The great stone hall of Baron Hohenberg's keep was ablaze with torchlight. Smoke clung to the rafters, the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine mixing with sweat and tension. It should have been a feast, but no one there tasted joy.
Three barons sat at the long table:
Baron Hohenberg, a mountain of a man with a gray beard bristling over his square jaw.
Baron Falkenhain, lean and hawk-eyed, fingers drumming impatiently on the wood.
Baron Drachenfels, pale as winter frost, wrapped in a heavy black cloak that gave the air around him a chilling weight.
Hohenberg slammed his fist down, rattling goblets and sending red wine spilling across the map sprawled on the table.
"Enough waiting! Eisenwald grows stronger by the day. First Rottweil, then Falkenrath. Now they even gather allies among the border barons! If we sit idle, tomorrow our names will be forgotten."
Falkenhain leaned forward, voice sharp as his gaze.
"My cavalry are ready. Four thousand riders, iron-shod hooves that will grind their marsh-born peasants to dust."
Drachenfels smiled thinly, his voice quiet but cold.
"And five thousand bows that will blot out the sky. My artillery will smash their walls to rubble. Eisenwald is just a wolf pup—it bares its teeth, but it has no bite."
They bent over the map, their shadows stretching long across the table. Red ink circled Eisenwald's lands. Black arrows stabbed inward from three directions, converging on the marsh heart.
"This night it is sealed," Hohenberg declared, his voice like a war drum. "Three barons stand as one. Fifteen thousand soldiers will march. Eisenwald will burn."
The torches flickered with the roar of their agreement. The Alliance of Three was born.
---
Far away, in the dripping silence of Eisenwald's swamps, a shadow moved through the reeds. One of Lyra Nightshade's scouts slipped silently through the muck, vanishing into the night.
By dawn, she was kneeling in Eisenwald's war chamber, mud still clinging to her cloak.
"My lord," she said, voice steady despite the urgency. "It is confirmed. Hohenberg, Falkenhain, and Drachenfels have forged an alliance. Their combined force will number fifteen thousand—infantry, cavalry, archers, artillery. They march for us."
The chamber fell still.
Darius Holt's fist clenched, his veins standing out like cords.
"Fifteen thousand… they outnumber us two to one."
Selene Aestra's lips tightened. "They'll wait until the marsh freezes. They'll strike when our advantage is weakest."
Roland Ironarm growled, slamming his broad hand against the table hard enough to crack the wood. "Let them come. I'll see how their heavy ranks stand when our bolts split their lines."
But Kael Morgenstern remained silent in the corner, arms folded, his gaze fixed on Fenrir.
---
Fenrir rose slowly, his cloak of black and crimson catching the torchlight. He paced the table, the eyes of every commander following him.
"So… the three barons finally bare their fangs." He paused, placing both hands on the map, leaning forward. His voice hardened.
"They fear us. That's why they unite. They think numbers alone will crush us. They believe fifteen thousand will smother ten thousand."
He looked up, his eyes glowing with a cold fire.
"But numbers do not win wars. Strategy, discipline, and will win wars. And on that battlefield… Eisenwald will prevail."
He straightened, voice ringing across the chamber.
"From this day, territorial war is declared. Eisenwald does not cower. We hunt. And those who defy us will fall beneath the fangs of the Crimson Wolf."
A roar rose from his commanders. Even stoic Lyra allowed herself the barest nod, while Kael dropped to one knee, his voice resonant.
"My lord, the Crimson Knights await your command. We will be your sword."
---
News raced faster than any rider. From the marsh villages to the mining pits of Falkenrath, word spread: war had begun.
Farmers gathered in the markets, whispering.
"Our lord faces three barons at once?"
"He's not just a baron. He's the Crimson Wolf. He's the one who brought life back to this land."
"If he calls, I'll march myself!"
Mothers pressed loaves of bread into the hands of young soldiers. Blacksmiths hammered through the night, sparks flying like fireflies. Children howled like wolves, running through the muddy streets.
Eisenwald was no longer a forgotten swamp. It was alive, awake, and burning with the fire of war.
---
That night, Fenrir stood alone on the high tower of Eisenwald Keep. The moon hung pale in the sky, casting its silver glow across the marshes. Somewhere beyond, fifteen thousand enemies gathered.
He clenched his fist, the chill wind tugging at his cloak.
"Three barons. Fifteen thousand men. The world will call me mad to face them."
His voice lowered, a growl more than words.
"But history remembers only the bold. Tomorrow, they will learn what Crimson Wolf truly means."
His eyes glimmered red in the moonlight, like lava simmering beneath the earth. The night whispered around him, carrying his vow across the swamp.
---
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