The rain had not stopped. By the time dawn began to bleed into the horizon, the river that marked the eastern border roared with swollen waters, its surface glinting like molten steel beneath the gray sky. Mist rose from it in ghostly tendrils, hiding the far bank — and the enemy that waited there.
Veer stood at the ridge above the river, his cloak plastered to his back from the downpour. Beside him, Chandan and Asha scanned the shifting fog. Behind them, hundreds of warriors from the Nine Tribes stood ready, their shields locked in neat formations, their faces painted in the colors of their clans. War drums thudded in the distance, slow and steady, like a heartbeat growing louder.
Suddenly, the enemy revealed themselves.
Shapes emerged from the mist — first shadows, then armored figures in black and crimson, their banners snapping in the storm. War horns blared, deep and unnatural, the kind that felt less like sound and more like the growl of some ancient beast.
"They've brought more than I expected," Chandan muttered. His grip on his spear tightened.
"They think numbers will scare us," Veer replied, his voice low but carrying. "But they've never faced warriors who fight for their homes."
The enemy moved first. Arrows hissed from the far bank, their black shafts vanishing into the rain. Shields lifted in perfect unison on Veer's command, the sound of impacts ringing like hail on bronze.
Then came the boats. Narrow, black-painted vessels slid onto the churning river, rowers bending low as soldiers stood ready with spears and hooks. The river's current fought them, but still they came, their oars cutting through the water with grim determination.
"Archers!" Veer's voice cut through the storm.
Asha stepped forward, her bow already drawn. At her signal, a hundred bows bent, strings taut, the tips of the arrows catching the faintest glint of lightning.
"Loose!"
The sky seemed to split as the volley rose high, vanishing into the mist before plunging down. The first boats staggered under the rain of death — men falling, others ducking behind shields. One vessel spun sideways in the current, oars flailing uselessly before it slammed into another.
But more came.
The second wave pushed through, their shields raised against the arrows. Some reached mid-river, their voices rising in a roar. Lightning flashed, and Veer saw their commander — a tall man in a horned helmet, pointing straight at him from the prow of the lead boat.
"He's marking you," Chandan said grimly.
"Then he'll find me," Veer replied, his hand tightening on his sword hilt.
The boats crashed against the near bank. Iron hooks bit into the muddy shore as the first enemy soldiers leapt into the shallows, shields raised.
"Hold the line!" Veer roared.
The front rank of tribal warriors surged forward, spears braced, meeting the invaders with a sound like thunder as wood, metal, and flesh collided. The riverbank became chaos — mud churned underfoot, water splashed in arcs as men grappled, stabbed, and fell.
Asha moved like a shadow along the flank, her arrows finding gaps in armor with deadly precision. Chandan fought like a wall, his shield slamming into attackers, his spear striking in swift, brutal thrusts.
Veer pushed through the melee, his sword flashing in the rain. He struck down a soldier, then another, never stopping, his eyes locked on the horned-helmet commander now climbing the bank. Their eyes met — and in that moment, the battlefield seemed to narrow until there was only the two of them.
The enemy commander lunged first, his axe swinging in a brutal arc. Veer met it with his blade, the shock of impact running up his arm. They circled, the battle raging around them, rain streaking across their armor.
"You'll fall like the rest," the commander snarled.
Veer's lips curled into the faintest smile. "I'm not here to fall. I'm here to end you."
The fight was swift and savage — steel ringing, mud flying, each strike meant to kill. A sudden feint drew the commander's guard high, and Veer's sword cut low, slicing through his thigh. The man staggered, but before he could recover, Veer drove his blade up beneath the armor, ending it.
The commander collapsed, his horned helmet sinking into the mud. Around them, the enemy's advance faltered. Without their leader, their formation broke, and the tribal warriors pushed forward with renewed fury.
By midmorning, the river ran red. The surviving enemy soldiers fled back into the mist, their boats retreating into the far bank. The rain eased at last, leaving only the sound of the swollen river and the heavy breathing of the victors.
Veer stood at the water's edge, his sword still in hand. His warriors gathered around him, their faces streaked with rain and blood.
"This was only their first strike," he said, his voice carrying over the quiet. "They will come again — stronger, angrier. And when they do… we will be ready."
The war drums began again, this time not in warning, but in victory.