The marshes gave way to dry grasslands, and with each mile, the river became a memory. Men trudged forward, boots heavy, packs clattering, every step measured. The mist had lifted, revealing a horizon that stretched endlessly eastward—a pale canvas of gold and green, broken only by distant hills that might be home to Tarek al-Rhazim's forces.
We were leaving Kaeldor, but not yet leaving safety. That distinction mattered little to tired soldiers, whose nerves frayed with every snapping twig and whisper of wind.
Ril rode beside me, scanning the horizon as we advanced. "How far until we find them?" he asked. His voice betrayed both curiosity and dread.
I shook my head. "Not far enough. Not yet."
The men didn't speak. They had learned silence was safer than bravado. Some had learned it the hard way, seeing friends fall while shouting orders no one could follow.
We moved like shadows, two hundred men tight, careful not to break formation. The steppe was deceptive—open, inviting, yet hiding death in its grasses, its shallow dips, and its ridges. Every movement had to be calculated; every choice measured.
By midday, scouts reported movement ahead. Small, fast. Not a full force, but enough to warn us: Qashiri were aware.
"Prepare for skirmish," I ordered. "Arrow squads forward. Keep spacing tight. Do not engage unless necessary."
The men obeyed without hesitation. Some spat quietly on the ground, a superstitious gesture. Others muttered prayers.
I walked among them briefly, touching shoulders, nodding to those I knew. Each man carried a story. A life. A family. All of that weighed on me now, heavier than the sword at my side.
The first arrow flew before we fully realized.
It struck one of our scouts in the shoulder, throwing him sideways into the grass. Another followed. Then another. Qashiri. Hidden among the dunes, testing our formation, gauging our reactions.
I barked orders, sending archers to flank, while cavalry moved to draw the enemy's attention. Ril moved like a shadow beside me, warning soldiers, carrying messages, rallying men who froze at the sound of each whistle.
"Cairos," he yelled, "they're probing for weakness!"
"Good," I shouted back. "Let them learn the wrong lesson."
We countered carefully, pressing the attackers just enough to force them into retreat without revealing our strength. Tarek al-Rhazim's teachings were clear: he did not need to fight us outright. All he needed was to see, to know, to test.
By dusk, the skirmish had ended. We had not lost more than a handful of men, but morale had shifted. Fear had crept in, subtle as a shadow.
That night, we camped in a small grove. Fires were low, arrows ready, watch rotations doubled. The men whispered in huddled groups, trying to pretend they were resting.
Ril sat beside me, sharpening his blade. "Do you think they will counterattack in force tomorrow?"
"I don't think," I said. "I hope they don't. But I will assume they will."
We ate little. Hunger had begun gnawing, but more dangerous was the tension—the sense that the land itself was watching, waiting.
From the east, distant fires glimmered across the horizon. Tarek's scouts, signaling, perhaps. Or bait.
"Tomorrow," I said, "we strike deeper. We must force them to fight on our terms."
Ril looked up at me, eyes reflecting firelight. "And if it fails?"
Then, for the first time since Lethren Ford, I allowed a flicker of doubt.
"It cannot fail," I said. "It can only be survived."
Morning came gray, wind rising across the steppe. The men moved with mechanical precision, each step rehearsed, each formation tested in the night.
The first true sight of Qashiri territory was unnerving. Simple grasslands gave way to low hills, scattered with tents, smoke, and the glint of polished armor. Our scouts reported more than a hundred riders observing us from ridgelines. Not enough to attack, but enough to force caution.
I ordered a slow advance, breaking into small units. Arrow squads hidden behind ridges, infantry in staggered lines, and cavalry in reserve. We moved like a single organism, breathing in unison, reacting as one.
Ril rode up beside me. "They are watching closely," he said.
"Yes," I agreed. "And they are learning quickly. We must make them miscalculate."
The first ambush came mid-morning.
We had crossed a shallow dip when arrows rained from hidden ridges. Men fell immediately, screaming. Horses reared. Chaos threatened to tear the column apart.
But I was ready.
I signaled the reserves. Cavalry surged forward, cutting a path to force the archers into retreat. Infantry pressed the center, using shields as walls against the rain of arrows. Archers returned fire, and slowly, methodically, the attackers were pushed back.
Tarek al-Rhazim himself did not appear, but I knew he was present. Every movement, every hesitation, every counter was part of his lesson.
By midday, the ambush had failed. We had lost thirty men, another twenty wounded, but we held formation. And most importantly, we had learned where Tarek expected us to panic—and we did not.
That evening, as the camp settled, I walked among the wounded. Blood, dust, and exhaustion coated every face. Some men tried to speak, but only groans escaped. One soldier, barely seventeen, clutched my sleeve with wide, fearful eyes.
"They… they were everywhere," he whispered.
"Yes," I said. "And we survived."
"Will we survive again?" he asked.
I knelt beside him, forcing a calm I did not feel. "We will. Because we must. Because giving up is not an option in Aereth."
Night came fully. Fires burned low. I reviewed the maps again, tracing ridgelines, marsh paths, and hills where the next ambush could come. Velmora's shadow stretched farther than I had guessed. Somewhere, spies were watching, reporting, deciding when and where we would falter.
Ril joined me, silent this time. He did not need to speak; we both understood.
Tomorrow, we would push further into Qashiri territory. A strike, precise, calculated. And yet, there was no certainty that we would return unscathed.
I allowed myself one small thought: victory was never about bravery. It was about endurance, calculation, and sometimes, ruthlessness.
Far to the east, a glint of metal caught the last rays of the setting sun. Not a mistake. Not a scout. A commander.
I did not know his name yet, but I would.
And by dawn, he would learn ours.