The forest closed around them like a fist.
Mikhail and Miyako led the strike team through the dense undergrowth, their pace agonizingly slow. Branches clawed at armor. Roots threatened to trip the horses. But speed didn't matter—stealth did.
If the Chieftain detected them before they struck, the entire plan collapsed.
Through gaps in the canopy, Mikhail caught glimpses of the battlefield beyond. The Titans loomed like mountains, hurling their iron spears in deadly arcs. In the distance, Hilowat's cavalry weaved and scattered, staying mobile, refusing to be pinned.
Don't die on me, Mikhail thought, his jaw tight.
Miyako felt the tension in his grip around her waist. Her voice was soft, meant only for him:
"Believe in the Vice Commander. He's a great leader."
Mikhail's hand tightened. His voice came out rough, strained:
"I know, my love. But death from above doesn't discriminate."
Minutes stretched into eternity.
Finally, the trees began to thin. Light broke through ahead—the forest's edge.
Mikhail raised a fist. The column halted in silence.
He dismounted carefully, creeping forward to the treeline. What he saw made his breath catch.
Hilowat's cavalry had reached the Titans. They circled like wolves, darting in to strike at legs and feet before retreating from sweeping blows. Orcs swarmed around the giants' bases, trying to protect them. The entire battlefield was chaos—a swirling melee of steel, magic, and death.
The Titans' attention was completely fixed forward.
Perfect.
Mikhail turned back, gesturing sharply. The strike team dismounted, moving into position at the forest's edge.
He raised his sword, pointing at the nearest Titan's legs.
"Mages—concentrate fire on their legs. Cripple them. And watch for sweeps—those chains will kill you if you're caught."
The twenty battle-mages stepped forward as one, staves raised, power crackling between their fingers.
"FIRE!"
The forest erupted.
Fireballs streaked through the air like falling stars, slamming into a Titan's knee with explosive force. Thunderbolts arced from the mages' staves, crackling across thick hide, burning through muscle. Frost spread like infection, freezing joints, making movement sluggish.
The first Titan roared—a sound of pure agony—and collapsed forward, its leg shattered beneath it.
The cavalry didn't hesitate. They swarmed the fallen giant, blades rising and falling, hacking at tendons and arteries. Within seconds, the Titan's roars turned to gurgles, then silence.
One down.
The mages shifted targets. Another Titan fell. Then another.
The giants were devastating against stone and wood, unstoppable siege engines designed to break walls.
But against concentrated magic? They were defenseless.
Within minutes, all seven Titans lay dead or dying, their massive bodies twitching as soldiers carved them apart.
Movement.
At the edge of Mikhail's vision, something moved—a shadow darting away from the carnage, slipping into the treeline.
Small. Fast. Hooded.
Mikhail's eyes locked onto it.
There.
"Miyako—with me!"
He sprinted into the forest, sword drawn. Miyako was beside him in an instant, her blade already in hand.
The figure ahead was fast, weaving through trees with practiced ease. But Mikhail was faster, his mind-reading instincts tracking its movements before it made them.
"STOP!"
The figure ignored him, running harder—
—until the trees opened suddenly onto a cliff face.
Nowhere left to run.
The figure skidded to a halt at the edge, turned slowly.
It was an Orc. But not like the others.
This one was small—barely taller than a human. Lean. Its movements precise, controlled. Intelligence burned in its eyes.
It threw back its hood, revealing scarred green skin and sharp, calculating features.
From its belt, it drew a sword—sleek, elegant, glowing with faint runic light. Enchanted.
The Weapon Master.
The Orc lunged.
Its blade came in fast, a horizontal slash aimed at Mikhail's throat—
—but the strike was off. Slower than it should be. Clumsy.
Injured? Exhausted?
Miyako moved like lightning.
Her blade flashed once. The Orc's wrist separated from its arm in a spray of green blood. The enchanted sword clattered to the ground, still glowing.
The Orc stumbled back, clutching the stump, a howl of agony tearing from its throat.
It dropped to its knees at the cliff's edge, breathing hard, eyes burning with hate and resignation.
"Make it fast, human," it rasped in broken Common. "I... will not beg."
Mikhail stepped forward slowly, his blade still raised, his expression cold.
"You speak."
The Orc glared at him, defiant despite the pain.
"So?" it spat. "You think all Orcs are beasts? You know nothing."
"Then educate me." Mikhail's voice was ice. "Why did you attack? Why bring an army to my walls?"
The Orc's face twisted—not with rage, but something else. Fear? Bitterness?
"It was your kind," it hissed. "Humans. Wearing dark robes. They came to my people... with magic. Power we could not fight. They said—" Its voice cracked. "They said if I did not lead this war, they would annihilate my clans. Every one. Women. Children. All of us."
Mikhail's expression didn't change, but his mind raced.
Dark robes. Magic. Forcing the Orcs to attack.
The Demonic Kingdom? The conspiracy?
The Orc glared at him, green blood dripping from its severed wrist.
"Now finish it, human. I have failed. My people will die anyway."
Mikhail stared down at the broken Weapon Master for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't kind.
"Kill you? That easily?" He crouched down, meeting the Orc's eyes. "No. You don't get death yet. You earn it."
The Orc's eyes widened in horror.
"I can already think of ten ways to use you," Mikhail continued, his voice soft, almost conversational. "Information. Leverage. Bait. A message to whoever sent you." His smile widened. "You'll beg for death before I'm done. But you'll earn it first."
He stood, gesturing to the soldiers behind him.
"Bind it. Keep it alive. We're taking it back."