The warriors surged forward, boots thudding against the earth, weapons glinting, hearts steady and eyes locked on the distant, flickering light of their target. The battle was about to begin.
Every unit moved with purpose—combat fighters in front, support and archers behind, scouts at the edges.
Morale was high while confidence radiated from every soldier, each stride taken with the certainty of victory, as if the earth itself supported their march.
Their numbers, discipline, and power seemed unshakable.
Yet, just beyond the soft shimmer of Karl's Sanctuary, hidden among the trees and traps, danger waited patiently, unseen but very real.
The afternoon sun spilled gentle light over the grassy plain, painting the armor of Veythar's soldiers in streaks of gold.
Forty warriors moved in neat lines, their boots striking the ground in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
At the front, the three Bronze III leaders—Veythar, Borgas, and Harrek—stood tall, weapons raised, radiating authority.
Behind them, thirteen Bronze II fighters, including Ssyra the assassin and Drelmar the archer, flanked the formation with practiced precision.
Eighteen Bronze I soldiers, including Raghnar the tracker and Thora the drummer, completed the ranks, their movements swift but unaware of the true peril hovering above them.
High in the trees, Karl watched every detail. He counted troops, measured strength of soldiers, and watched how the force moved. He was far away, staying out of sight so he would not be seen.
Near a small open clearing, Ember waited silently. Her gray feathers shimmered in the sun. Her golden eyes watched the army below, steady and cold like a hunter's.
Beside a low rock, Serathis crouched. His silver armor caught the light, and his greatsword hummed quietly as if eager to be used.
Karl had given them one simple order. When Veythar's soldiers reached the open space where Ember could fly and move freely, they must strike fast and hard, then disappear before the enemy could react.
They were to stop Veythar's army before it reached the Sanctuary.
Ember tucked her wings and watched. Serathis held his breath and waited.
"They're marching in tight groups," Serathis whispered, his voice low and steady. "The Bronze I soldiers at the back are easy to reach.
Ssyra and the archers in the middle are the real danger if we stay too long."
Ember's feathers ruffled, her golden eyes narrowing as she watched Veythar's army march into the clearing.
The sound of armor and boots filled the air, steady and proud. They thought the path was safe. They didn't know death was already waiting for them above.
Ember and Serathis waited for the right moment.
Then Ember opened her wings wide. The air itself seemed to freeze. With a piercing cry, she unleashed her skill: Wrath of the Storm.
A deafening roar split the sky— Wind exploded outward like a living storm.
A cyclone of blades and air swept through the clearing, ripping through dirt and leaves.
Soldiers screamed as the storm swallowed them whole. Within seconds, order turned into chaos. Spears shattered. Shields flew from trembling hands. Armor cracked under invisible blades of wind.
The perfect formation of Veythar's army broke apart in an instant.
In the heart of the storm, Serathis charged forward. His greatsword blazed with bright runes as he charged forward. Ember's storm made him faster—each strike of his sword landed with crushing strength.
One swing cut down three soldiers.
Another shattered a spear and threw its wielder to the ground.
His Unyielding Presence filled the air—an aura of dread that made weaker soldiers falter, fear gripping their hearts. Some dropped their weapons. Others stumbled back, eyes wide in terror.
Seven had already fallen before they even had a chance to fight back.
"Ambush!" Veythar roared, his greatsword flashing as he stepped forward.
Borgas charged beside him, fury blazing in his eyes, while Harrek raised his heavy shield to guard the others.
But it was too late.
The army was already in chaos.
Ssyra vanished into the shadows, her daggers ready while Drelmar aimed a flaming arrow at Ember, but she twisted midair—the fire passed harmlessly by.
Ember saw Ssyra's movement. With a sharp beat of her wings, she dived, cutting through the center of the army like lightning made of wind.
The air screamed as she passed. Two Bronze II swordsmen fell. An archer collapsed beside them. Orin, the shield fighter, tried to block the attack, but the wind lifted him off his feet.
Serathis turned toward Ember. "Retreat!" he shouted.
He gave one last powerful swing to stop a soldier from chasing them. Ember swooped low, and Serathis leapt onto her back. Her wings spread wide. With a mighty flap of her wings, they shot skyward leaving wind swirling beneath them.
Bolts and arrows flew after them, but Serathis lifted his glowing hand. Warden's Oath.
A golden shield of light wrapped around them, turning away arrows and flames like falling rain.
They rose higher, higher—until they disappeared beyond the treetops, leaving only the echo of thunder and the ruin of their strike behind.
Veythar's attack came too late. His soldiers were shaken. When the storm finally faded, his once-proud army stood trembling amid the wreckage—bloodied, disordered, and humiliated.
Ten of their own were gone.
And it had all happened in less than thirty seconds.
For a long time, no one spoke. Only the sound of wind and the crackle of broken branches filled the clearing. Smoke drifted through the air. The ground was littered with shattered shields and bent armor.
Veythar stood still, staring at the battlefield. His eyes traced the fallen, the wounded, the empty places where his soldiers had stood moments ago. Ten gone. Many too injured to fight.
Harrek's voice broke the silence. "Cowards! They struck and ran!"
Borgas slammed his fist into his palm. "Let me chase them, my lord. I'll tear that falcon from the sky myself!"
Veythar didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the treeline where Ember had vanished.
Then, slowly, he sheathed his greatsword. His voice was cold and steady. "No. That's what they want. A chase through the forest would scatter us further."
From the shadows, Ssyra appeared—her arm bleeding, her daggers still wet. She knelt beside a fallen soldier, her expression hard.
"That knight with the greatsword," she said quietly. "He's Bronze III warrior; they hid him well. And with that falcon, they were strong—too strong for a simple strike team."
Veythar's gaze turned to her. He said darkly. "Karl's strength is growing faster than we expected."
Ssyra rose and saluted. "My lord, our morale is low, and too many are hurt. We can't fight them now. I suggest we do as they did—wait for nightfall and strike from the shadows."
Veythar nodded slowly. "Borgas—tend to the wounded. Pull the troops back to camp. Harrek—secure the path ahead. Ssyra—take scouts and watch the forest. I want no more surprises."
The soldiers obeyed quickly, but their faces were pale. The pride they had shown that morning was gone, replaced by fear. Whispers spread among them—about the storm, the bird, the silver knight who cut through ten men like grass.