scout would not return to Veythar's forces. Yet Karl knew there could be more. So, he was careful.
He allowed only what he wanted the enemy to see. Every action, every shadow, every whisper in the trees was part of the plan.
In the stillness of the Sanctuary, beneath the quiet hum of preparation, the assault began to take shape.
Far across the plain, Veythar's camp waited in tense silence. Low fires burned; torches threw long shadows against the tent walls.
Inside the command tent, Harrek and Borgas muttered in urgent whispers while Ssyra stood by the flap, sharp-eyed and watching the horizon. She stiffened when movement approached.
A scout stumbled in, breathless. He bowed, voice ragged. "My lord—report."
Veythar gave him a hard look. "Speak."
The scout swallowed. "Their camp is larger than we thought. I counted around thirty people moving—of those, fifteen to twenty looked combat-ready. Karl's camp is busy, building barricades, setting traps and reinforcing their defenses,"
Ssyra's eyes narrowed. She tapped on the table, thinking aloud. "They gain about five summoning shards a day. Seven days… I estimate their total strength to be around thirty-five summon, since they have not activated portal nodes their source of resources or limited unlike ours where our lord can get more summoning shards and other resources from his native world."
The scout added, voice low, "One of our men was caught and taken."
Silence fell like a stone. Harrek slammed his fist on the table and rose, face red with anger.
"How dare they!" he shouted. "Now that we know their numbers, why wait? We should crush them while we are still stronger."
Veythar stood slowly and let the sounds in the tent settle. He looked at the map, then at his men.
"Prepare forty fighters," he said, voice calm and sharp. "Leave ten to guard the camp and ready for any counterattack, ambush, or wandering beast. At the first sign that their barrier falters, we strike without hesitation."
Harrek and Borgas nodded without a word. Ssyra checked the edge of her daggers as the men readied spears, blades and armor for the battle.
And outside, the day pressed on.
The barrier over the Sanctuary wavered, flickering faintly as if it, too, sensed the coming storm. The air hung heavy with anticipation, thick with the tension of what was about to unfold.
Yet Veythar's fighters moved with quiet confidence, each step measured, each motion precise.
Outside, the morning sun climbed higher, spilling long streaks of light across the plain, catching the edges of armor and the glint of sharpened steel.
At the edge of the clearing, forty of Veythar's fighters stood ready. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, a silent warning to anyone who might watch from afar.
At the forefront, the three Bronze III leaders—Veythar, Borgas, and Harrek—loomed like living statues, their presence alone enough to steady the men behind them. Bronze II specialists flanked the leaders, weapons poised, eyes scanning the distance, alert to any movement.
Bronze I units formed the disciplined bulk of the formation, their ranks tight and disciplined, with Raghnar, Thora, and Kelros positioned where they could strike hardest and fastest.
Veythar's voice cut through the quiet like a blade. Calm and commanding, yet carrying the weight of unshakable certainty, it carried across the plain:
"Today, we face those who dared to mock us! Those who stole what is ours, who defied the Fang of Ashencoil, who thought they could grow strong in our shadow!"
He raised his greatsword high, the steel flashing in the sunlight.
"Remember this! Strike with precision. Strike with fury. Strike until their walls fall, their spirits break, and their false sanctuary crumbles to dust!"
Lowering the sword, he pointed toward the distant shimmer of Karl's camp, the crystal glow faint but unmistakable. "Fight as one! Make them shudder with fear. Show them the Fang of Ashencoil forgives nothing, forgets nothing, and retreats never!"
A second shout, sharper and louder, rang over the plain, echoing from tent to tent:
"Forward! For glory! For vengeance! For the Fang!"
…
A/N: I hope you enjoy this novel. Support by adding to your library and giving a power stone or two. Thank you.