The sound of hooves grew louder—fast, heavy, and disciplined.
Not scouts.
Not travelers.
Soldiers.
The forest itself seemed to tremble as dust rose between the trees, sunlight flashing off steel. The mercenary riders tightened formation instinctively, shields lifting, spears lowering. Their horses snorted, muscles bunching beneath armored saddles.
Captain Orin drew her sword.
"That's no patrol," she said grimly. "That's a strike force."
My throat tightened. Vantor had responded faster than expected.
Vlad stepped beside me, a shadow forged from cold iron.
"They number fifteen," he said quietly. "Seven mounted. Eight on foot. All trained. One Rank 2."
"How do you know?" I whispered.
"I can smell their confidence."
Of course he could.
Borrik ran to me, panic written across his face.
"Chief! The villagers—what do we do?"
"Inside the walls," I ordered. "Everyone except the trained guard team. Move!"
Villagers scattered, rushing into homes and behind barricades. Shadows flickered behind gate slits as they watched, breath held.
Orin guided her horse closer.
"This is your land, Liam. Your call."
"Don't engage unless they strike first," I said.
"And if they attack?"
"We hit back."
Vlad smiled faintly.
"Good."
The first of Vantor's riders burst into the clearing—heavy horses, steel helmets, curved sabers catching the sun. Their leader, a tall man with a crimson plume on his helm, raised a gauntleted fist.
The formation halted.
His gaze swept slowly over the scene:
The trenches.
The barricades.
The reinforced gate.
The mercenary riders.
Vlad.
Then me.
"I am Lieutenant Harven of Baron Vantor's Warguard," he announced. "Ridgebrook is ordered to stand down, surrender its chief, and submit to judgment. Resistance will be punished."
I stepped forward, spear clenched tight, my heartbeat pounding louder than the forest.
"This village is not surrendering."
A ripple of disbelief moved through his riders.
Harven tilted his head.
"Boy… do you understand what judgment means?"
"Yes," I said. "It means Vantor wants to break us."
"And he will," Harven replied coolly, "if you force him to."
Vlad took one step forward.
Just one.
The horses nearest him reared back, whinnying in fear.
Harven stiffened.
"You again… the mercenaries warned us about you."
"Yes," Vlad said. "They did."
Harven's hand tightened on his saber.
"You killed my men.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No excuse.
Just truth.
Harven lowered his visor.
"Capture them. All of them."
The mercenary group reacted instantly.
"FORM WALL!" Orin shouted.
Her riders snapped into position, shields locking, spears angled outward.
Vlad moved in front of me.
"Shall I kill them?"
"Not until they strike first," I said.
"Then watch."
Harven thrust his saber forward.
"CHARGE!"
Seven mounted riders surged ahead, hooves tearing into the earth. Behind them, eight foot soldiers advanced in a tight assault line.
The ground shook.
The mercenaries held firm.
"SHIELDS UP!" I shouted, raising my spear.
Orin deflected a saber strike with her shield and drove her spear into a rider's thigh, knocking him from his horse.
Another rider came straight for me.
I froze.
The horse barreled forward—
Until Vlad moved.
No warning.
No sound.
He stepped beside the charging mount, seized the reins with one hand, and wrenched sideways with brutal force.
The horse stumbled, legs tangling, and crashed hard into the dirt, throwing its rider screaming.
Vlad didn't even look at him.
Two more riders slammed into the shield wall. The formation buckled under the weight.
"REINFORCE!" I yelled, jabbing my spear at an exposed flank. The strike glanced off armor—but it was enough. Orin followed with a clean killing blow.
Harven snarled.
"Push through! They're weak!"
He wasn't wrong.
We were barely holding.
Vlad's gaze locked onto the Rank 2 soldier advancing behind the cavalry.
"You," Vlad said softly, "are mine."
He vanished.
One heartbeat he stood beside me.
The next, he was behind the Rank 2 soldier, ripping him from formation as if pulling a weed from soil.
They slammed into a tree so hard the bark exploded.
The battlefield froze for a heartbeat.
"FALL BACK!" Harven shouted. "KEEP FORMATION—DON'T LET HIM—"
Too late.
Vlad became a storm.
A rider tried to flank him—Vlad tore him from the saddle and hurled him into another.
Two foot soldiers lunged—he sidestepped, grabbed one by the shoulder, and used him as a shield. Then he kicked the second straight into a trench.
Harven finally understood.
"RETREAT!" he screamed.
The Warguard broke formation, dragging wounded, fleeing in panic.
The mercenaries cheered.
Villagers peeked from windows, stunned.
And I—
I watched Vlad move.
Precise.
Efficient.
Graceful.
And enjoying it.
This wasn't combat for him.
It was breathing.
Harven glared at me as he fled.
"You've doomed your village, boy!"
I shouted back,
"Then tell Vantor we don't fear him!"
Harven vanished into the trees with what remained of his force.
Vlad watched them go and exhaled calmly.
"They were disappointing."
My knees nearly gave out.
Lira rushed to me, hands checking for wounds.
"You're shaking," she whispered.
"I like living," I replied.
She gave a weak smile.
"Then keep doing that."
Vlad approached, expression unreadable.
"You led adequately," he said.
"Really?"
"No," he replied. "But you survived. That is progress."
I groaned. "Thanks."
He smirked.
Orin joined us, eyes still sharp.
"We stand with you, Liam. Ridgebrook fought well."
"You haven't seen the worst yet," I said.
She nodded slowly.
"I fear you're right."
The wind carried a distant echo through the trees.
War was coming.
This was only the beginning.