The command ridge overlooked the plains like a throne carved from ancient stone—unforgiving, exposed, and built for clarity, not comfort. Once, Gerald Von Baron had stood here and commanded the routing of three nations. Now, all he could do was watch as the world below dissolved into smoke and ruin.
The battlefield was a graveyard. Dusmir's forces had breached Fort Grannis, but their triumph was short-lived. The breach became a slaughterhouse—siege towers burning, the ground littered with bodies and broken banners. Where chaos had raged, now only silence remained. It was not victory, not defeat. It was obliteration.
Gerald lowered his brass scope, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. Jaxen, his aide, stood nearby, tense, waiting for orders that would not come.
"Any word from the southern front?" Gerald asked, his voice quiet but edged with command.
"No, sir. Communications were cut off two minutes after Jayden's squad entered the tunnel."
Gerald's eyes drifted to the tactical map. Wooden pieces still marked units that no longer existed. He reached out and removed the token labeled Northern Courtyard Breach. Jaxen watched in silence.
"Do we have a body count?" Gerald pressed.
"Unconfirmed, but… scouts estimate less than forty made it out alive. Most are falling back along the eastern treeline."
"And Craze?"
"Gone."
Gerald's lips pressed into a thin line. He closed his eyes, letting the wind from the valley wash over him, carrying the stench of scorched oil and blood, and something worse—a silence that shouldn't exist.
"Leon Lionheart," he muttered, not with fear but with certainty.
Jaxen flinched. "It was him. You're sure?"
"Yes. Not just the armor. Not just the Aura. That kind of precision doesn't come from mere soldiers. That was doctrine." Gerald remembered a line from a half-redacted Dusmir intelligence manual:
'A single battalion from the Lionheart Order is said to be able to collapse a fortress siege from inside the walls before the third bell. If Leon himself leads, strike a truce. Or pray.'
Inside the tent, messengers and officers waited, silent. None had seen what Gerald had seen: a nobleman, a symbol, a swordmaster whose presence didn't just tilt the battlefield—it rewrote it. Leon hadn't issued commands or rallied his men. He had simply stood, and Solmere's army moved as if it shared a single mind.
"I want every scout east of Grannis pulled back," Gerald ordered. "We no longer pursue the keep."
Jaxen hesitated. "But, sir—"
"It's no longer ours to take. This isn't just a failed breach. It's a message."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "He didn't kill everyone. The Lionheart Order could have wiped us from the field."
"But they didn't," Jaxen said.
"No. They wanted survivors."
Gerald's mind raced. Leon's presence wasn't reactionary; it was timed. Someone in Dusmir's war council had been compromised. The tunnel wasn't a secret; it was bait.
"Prepare a coded message to the capital. Level Three Clearance. I want a report on Leon's deployment status across all Solmere fronts. If he's not listed as active at the capital, escalate to Black Class."
Jaxen scribbled furiously. "And the Iron Vultures?"
"We'll need eyes in the Dukedoms."
"You think this goes that deep?"
Gerald didn't answer at once. "I don't think this is just a battlefield anymore."
He looked at the map—at the empty breach, the ruined courtyard, the tokens he hadn't touched. He moved two: Rex and Arlan. Two survivors, marked with a black X.
"Track them if possible," Gerald said.
Jaxen blinked. "Why?"
"They saw what I saw. Men who survive things they shouldn't tend to become useful." He turned away, wind catching his coat. "Or dangerous."
– • –
Smoke hung in the courtyard, swallowing the last screams. Arlan stood alone, battered, unbent, his warhammer sagging, blood trailing from a brow gash. Around him, only corpses and silence.
Then—measured, unhurried steps. From the haze emerged a Lionheart Knight, silver-gold armor gleaming, lion crest bright. His sword was sheathed, but the Aura coiled around him, making the air ripple with pressure.
Arlan growled, "You come alone, like I'm not worth sending more."
The knight stopped ten paces away. "You're the last still standing. That makes you worth finishing personally."
Arlan bared his teeth. "Then come try, pretty boy."
No more words. The knight moved—quick and precise. His sword hissed from its sheath, a silver arc for Arlan's throat. Arlan blocked, the impact ringing through his bones. He countered, slamming forward with brute strength, forcing the knight back.
The knight shifted from defense to offense, sword flashing in tight, lethal patterns. Arlan couldn't match the finesse, but he fought like a storm—wild, unrelenting. He took wounds but landed a crushing blow that dented the knight's armor.
They broke apart, both breathing hard.
"You're not bad," the knight said, almost impressed.
Arlan spat blood. "You haven't seen bad yet."
But Arlan was spent. His knees wobbled.
The knight lunged for the final blow.
A blur cut through the haze—Rex. His sword intercepted the descending blade with a clang like the heavens snapping shut. The Lionheart reeled, stepping back as Rex shoved Arlan behind him.
"You're late," Arlan coughed.
"Fashionably," Rex replied, never taking his eyes off the knight.
The knight steadied, Aura flaring. "Two against one? That's desperation."
"No," Rex said coldly. "It's balance."
Something old crackled between Rex and Arlan—not magic, not Aura, but brotherhood.
The knight's blade twitched—then a horn blew, sharp and urgent. Retreat.
"You're lucky," the knight muttered.
"No," Rex growled. "You are."
The knight vanished into the smoke.
Rex knelt beside Arlan. "Still breathing, old man?"
Arlan chuckled, winced. "Would've won if you didn't show up."
"You're welcome."
They sat in silence, listening to the chaos die down.
"That wasn't normal Aura," Arlan said.
Rex nodded. "And that wasn't their best."
Arlan leaned back. "Shit."
Rex helped him limp through the shattered breach. No pursuit. The Lionheart Knights had chosen not to follow. Not because they couldn't—but because they didn't need to. They'd done enough.
They passed a cluster of battered survivors—bloodied soldiers, a squire with a broken spear. Hollow-eyed, directionless, until they saw her.
Jamie Camerra stood by a toppled banner, arms crossed, cloak torn but still bearing the Dusmir Mercenary Mark. Her armor was patched leather with reinforced plates, her stance unyielding.
She nodded at Rex and Arlan. Without a word, she turned and walked. They followed.
They regrouped near a collapsed supply wagon, fires lighting the dusk. A few soldiers crouched behind what was left of the siege line. No tents, no structure—just exhaustion.
Rex dropped Arlan onto a crate and sat beside him, sword still in hand. Jamie crouched across from them, voice low but steady.
"South wall's collapsed. Northern flank's gone. Gerald pulled command back to the ridge. We're not officially retreating."
Arlan snorted. "Just unofficially dying, then."
Jamie smirked. "Something like that."
Rex looked her over. "You still intact?"
Jamie shrugged. "Few cuts. Nothing I can't walk off."
She was sharp, tactical, and efficient. Rumor said she'd gone three rounds with a Third-Class Knight and left standing.
"How many did we lose?" Rex asked.
"Too many. Half the Bronze Claws are gone. Thorn Company wiped out. Haven't heard from Blackveil squad since dawn."
Arlan wiped his face. "They sent us in blind."
"They sent us in to die," Jamie said. "And now they'll send more."
Rex's jaw tightened. "They knew Leon Lionheart was there."
Jamie shook her head. "Gerald's smart, but he's not suicidal. He wouldn't throw us in unless he was lied to. Or someone wanted him blind."
Betrayal from above. That was worse than the enemy.
"I'm not dying for a bluff," Jamie said. "We hold here until dusk, then regroup with the main camp."
"And after?" Rex asked.
She met his gaze. "We find out who sent us to die."
Rex nodded. "I'm in."
Arlan grunted. "If I'm still breathing, I'm swinging."
Jamie stood, surveying the battered survivors. "Rest. Eat. This war just changed."
– • –
The Dusmir camp was barely standing. Tents sagged, blood streaked the walkways, wounded limped or lay silent. Rex sat on a crate, head down, hands trembling. Arlan chewed dried meat, muttering, "Seen butcher shops neater than this."
"Jamie's at the commander's tent," Arlan said.
"Figured," Rex replied.
They sat in silence. Distant screams punctuated the night. Medics moved like ghosts.
"You feel that shift?" Arlan asked. "Right before the knights dropped in. My gut went cold. Never had that before."
Rex stared at his bloodied hands. "Yeah. I felt it."
Arlan studied him. "But you… you felt something else, didn't you?"
Rex said nothing, his gaze fixed on the western road. Arlan caught the flicker of memory in his eyes.
"…Thinking about someone?" Arlan asked.
"No."
Arlan didn't press. "Didn't look like no 'no' to me," he muttered, closing his eyes.
Rex kept his gaze west, toward the road Melissa might have taken—if she'd survived.
– • –
The throne room of Dusmir's Imperial Palace was carved from obsidian and gold, a blend of overwhelming majesty and quiet menace. High columns lined the chamber like silent sentinels, and the imperial crest—twin dragons curled around a dying star—hung above the dais. The light that filtered through the stained-glass windows cast fractured shadows across the cold floor.
Seated atop the throne was Veyron Kael Dusmir, Emperor of Dusmir.
He was not a man of many words. His presence alone silenced entire halls. Cloaked in black and crimson robes stitched with ancient runes, his sharp eyes were fixed on the scroll in his hand—marked with Gerald Von Baron's personal seal.
Before him stood the three most powerful men in the empire.
Lucien Kael Dusmir, the Crown Prince, wore regal battle-leathers, his long black hair tied back in a soldier's braid. Though young, his gaze was tempered by campaigns and sleepless nights. He read alongside his father, his jaw set, his posture rigid.
Beside him stood Damian Ludacriss, one of the Four Swordmasters of the continent. He was massive, with ash-gray armor etched in symbols of war, a blade as tall as a man strapped to his back. His silence carried weight—for when Damian spoke, kingdoms listened.
And finally, Henrich Lez Dhenma, Duke of the Dusmir Empires and the Emperor's oldest friend. He wore the garb of nobility, but his hands were calloused like a farmer's—a man who had earned his lands with blood and sweat.
The scroll was unrolled fully, its contents plain for all to read. Silence lingered as they finished.
Lucien broke it first, his voice low but steady.
"Gerald's tone is unlike him. Calculated. Measured. But I sense fear between the lines."
Damian's eyes narrowed as he spoke, his voice deep as a winter storm.
"He names Leon Lionheart as the one responsible for the breach failure. And he lives to write it. That alone speaks volumes."
The Emperor gave no immediate response. Instead, he passed the scroll to Henrich, who read it slowly, his brow tightening with each line.
Henrich's voice was grave.
"The tunnel breach wasn't just a tactical failure. It was a baited trap. That level of timing… means our intelligence was compromised."
Lucien nodded grimly.
"And Leon's presence this far from the capital means something worse."
Damian finished it for him, his words heavy with implication.
"Solmere moves its greatest piece… without public notice."
Veyron's gaze swept across his council. His voice, when it came, was deep as old stone.
"Which means they either move toward something—or away from something."
He stood, slow and deliberate. The weight of the empire seemed to shift with him.
"Gerald survived what he should not have. His letter is not one of complaint. It is a warning. He does not ask for reinforcements. He asks to retreat. That tells me he has already made his decision."
Henrich stepped forward, conviction in his stance.
"Then we back him."
Lucien turned toward his father, urgency in his voice.
"Permission to send riders?"
Veyron nodded once.
"Dispatch them. East to command ridge. Immediate withdrawal authorization. Gerald will relocate westward and establish defensive lines."
Damian added, his tone unyielding.
"Give him full clearance to mobilize the Iron Vultures if needed. If the Lionheart Order is truly on the field, we may require answers before action."
The Emperor turned, walking toward the shadowed end of the hall, his voice echoing across the marble and gold.
"Let Solmere believe they've won a field."
He paused at the edge of the light, his figure half-draped in shadow, the dragons of the crest looming above him.
"We'll bury them in the next."
As the council dispersed, the wheels of Dusmir's war machine began to turn. Lucien strode from the hall, already issuing orders to his personal guard. Messengers were dispatched—swift horses bearing the Emperor's seal, carrying word of withdrawal and new lines of defense.
– • –
The Dusmir command tent was a world apart from the chaos outside. Gone were the frantic shouts, the clatter of armor, the endless shuffle of boots—now, only the wind whispered against torn canvas, and the heavy, slow breaths of those within filled the silence. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood drifting in from the ruined field.
Grand Commander Gerald Von Baron stood at the head of the battered war table, a letter gripped in his hand. The black wax seal of the Imperial Court—the Dusmir phoenix—had been split with a careful, practiced hand. The script inside was tight, precise, and left no room for doubt.
He read the letter twice. Then a third time, as if searching for some hidden meaning between the lines. Only then did he lift his gaze to the officers assembled before him.
Captain Arven of the Steel Line, his armor dented and cloak stained but his spine straight as ever. Commander Dreyl, the grizzled chief of the southern engineers, whose hands bore more scars than most men's bodies. And Jamie Camerra, mercenary captain and representative of the Dusmir Free Companies, arms folded, eyes sharp and unblinking.
All of them looked like survivors. All of them looked like they'd run out of hope yesterday.
Gerald's voice, when it came, was steady but heavy.
"The Emperor has responded."
A ripple of tension passed through the tent—barely perceptible, but real.
"He acknowledges the breach was a strategic failure," Gerald continued, holding up the parchment for them to see. "No reprimand. No blame. Just… clarity."
He let the words settle before continuing, his tone absolute.
"Effective immediately, all forces under my command are to withdraw west, consolidate along the Lornwood perimeter, and establish a temporary defense post at the river crossing."
Jamie tilted her head, a faint edge of disbelief in her voice.
"Retreat?"
Gerald shook his head, lips pressed in a thin line.
"Tactical repositioning."
Jamie's snort was soft, but not disrespectful.
Arven, frowning, leaned forward over the map.
"Do they know about Leon?"
"They do," Gerald replied. "The Emperor, the Crown Prince, and Damian Ludacriss have been fully briefed. The capital is sending scouts to verify Lionheart Order movements as we speak."
Commander Dreyl's voice was gravel and ash.
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime," Gerald said, folding the letter and tucking it inside his coat, "we survive."
Jamie's gaze sharpened.
"And what about the men we left behind in the inner breach? What about the wounded still on the third ridge?"
Gerald's answer was steel.
"We pull who we can. But no one goes back into Grannis—not without a full battalion at their back."
For a moment, only the wind and the distant crackle of burning timbers filled the silence.
Jamie broke it, her voice practical.
"Why Lornwood?"
Gerald tapped the map, his finger tracing the river's curve.
"It's the last natural chokepoint before the open plains. If Solmere pushes past Grannis, we meet them there. The terrain favors us."
Jamie's eyes narrowed, reading between the lines.
"And it's further from the capital. Easier to hide."
Gerald met her gaze and didn't deny it.
Jamie grunted, a grudging note of respect in her voice.
"Smart move."
"Not mine," Gerald admitted. "Henrich Lez Dhenma made the suggestion—in the margin of the letter."
That drew a few raised brows.
Arven exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.
"The Duke of Dhenma himself?"
"Aye. Still loyal. Still watching," Gerald said.
He rolled up the parchment and tucked it away.
"We leave in three hours. All troops, mercenaries, and support staff. Priority is speed and stealth—we don't know if Leon's forces will follow."
Dreyl nodded grimly.
"I'll get the engineers moving."
Jamie cast one last look at the command map, then turned to leave.
"I'll handle the Free Companies."
But Gerald's voice stopped her.
"Camerra."
She paused, glancing back.
"You're part of the main council now," he said simply. "Stay."
Jamie blinked, once. Then gave a single nod and returned to the table, her presence now a fixture among the empire's senior command.
Gerald looked around at the faces in the tent.
"We've been handed a lifeline by the capital. We use it. We move fast, dig in, and wait. But make no mistake—this war just changed. And the next time Leon moves... we better be ready."
As the officers dispersed to their duties, the tent fell silent once more, save for the wind and the distant thunder of collapse.
Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, darkening over the burning remains of Fort Grannis. But to the west—beyond the smoke, beyond the ruin—there was a sliver of hope, faint and fragile.
Maybe.