The first scream reached us before the horns.
It came from the eastern patrol line—short, sharp, and abruptly cut off. I was already moving before the echo faded, boots sinking into wet soil as riders galloped past me in confusion. The morning fog clung low to the ground, thick enough to hide a charging army until it was too late.
They were testing us.
Again.
"Close the eastern screen," I ordered. "No pursuit. No heroics."
Messengers ran. Archers took position along the ridge paths. The men moved fast, but I could feel it—fatigue had crept into their bones. We had held Grayford, survived the counterstrike, and bloodied two enemies. Aereth rarely allows such defiance without demanding payment.
Ril appeared at my side, breath uneven. "Scouts are missing, sir. Two from the ridge. One from the low marsh."
That confirmed it.
Qashir never attacked blindly.
They studied. They learned. And when they struck, it was never where you expected.
I climbed the embankment and scanned the fog-drowned plains. Movement flickered—too controlled to be panic, too quiet to be coincidence. Then a banner emerged from the mist, black cloth trimmed in bronze, bearing a sigil I had never seen before.
Not a tribal mark.
A command banner.
My stomach tightened.
Qashir had sent someone important.
The horns finally sounded—not a charge, but a call. Low, deliberate. Almost respectful.
"They're inviting us to watch," Ril muttered.
"No," I said quietly. "They're announcing him."
The fog parted just enough for the figure to become visible.
He rode alone.
Tall in the saddle, wrapped in layered leather and iron, helm open, face exposed without fear. His horse moved calmly, as if it trusted the ground itself. He stopped well within bow range and raised a hand.
The Qashiri lines did not move.
That alone made him dangerous.
I motioned for the archers to hold. Then I stepped forward.
He studied me openly, eyes sharp and calculating, not hostile—curious.
"You command Kaeldor's river defense," he said in fluent trade-tongue. "Cairos Valen."
I didn't answer immediately.
"And you," I replied, "are not a scout."
A thin smile touched his mouth. "No. I am Tarek al-Rhazim. Warden of the Eastern Reaches. My people have crossed Aereth for three generations under my bloodline."
That name would be remembered.
"I did not come to threaten," Tarek continued. "Nor to negotiate. I came to observe the man who dared stop Qashir twice."
Behind him, the mist shifted. Thousands of riders waited unseen.
"This is not a conversation," I said. "It's a measurement."
He laughed softly. "Exactly."
Tarek's eyes flicked to our fortifications, the marsh traps, the river choke points. He absorbed everything in seconds.
"You fight like a man who expects to lose ground," he said. "But not wars."
"And you speak like a man who underestimates patience," I replied.
He nodded, once. "Good."
Then he raised two fingers.
The horns sounded again—but this time, the Qashiri lines withdrew.
No charge.
No blood.
Just silence.
When the fog swallowed them again, the men around me exhaled like survivors of an execution.
Ril stared eastward. "They could've attacked."
"Yes," I said. "And they chose not to."
That was worse.
The council erupted by midday.
"They're mocking us!" "They're probing for weakness!" "This is Velmoran theater!"
I stood at the map table, listening, letting the noise exhaust itself.
Tarek al-Rhazim wasn't bluffing. He had seen enough. Worse—he had shown us that Qashir could dictate tempo.
Then the second blow landed.
A messenger from the west arrived bloodied and shaken.
"Sir… it's the village of Lethren Ford."
I already knew.
"Burned," he continued. "Not looted. Burned. Civilians fled east. Anyone who stayed…"
He didn't finish.
Lethren Ford was Kaeldorian.
Barely defended. Politically inconvenient. A village whose lord had argued against war funding in council.
The room went quiet.
Lucien of Velmora finally spoke. "An unfortunate loss."
I turned slowly.
"Your definition of unfortunate is flexible."
He smiled faintly. "Aereth teaches us all restraint."
"No," I said. "It teaches consequences."
The truth settled like ash: Qashir hadn't attacked us.
They had attacked confidence.
And now Kaeldor would panic.
Which is exactly what happened.
By evening, nobles demanded reinforcements pulled from the river. Others demanded retaliation. Some whispered—quietly—that Grayford wasn't worth the blood.
That was when I made the decision.
The one that would stain my name.
I summoned three captains and gave orders none of them liked.
"We withdraw from the southern villages," I said. "Evacuate what you can. Burn the rest."
Ril stared at me. "Sir… those are our people."
"And if Draeven marches through them," I replied, "they will be martyrs either way."
Silence.
I didn't soften it. I didn't justify it.
"This denies the enemy supplies. Shelter. Morale victories. We leave nothing worth taking."
One captain clenched his jaw. "History will remember this."
"Yes," I said. "If we survive to write it."
The orders were carried out at dusk.
Smoke rose from Kaeldor's own lands.
I stood alone on the embankment as the flames reflected in the river, my hands shaking—not with doubt, but with certainty.
This was the cost of command.
Later that night, Ril found me.
"They'll hate you for this," he said quietly.
"I know."
"They may never forgive you."
"I'm not asking them to."
He hesitated. "Then why do it?"
I watched the smoke drift eastward, toward Qashir.
"Because Tarek al-Rhazim thinks I'm predictable," I said. "And Aereth punishes predictability."
A horn sounded in the distance.
Not Qashiri.
Not Draeven.
Northern.
Velmoran.
I turned as riders approached under banners of diplomacy.
Three kingdoms now watched Kaeldor bleed.
And somewhere beyond the fog, Tarek al-Rhazim smiled—already planning the next move.
The war for Aereth had shifted.
And it would never slow again.