Morning came hard and unforgiving.
A brittle frost coated the stones of the ruined watchtower, turning the ground slick and treacherous. Logan rose before the others, as he always did, his body trained by years of war and wandering to wake before the light. He stepped quietly away from the dying embers of the fire and climbed the ridge overlooking the Grey Pass.
From above, the land unfolded like a wound carved into the mountains. The pass twisted eastward, narrow and serpentine, hemmed in by towering stone walls that rose sharply on either side. Pines clung stubbornly to the slopes, their roots exposed where the earth had been torn away by landslides and marching armies. This road had carried traders, pilgrims, and kings—but more often, it carried blood.
Logan scanned the distance carefully.
At first, there was only mist, pooling low in the valley like a sea of pale ghosts. Then he saw it: smoke. Not the thin, wavering kind of a single campfire, but thick columns rising in deliberate lines. Too organized. Too many.
His stomach tightened.
Xerath's army was closer than he had hoped.
When Logan returned to camp, Garrick was already awake, sharpening his blade with slow, practiced strokes. The others stirred as Logan knelt and began tracing the shape of the pass in the dirt.
"They're coming," Logan said quietly.
No one questioned him.
He pointed to the narrowest bend in the road, where sheer cliffs pressed close and loose stone littered the slopes above. "Their vanguard will move first. Scouts, light infantry. Confident. Careless."
Garrick nodded. "This ground favors defenders."
"It favors killers who know when not to stay," Logan replied.
They broke camp with swift efficiency, dousing the fire and scattering ash and soil until no sign of their presence remained. By midmorning, they were moving along forgotten paths—goat trails etched into the mountainside, known only to smugglers, shepherds, and men who had no desire to be found. The climb was steep, the air thinning as they ascended. Every step demanded focus. A single misstep could send a man tumbling hundreds of feet to his death.
As they moved, Logan studied the men who now followed him. They no longer walked like broken soldiers. There was purpose in their stride, tension in their shoulders—not fear, but readiness. The oath sworn the night before had changed them. It had changed him too.
By midday, they reached the chosen bend in the pass.
The road narrowed there to little more than a cart's width, hemmed in by jagged stone on one side and a steep drop on the other. Above it, a slanted shelf of rock held a field of loose boulders, barely restrained by time and gravity. Logan felt a grim satisfaction settle in his chest.
"This is where we bleed them," he said.
They worked without speaking. Garrick and two others secured ropes around the largest stones. Another pair climbed higher, positioning themselves with bows scavenged from fallen soldiers long ago. The rest prepared the escape route, marking holds and handpaths with subtle signs only they would recognize.
Logan tested every rope himself. Tugged every knot. There would be no second chance.
As the sun climbed higher, sound carried through the pass—faint at first, then unmistakable. The dull, rhythmic thud of marching boots. The clink of armor. The bark of officers calling cadence. Xerath's men emerged around the bend in disciplined ranks, their banners bearing the black sigil of the crowned serpent snapping in the mountain wind.
They looked strong. Well-fed. Confident.
Logan waited.
The vanguard advanced cautiously but without fear. Why would they fear shadows and stone? The Grey Pass had been unchallenged for years. Resistance had been crushed long ago.
When the lead ranks reached the narrowest point, Logan raised his hand.
Time seemed to stretch.
Then he cut the rope.
The mountain answered.
Boulders tore free with a roar like thunder, crashing down the slope in a deadly avalanche. Stone shattered against stone, armor crumpled like parchment, and men screamed as the earth itself rose up to kill them. The pass erupted into chaos. Horses reared and threw their riders. Shields splintered. The ordered lines dissolved into panicked knots of soldiers struggling to escape a threat they could neither see nor fight.
Before the echoes faded, Logan gave the signal.
Arrows rained down.
Men fell clutching throats and eyes, their cries echoing off the stone walls. Logan was already moving, sliding down a narrow ledge and leaping into the fray. His blade flashed, cold and efficient. He struck not with fury, but with precision—throats, joints, exposed backs. Every movement was economy, every kill deliberate.
Garrick fought beside him, his old command instincts roaring back to life. He shouted orders, repositioned men, cut down soldiers who tried to rally. For a brief, brutal moment, the pass belonged to them.
Then the horns sounded.
Deep and commanding, they cut through the chaos like a blade. Xerath's officers moved swiftly, shouting counter-orders, forcing discipline back into the ranks. Shields locked. Archers advanced.
Logan saw it immediately.
"Fall back!" he shouted.
They did not linger. This had never been a battle to win. It was a wound to be inflicted.
They vanished into the high paths as swiftly as they had struck, melting back into the mountain while Xerath's soldiers struggled to comprehend what had happened. From a distant ridge, Logan watched as the enemy regrouped, dragging their dead from the pass. The road was littered with broken bodies and shattered stone.
The cost had not crippled Xerath's army.
But it had bloodied it.
That night, they made camp high above the road, where the wind carried sound away and the fire burned low and hidden. The men ate in silence, exhaustion etched into their faces. One nursed a shallow cut. Another stared into the flames, hands trembling as the battle replayed in his mind.
Garrick sat beside Logan.
"You've turned seven men into a warning," Garrick said quietly.
Logan did not look away from the fire. "It won't stop him."
"No," Garrick agreed. "But it will slow him. And it will make him careful."
Logan knew what that meant. A careful Xerath was more dangerous than a confident one. But there was no other path.
Far to the west, in a fortress carved from black stone, King Xerath received word of the ambush. His generals spoke of fallen men and treacherous terrain, of unseen enemies and impossible tactics. Xerath listened without expression, his fingers tightening slowly around the arm of his throne.
Someone was hunting him.
And for the first time in years, the king did not smile.