The journey back through the forest is a grim exercise in combat efficiency. Whenever a group of Orcs bars their path, the combined force of the Imperial Cavalry and the mercenaries cuts through them without breaking stride. Mikhail watches the mercenaries from the corner of his eye; they fight with a cold, mechanical synergy that surpasses even his elite knights.
If these men despise the Empire, they are a ticking time bomb in my ranks, Mikhail muses, his eyes flickering toward Maximus's broad back. I need to dig up their history the moment I have a spare second. High-tier units with a grudge are either the best assets or the most dangerous liabilities.
After hours of navigating the treacherous woodland, the canopy finally thins. In the distance, the towering white stone of the Eldrath border walls rises against the horizon. Even from a mile away, the telltale signs of fresh conflict are obvious—dark scorch marks from magic on the ramparts. The horde tested the gates while he was gone.
As the cavalry thunders toward the massive iron-bound gates, the sentries atop the walls raise their spears. "Open the gates! The Crown Prince has returned with survivors!"
The heavy mechanisms groan, and the gates swing inward just wide enough to let the column pass. Once inside the safety of the courtyard, the atmosphere shifts from the frantic energy of the wild to the disciplined tension of a military hub. Hilowat is there to meet them, his armor covered in a fresh layer of dust and green ichor.
Maximus rides in silence, but his eyes sweep the scarred walls, the smoke rising from the outer districts, the desperate efficiency of the defenders. His expression darkens.
"This is what the Empire considers 'aid'?" he mutters, low enough that only those closest hear. "Arriving after the city's already burning."
Mikhail hears him, but other than a sidelong glance, he decides not to react.
"My Lord, welcome back," Hilowat says, his voice carrying a rare note of relief.
Mikhail dismounts, handing his reins to a waiting page. He gestures vaguely toward the ragged but lethal-looking group of mercenaries led by Maximus. "These are the survivors and the mercenaries from the frontline. They are now under your command, Hilowat."
The rescued Eldrath soldiers are immediately pulled aside by their sergeants, desperate for intelligence on the forward positions.
He steps away from the main group, signaling for Hilowat to follow him into the shade of a stone archway, away from prying ears. "They're a special case, Hilowat. Keep a close eye on them, but treat them well. They'll be invaluable for the counter-offensive I'm planning."
Hilowat bows deeply, his gaze lingering on Mikhail with newfound respect. "Understood, My Lord. I must say... you have grown so much. The things you have achieved in such a short time—leading a rescue through enemy territory... it is unbelievable. I know the Emperor would be proud to see your growth."
Mikhail gives him a dry, knowing smile. "You're making it sound like I did everything on my own. I just provided the direction; the men did the bleeding."
"Anyways, where is my wife?" Mikhail asks.
"She's on top of the wall as we speak, My Lord."
Mikhail raises his gaze up the wall and sees her. She stands near the wall's edge, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. But he catches the tension in her shoulders, the grip on her sword's hilt. She'd been worried.
Their eyes meet. She gives a single, sharp nod—acknowledgment, relief, and a promise to speak later all in one gesture.
He adjusts his collar, his expression turning sharp again. "Enough with the pleasantries, Hilowat. Let's return to central command. I have a lot to discuss with the Queen and the generals. If my hunch is right, the Orcs aren't the only ones we have to worry about."