Janus fell in a single day.
By the following morning, nobody in Altrea understood what had happened.
By the third day, everyone had heard a different story.
By the end of the week, everyone was afraid.
The first reports described an invasion from the sea.
Then came stories of enormous ships.
Then the stories of steel beasts crawling from the water.
Then the stories of silver dragons that flew without wings of flesh.
Then the of men wearing masks, covered in metal, who fought without speaking and killed without mercy.
Most people dismissed them.
At first.
Then the refugees came.
And the stories stopped being stories.
They called them the Northern Demons.
The name spread because nobody knew what else to call them.
They had no proper name in the Altrean language.
Nobody knew where they're from.
Nobody knew their gods.
Nobody knew their customs.
Nobody knew why they come.
So the people gave them the simplest explanation they could.
They were demons.
Demons from the north.
But there was something deeply unsettling about these demons.
They did not behave like a single army.
They didn't even seem to behave like armies from the same civilization.
One settlement would describe invaders who charged directly into battle with laughter.
Another would describe soldiers who seemed to take pleasure in destroying everything around.
Another would swear that its attackers had never been seen until they were already inside the walls.
Another would report enormous machines emerging from a river.
Another would claim that silver dragons had crossed the sky and attacked from miles away.
The reports contradicted each other.
That was what frightened Altrea most.
There was no pattern.
No single way to fight them.
No single way to prepare for them.
The first kingdom beyond Janus expected the invasion to move like every army it had ever known.
Slowly.
Its soldiers gathered outside a town and formed a defensive line.
They waited for the enemy to approach.
They expected cavalry, archers, and knights.
Instead, something came screaming across the fields.
It was red.
Steel.
Fast.
A horde of armoured machines charged directly toward the defensive line.
The soldiers raised their shields.
Their commanders shouted for everyone to hold the line.
The machines kept coming.
Then came the laughter.
The sound carried across the battlefield.
A strange, high, almost joyous laugh.
The soldiers inside the machines were laughing as they charged.
Not shouting battle cries.
Not invoking gods.
Just laughing.
A knight who survived the battle later described them as mad beasts.
"They were happy."
Nobody understood.
"Happy?"
"While charging?"
"While being shot at?"
The knight nodded.
"They wanted us to fight them."
He paused.
"No."
His face turned pale.
"They wanted us to try."
The red horde smashed into the defensive line.
Steel creatures tore through shields.
Machines moved faster than horses.
Armoured vehicles crossed fields that should have slowed them.
Their soldiers pursued fleeing defenders rather than allowing them to escape.
And the strangest part was that they seemed to enjoy it.
They did not fight merely because they had orders.
They fought because they wanted to.
Altrean survivors eventually gave them a name.
The Red Devils.
They would eventually learn that these were the Craze Hounds.
But at the time, Altrea knew only this
Something red had come from the north.
Something that laughed while charging into battle.
Something that seemed to have an insatiable hunger for fighting.
Further south, another settlement encountered a completely different nightmare.
There was no laughter.
No reckless charge.
No heroic battle.
The invaders simply arrived.
Their soldiers wore green and grey.
Their machines were covered in strange equipment.
Smoke followed them.
Then fire.
Where they stopped, the land changed.
Fields burned.
Water became foul.
Buildings were covered in strange stains.
Animals fled.
The soldiers wore masks over their faces and strange devices around their heads.
They moved through smoke as though it were ordinary weather.
Some defenders who approached them collapsed without ever being touched.
The invaders seemed completely unconcerned.
A farmer who escaped the region described them as:
"Walking deads."
Another called them:
"Iron devils wearing the skins of men."
A third insisted they were alchemists who had learned how to poison the earth itself.
Nobody knew the truth.
But the stories kept coming.
The green-and-grey army was leaving death behind their every wakes.
And unlike the red soldiers, they did not appear interested in victory for its own sake.
They seemed almost indifferent to whether anyone survived.
A village might surrender.
The invaders would pass through.
Another village might resist.
It would burn.
A bridge might be useful.
They would use it.
A warehouse might contain supplies.
They would take them.
A field might be needed.
They would destroy it.
The survivors spoke of men who laughed while surrounded by flames, as though the destruction of everything around them meant nothing.
The Altreans began to believe that the green-and-grey soldiers did not fear death.
Eventually, they learned their name.
Rad Troopers.
But that name meant nothing to the people watching their lands disappear.
To them, the Northern Demons had become something worse.
They were demons who had stopped caring about the world.
Then there were the attacks nobody understood.
A town would wake up normally.
The gates would open.
Merchants would enter.
Farmers would arrive from nearby villages.
Then the captain of the guard would disappear.
A messenger would fail to return.
A sentry would be found dead in an alley.
Someone would discover that the garrison's weapons had been sabotaged.
Then, sometimes hours later, the invaders would appear.
People began remembering strangers.
A merchant with an unusual accent.
A wandering laborer.
A sailor asking about roads.
A foreign traveler asking about the local garrison.
A mercenary looking for work.
They were never particularly suspicious individually.
That was the problem.
They looked ordinary.
They drank in taverns.
They bought food.
They asked questions.
They listened.
Then they disappeared.
A few days later, the settlement was attacked.
People began remembering those faces.
The merchant.
The sailor.
The traveler.
The stranger who had asked how many soldiers were stationed at the northern gate.
The stranger who had wanted to know which road led toward the castle.
The stranger who had asked whether the town possessed a mage.
Suddenly, everyone became suspicious of everyone.
Travelers were turned away.
Foreign merchants were arrested.
Innkeepers stopped accepting strangers.
Parents warned their children not to speak to outsiders.
Rumors spread that the Northern Demons had spies everywhere.
The truth was even more frightening.
Some of them did.
The Gorgon Battalion did not always announce itself with steel.
Sometimes it arrived before the army.
Sometimes its soldiers were already inside the city before anyone knew there was an army approaching.
To Altrea, this made the Northern Demons seem almost supernatural.
How could an army know the layout of a town before attacking it?
How could it know where the soldiers slept?
How could its enemies disappear without warning?
The answer was simple.
The Gorgons is watching.
Elsewhere, another army behaved differently again.
The defenders of one settlement prepared a fortified position.
They expected an assault.
Instead, nothing happened.
They waited.
Nothing.
The next day, nothing.
On the third day, a group of scouts finally left the fortress.
They never returned.
Then a messenger disappeared.
Then another.
The soldiers began becoming afraid to leave the walls.
And then, from somewhere beyond the range of their weapons, the officers began dying.
One.
Then another.
More and more.
The defenders never saw the attackers.
They only heard the distant cracks.
By the time they realized what was happening, their command structure had already collapsed.
The Altreans would eventually learn of the Jaguar Pact.
But to them, these were invisible hunters.
They did not charge.
They did not roar.
They did not announce themselves.
They simply chose someone.
And killed them.
The worst part was that the Northern Demons weren't advancing along one road.
They were advancing along every road.
The Altreans initially assumed geography would protect them.
An army needed roads.
A river could stop an army.
A forest could slow them down.
A mountain could block their path.
The sea could separate them.
The sky belonged to dragons.
These assumptions had been true for thousands of years.
The mercenaries had no reason to respect them.
The first armoured columns moved down conventional roads.
Some had wheels.
Others moved on enormous tracks.
Some machines had legs.
The Altreans called the wheeled ones steel wagons without horses or oxen.
They called the walking ones steel abominations.
They watched them climb slopes that would have broken ordinary wagons.
They watched them cross muddy fields.
They watched them continue moving after arrows and swords bounced off their armour.
A road that took a merchant caravan two days could be crossed by a mercenary column in just hours.
And when the road ended, the machines simply left it.
The invaders did not need roads.
They merely preferred them.
Then came the river reports.
At first, the defenders were relieved.
The great rivers of northern Altrea were natural defensive lines.
Bridges were few.
Fords were known.
Crossings could be defended.
A river could stop an army.
Then the first river town fell.
The defenders destroyed the bridge.
They placed archers along the banks.
Then they prepared siege engines, and summoned a mage.
They waited for the invaders to find another crossing.
Instead, something came down the river.
The sentry saw it first.
A dark shape moving against the current.
Then another.
And another more.
They weren't ships.
Not exactly.
They were armoured vessels.
Low, ugly things that moved through the water with unbelievable speed.
Behind them came larger craft carrying soldiers.
Then something enormous emerged from the river mist.
A steel machine climbed directly out of the water.
Its legs pushed against the riverbed.
Water poured from its armour.
The defenders stared.
Someone whispered
"They can walk through rivers."
Another answered
"They don't need bridges."
The defensive line broke before the battle even began.
Soon the reports became even more frightening.
The invaders weren't merely crossing rivers.
They were using them.
River towns began seeing unfamiliar vessels moving upstream.
Cargo barges disappeared.
Fishing boats were seized.
Old docks were occupied.
The mercenaries brought their own vessels into waterways that Altrean commanders had considered too shallow or narrow for military operations.
Where the river narrowed, they adapted.
Where bridges were destroyed, they built the crossings.
Where the banks were steep, they found another route.
The river itself had become another road.
The forests should have been safe.
Heavy cavalry couldn't move through dense woodland.
Wagons became useless.
Large armies lost their formations.
A forest favored defenders who knew the terrain.
The mercenaries entered anyway.
Infantry moved through the undergrowth.
Smaller vehicles followed paths that Altrean armies would have considered unsuitable for military transport.
Sappers cleared routes.
Trees that had stood for centuries were cut down in minutes.
Paths were widened.
Bridges were built.
Temporary roads appeared behind the advancing armies.
The forest ceased to be an obstacle.
It became a construction project.
And when the mercenaries didn't need to build a road, they simply went around the forest.
The Altreans could not understand it.
Their armies were shaped by the land.
The mercenaries treated the land as something to be overcome.
Then came the reports from above.
The flying machines were not rare.
They were everywhere.
They scouted.
They transported.
They attacked.
They watched.
Their rotors turned them into the giant insects of Altrean nightmares.
Their fixed-wing machines became silver dragons.
The sky itself became another road.
A village might receive warning that an enemy army was approaching from the north.
Then a machine would appear from the west.
Or the east.
Or directly overhead.
Sometimes it didn't attack.
It simply watched.
That frightened the villagers more.
Because it meant someone was looking.
A shepherd once saw a strange flying machine hovering above his fields.
He dropped his staff and ran.
The machine followed him.
Not quickly.
Not aggressively.
It simply remained above him.
The shepherd eventually hid beneath a stone bridge.
The machine hovered for several minutes.
Then it departed.
The shepherd spent the rest of his life telling people that the demons had eyes in the sky.
He's not entirely wrong.
The sea was the worst.
After Janus, every coastal settlement became terrified.
The people of Altrea had always understood the sea as a boundary.
The Northern Demons treated it as a highway.
Their ships moved along the coastline.
Their amphibious machines came ashore.
Their aircraft flew inland.
Their forces could bypass fortified towns completely and land somewhere behind them.
A castle commander could spend weeks preparing his northern wall.
Then an enemy fleet would appear behind him.
The coastline stopped being a border.
It became an open door.
Eventually, the reports became impossible to categorize.
A town was attacked by red machines.
A village was burned by green-and-grey soldiers.
A garrison discovered strangers inside its walls.
A caravan was destroyed by invisible hunters.
A coastal fortress was attacked from the sea.
A river settlement saw steel boats traveling upstream.
A mountain village reported seeing flying machines.
A forest settlement watched machines cut a road through the trees.
A fortified army prepared for a frontal assault, only to discover the enemy had already passed around them.
The invaders seemed to be everywhere.
And yet they were nowhere together.
That was what made them terrifying.
Altrea expected an army.
Instead, it faced seven different nightmares.
One loved battle.
One seemed to love everything burn.
One stalked from the shadows.
One killed from impossible distances.
One arrived from the sea.
One brought armies of steel.
And one seemed capable of appearing wherever it wanted.
They did not even seem to agree on how war should be fought.
Yet somehow, they kept advancing.
The refugees began spreading another rumor.
The Northern Demons were not fighting randomly.
They were moving.
Not toward the same villages.
Not toward the same castles.
Toward something larger.
Nobody knew what.
But every road seemed to carry them farther south.
Every river seemed to carry them farther south.
Every coastal landing pushed their presence farther south.
Every cleared forest path opened another route.
Every flight across the sky revealed another possible direction.
And every defeated settlement sent more refugees ahead of them.
The refugees began moving toward Napier.
At first, the city's authorities were relieved.
Napier was one of the largest and strongest cities in the region.
Its walls were formidable.
Its garrison was substantial.
Its surrounding territory was prosperous.
If refugees were arriving here, perhaps it meant they believed Napier was safe.
The city opened its gates.
Then more arrived.
And more.
And more.
Soon the roads outside Napier were clogged with people.
Families.
Merchants.
Soldiers.
Nobles.
Farmers.
Priests.
Children.
People carrying everything they had managed to save.
Some arrived from the north.
Others came from the northwest.
Others from the northeast.
Some had traveled from the coast.
Others came from inland settlements.
Some followed the great roads.
Others arrived beside rivers.
Some had even traveled through forests after abandoning roads entirely.
The city authorities began running out of space.
Food prices rose.
Warehouses were opened.
Temporary camps appeared outside the walls.
The city watch struggled to maintain order.
Every morning, another group appeared on the roads.
Every evening, another story arrived with them.
The city's defenders listened.
And grew increasingly uneasy.
Inside Napier's command hall, maps covered the walls.
The city's general stood before them.
His officers surrounded the table.
They had spent days discussing the same problem.
Refugees.
Food.
Shelter.
Disease.
Panic.
There were simply too many people.
"We cannot keep them all inside the city," one officer said.
"They'll starve outside."
"They'll starve inside if we don't control the supplies."
"We need to send them farther south."
"With what escorts?"
Silence.
The general stared at the map.
Napier was becoming a refuge for half the northern region.
It was a humanitarian disaster waiting to happen.
But something about the refugee movements bothered him.
He walked around the table.
"Where did these people come from?"
His officers began pointing.
"These from the north."
"These from the western road."
"These came from the eastern settlements."
"These from the coast."
"These followed the river."
The general frowned.
"All of them?"
"Yes."
He looked closer.
The roads.
The rivers.
The coast.
The routes.
The movement of people.
Then something clicked.
He straightened.
"Wait."
Everyone looked at him.
He pointed toward the map.
"Why are they coming from here?"
An officer answered.
"They're refugees."
"I know."
He moved his finger.
"And these?"
"Also refugees."
"And these?"
"Yes."
The general stared at the map.
His expression slowly changed.
The officers noticed.
"What is it?"
He began tracing the routes.
The northern highway.
The western road.
The eastern road.
The coastal route.
Then the river.
He stopped.
The waterways.
That was what they missed.
The refugees weren't simply following the safest roads.
They were following whatever routes remained open.
And those routes were converging.
Not randomly.
The geography itself revealed the pattern.
The general placed markers on the map.
One by one.
Every major road.
Every river.
Every surviving coastal settlement.
Every major route still open.
Then he drew an invisible line toward the center.
Napier.
His face went pale.
"They aren't just fleeing."
Nobody understood.
"They're being pushed."
The general pointed toward the northern territories.
The fallen towns.
The broken roads.
The abandoned settlements.
Then he pointed directly at Napier.
"Look at where they're going."
One officer stared at the map.
Another slowly stepped backward.
The general finally said it.
"They're driving them toward us."
Nobody spoke.
Outside the command hall, thousands of refugees were still entering the city.
Children were crying.
Merchants were shouting.
Soldiers were demanding food.
The streets were crowded.
Napier was filling with people.
And suddenly the general understood what that meant.
The refugees weren't merely fleeing the Northern Demons.
They were carrying the invasion with them.
Every settlement the refugees had abandoned was another settlement the invaders had conquered.
Every road they had traveled was a road the invaders could follow.
Every river they had traveled beside was another route the enemy could exploit.
Every coastal settlement represented another possible landing point.
Every direction from which refugees arrived represented another direction from which the enemy had advanced.
The general looked again at the map.
And his face went pale.
"How many directions?"
An officer counted them.
"North."
He pointed.
"Northwest."
Another point.
"Northeast."
Another.
"West."
"East."
"And the river?"
The officer hesitated.
"From the upper river settlements."
The general stared at the map.
There was a long silence.
Then he understood.
"They have routes everywhere."
His hand slowly moved across the map.
Roads.
Rivers.
Coast.
Fields.
Forests.
And above them all, the sky.
Everything led toward the same place.
Napier.
"They're not raiding."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"They're surrounding us."
One officer swallowed.
"Then..."
The general stared at Napier's position on the map.
The answer was obvious.
Terrifyingly obvious.
"They're coming to us."
Another officer shook his head.
"All of them?"
The general didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Because suddenly the strange behavior of the Northern Demons made sense.
The apparently unrelated attacks.
The scattered armies.
The different machines.
Different colors.
Different methods of warfare.
The invaders weren't disorganized.
They were approaching from multiple directions.
Each force was doing something different.
Each was tearing through a different part of the north.
Each was exploiting a different road into the south.
The Craze Hounds were smashing through defensive lines.
The Rad Troopers were leaving ruined land behind them.
The Gorgons were infiltrating ahead of the main forces.
The Jaguar Pact was cutting down resistance from afar.
The Cohort of the Deep was using the sea and waterways.
The Iron Jaws were bringing their heavy machines wherever terrain allowed.
Hazen's forces were turning the sky into another battlefield.
Seven different armies.
Seven different methods.
Seven different nightmares.
Yet every road, every river, every coastline, every forest path and every stretch of sky was feeding the invasion toward the same destination.
Napier.
The general looked toward the window.
Beyond the walls, more refugees continued pouring into the city.
They had thought they were escaping the war.
They had not realized they were running toward its center.
The general finally spoke.
"Close the gates."
An officer stared at him.
"But the refugees—"
"I know."
His eyes remained fixed on the northern horizon.
"Close the gates."
Outside, the bells of Napier began ringing.
The refugees looked toward the walls.
The soldiers looked toward the gates.
Nobody knew why.
Not yet.
But somewhere far beyond the northern horizon, engines were already moving.
Steel was advancing.
Aircraft were crossing the sky.
Ships were approaching the coast.
Armored boats were moving along the rivers.
Convoys were traveling the roads.
And seven armies that did not appear to belong together were slowly converging on the same destination.
Napier.
For the first time, the Altreans understood the truth.
The Northern Demons were not simply spreading.
They were coming together.
And they're coming for them.