The sun bled crimson across the horizon, its last light glinting off the river like molten gold. Veer stood at the banks, his reflection rippling in the darkening water. His hands were clenched tightly around the shaft of his spear, knuckles pale, jaw set. Tonight was not a night for rest. Tonight, the winds themselves seemed to whisper of change—and danger.
Behind him, the camp buzzed with restless energy. Warriors sharpened their blades with quick, tense motions. Women carried bundles of herbs and bandages, preparing for the wounded they knew would soon return. Even the children seemed unusually quiet, clinging to the skirts of their mothers as if sensing the weight of the air.
From the shadows of a nearby tree, Mahendra approached. His armor was strapped on, and his eyes—usually calm—held an edge Veer had rarely seen.
"They are coming," Mahendra said quietly. "Scouts report movement near the eastern ridge. Too disciplined to be bandits. Too many to be just a hunting party."
Veer turned his gaze toward the dark hills in the distance. The enemy. He could almost feel them, a pulse in the land, a vibration in the ground beneath his feet.
"How long?" Veer asked.
Mahendra's lips thinned. "An hour. Maybe less."
The silence between them was heavy. They both knew what was at stake. This wasn't just another skirmish over borders or resources. This was a fight for the unity Veer had been building—tribe by tribe, oath by oath. If he lost here, everything would fracture, splinter, and vanish like mist under the morning sun.
"I'll speak to them," Veer said, his voice steady.
A short while later, he stood before the assembled warriors. The fading light painted their faces in deep shadows, their eyes glowing with the firelight from the torches. Some were from the River Tribe, others from the Iron Hills, still others from the far grasslands. Different accents, different customs, different gods—but all now bound by the fragile thread of trust Veer had worked so hard to weave.
He let his eyes pass over each face, feeling the weight of their hope and their fear.
"Brothers. Sisters," he began, his voice carrying across the camp. "Tonight, the winds bring with them a storm. But it is not a storm of rain—it is a storm of steel, fire, and blood. The ones marching toward us do not come to test our strength. They come to break it."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
"They believe we are scattered people," Veer continued, his voice hardening. "They believe we are too different to stand together. That the River Tribe will not fight for the Hill Tribe. That the Grasslanders will not bleed for those from the forest. They think we are nothing but a patchwork of strangers pretending to be allies."
He took a deep breath, then raised his spear high.
"They are wrong. Tonight, we fight not as tribes, but as one people! If the enemy wants to tear us apart, let them break themselves upon us instead! When the sun rises tomorrow, the land will remember this night—not as the night we were hunted, but as the night we became unbreakable!"
The roar that followed shook the air. Spears lifted, shields slammed against the ground in rhythm, the sound echoing like distant thunder.
The first sound of the enemy came not from sight, but from the vibration in the earth—a dull, steady thump like the beat of a giant drum. Then came the glint of torches, winding down the ridge like a river of fire.
Veer took his place at the front line, Mahendra at his right, Nandini at his left. She had refused to remain in the healer's tents; her bow was already strung, her quiver full.
The enemy emerged from the dark like shadows given flesh—armor painted black, faces hidden behind snarling masks.
A single horn blew from their side, deep and harsh.
And then the storm broke.
They clashed with a force that rattled bone. The first wave slammed into Veer's shield, the impact jolting his entire arm. He twisted, driving his spear into the gap between armor plates, feeling it bite deep. Around him, the air was a chaos of shouts, steel ringing against steel, the smell of sweat and blood thick in the air.
An enemy warrior swung a curved blade at his head—Veer ducked low, feeling the wind of the strike skim past, then slammed his shield upward into the man's jaw. As the warrior stumbled, Mahendra's axe came down like a hammer, ending him.
"Left flank is pushing!" Nandini's voice rang out.
Veer's eyes snapped to the side. The enemy was trying to wrap around, cutting off the archers.
"Hold them!" Veer barked, rallying a group to intercept. The ground turned slick beneath his boots, the torchlight glinting off the wet earth—though Veer knew that wetness was not from rain.
Time blurred into a haze of movement and instinct. A spearhead grazed his ribs. A shield bash rattled his skull. Somewhere to his right, a warrior from the River Tribe screamed—a short, sharp sound abruptly cut off.
But they held. Every attempt to break the line was met with fury. The different tribes fought not for their own, but for the one beside them, whether friend of years or ally of days.
And then, amidst the chaos, Veer saw him—the enemy commander. Tall, wrapped in dark crimson, his helmet shaped like the head of a jackal. He stood back from the fray, directing the flow of the fight with sharp, precise gestures.
If the head fell, the body would falter. Veer knew what he had to do.
Breaking from the shield wall, Veer pushed forward, cutting through the press of bodies. He ignored the shouts behind him, the stinging cut along his arm. Every step was toward the jackal-helmed man.
The commander saw him coming. His hand went to the long curved sword at his side.
They met in a circle of churned mud and torchlight.
"You are the one they follow," the commander said, his voice muffled but cold. "Break you, and they scatter."
"Try," Veer answered.
The clash of their blades was like a clap of thunder. The commander was fast, his strikes flowing like water, each one forcing Veer back a step. But Veer was not fighting for skill alone—he was fighting for every oath sworn to him, every life that stood behind him.
The duel was brutal, each strike ringing through Veer's arms. Then, in a moment's opening, he feinted low, spun his spear, and drove its butt into the commander's knee. The man staggered. Veer followed with a thrust aimed straight for the throat gap in the jackal helm.
The commander crumpled, the mask falling away to reveal eyes wide with shock.
A horn sounded—this time from the enemy. It was not the call to attack. It was the call to retreat.
As they fell back into the night, the field was left scattered with the fallen. Veer stood over the commander's body, his breath ragged, his spear dripping.
Behind him, his warriors gathered—bloodied, exhausted, but still standing.
Mahendra came to his side, his face grim but proud. "We held."
Veer looked at them—the River warriors, the Grasslanders, the Hill folk. No longer strangers.
"We did more than hold," Veer said quietly. "Tonight, we became one."
And in the dark sky above, the first pale light of dawn began to creep over the horizon.