The air in the valley turns frigid as forty-three Imperial blades clear their scabbards in a single, metallic hiss. The Imperial Cavalry, already on edge from the loss of their brothers, close their ranks around the mercenaries. "You dare point your sword at the Crown Prince?" one knight roars, his knuckles white against his hilt.
The mercenary leader, Maximus, doesn't flinch. His gaze remains locked on Mikhail's—cold, unwavering, and heavy with a history Mikhail doesn't yet understand. The chain of his blade rattles softly in the wind, a deadly promise held in check by a thread.
Tsk, this is not the time for this, Mikhail thinks, his eyes narrowed.
Just as the tension reaches a breaking point, one of the rescued Eldrath soldiers scrambles forward, placing himself between the two leaders. "Sir Maximus, please try to understand!" the soldier pleads, his voice cracking. "The Empire has decided to aid us in this war. We are allies. They came all this way to find us!"
Maximus stares at the soldier for a long moment, the lethal focus in his eyes flickering. With a deep, weary sigh, he slowly lowers his blade. The chain goes slack. Mikhail, sensing the immediate threat has passed, raises a hand and signals his men to sheath their steel.
This bastard, Mikhail muses, watching Maximus with cold interest. He'd rather listen to a common grunt than the Crown Prince. He definitely holds a grudge—either against me or the Empire itself. I'll have to dig into his backstory later.
Despite the friction, the mission moves forward. The twenty-seven mercenaries, seasoned and efficient, mount the remaining spare horses without a word. They're a grim addition to the convoy, but their strength is undeniable.
The retreat is the true test. Between them and the safety of the woods lies the clearing, and within that clearing stands the Titan Orc.
As they reach the lip of the ridge—the last piece of solid cover—Mikhail pulls his horse to a halt. He doesn't have time for a complex strategy, only for high-speed evasion.
"Listen up!" Mikhail commands, his voice sharp. "We emerge in two groups! Split the formation and ride wide. Give that giant two targets to choose from, and neither will be easy to hit. Move!"
The convoy surges out from behind the ridge like a burst of shrapnel. They divide into two prongs, sprinting across the open ground.
Behind them, the Titan roars, a sound that feels like it's tearing the sky open. It reaches down, snatching a massive rock with one hand and a fallen tree with the other.
WHOOSH—CRASH.
A boulder the size of a carriage slams into the earth between the two groups, sending a geyser of dirt into the air. Seconds later, a tree whistles through the gap where a single column would have been. Mikhail leans low over his horse's neck, the wind whipping his hair as he leads the right flank.
The Titan throws again and again, but the divided targets and the erratic speed of the elite horses make its aim clumsy. Projectiles shatter the earth and pulverize the stone, but the "War Machine" is built for walls, not for chasing shadows across a field.
With a final, desperate burst of speed, the convoy plunges back into the safety of the dense woods. The trees close in behind them, blocking the Titan's line of sight and muffling its frustrated, earth-shaking roars.
They're in the deep forest now, the path home finally clear, though the atmosphere within the group remains as sharp as a blade.