Morning came faster than anyone wanted.
Cold air drifted over the burned plain as soldiers crawled out of their tents and fastened armor in practiced silence. Buckles clicked. Leather straps tightened. Horses snorted white mist into the chill. Cooks hurried between low fires with steaming kettles, their voices kept low, as if speaking too loudly might wake the fortress beyond the ridges.
Klaus stood with the other Keepers, facing the gathered force.
The sight felt familiar in the worst way.
Two years ago, he had stood where the slaves stood now—thin, frightened, half-starved, holding a wooden club like it could argue with death. Men at the front had given speeches then too. To be specific, Hevert had. Grand words about glory, sacrifice, and honor.
None of those words had mentioned how easily a man screamed after losing a leg.
His gaze drifted to the center formation.
More than a hundred freed slaves stood shoulder to shoulder near the wagons, guarded on both sides but no longer chained. Their clothes were mismatched, patched from scraps their former owners had considered too worthless to keep. Chester Gaude tried to stand proudly near the front, chin lifted and spine too straight. Most of the others kept glancing toward Aegulus.
Klaus recognized those faces.
They were not looking at a fortress.
They were looking at the place where they expected to die.
To the right waited the subjugators, loose and confident, speaking among themselves like they were preparing for another expedition instead of a campaign against the Goblin King. To the left stood the duchy armies of Solrien and Crowvale, different banners, different armor, but the same hard discipline. Hundreds of breastplates caught the pale light while spears stood in rows like a forest of steel. Above them, Kollus' crest moved in the wind.
Three forces.
Three reasons for marching.
One battlefield.
Eason stepped forward.
The murmuring died almost at once.
The old commander did not shout. He did not need to. His victories had already done that for him.
"Men of Kollus," he said, voice weathered but clear. "You know why we are here."
No dramatic pause. No raised sword.
"We do not march because war is glorious."
Several veterans lowered their eyes.
"We march because monsters do not negotiate."
A slow ripple moved through the ranks.
"The Goblin King has burned villages, slaughtered travelers, and devoured children. Every step we take today is one fewer step those creatures take toward our homes."
The soldiers answered with stiffened backs and firm grips.
Eason turned toward the ridges, toward the fortress hidden beyond them.
"They believe walls make them safe. They believe fear makes us hesitate. They believe past failure makes us cowards."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"They have forgotten one thing."
His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword.
"This is Kollus."
The army erupted.
Steel struck shields. Spears hammered the earth.
"KOLLUS!"
"KOLLUS!"
"KOLLUS!"
The chant rolled across the burned plain like thunder.
Even Klaus had to admit the old bastard knew which string to pull.
Not hope.
Pride.
Pride lasted longer.
When the shouting settled, Eason stepped back. His eyes shifted toward Klaus.
Klaus moved before the old man could speak.
He did not ask permission. He only walked past Eason and stopped several paces before the freed slaves.
"My men need weapons," he said.
A few officers exchanged confused looks.
Eason raised one brow. "You want me to handle it?"
Klaus did not answer.
He faced the slaves beneath his shadowed hood. Behind him, the banners of Solrien and Crowvale snapped in the morning wind. Beyond the ridges, Aegulus waited, silent and ugly.
"You were nothing," Klaus said.
The rows flinched.
"Masters told you that. Guards told you that. Buyers checked your teeth, your arms, your backs, then named a price. They took your names, your strength, your children, your tomorrow."
Silence pressed down on them.
"The worst part is not that they said it. The worst part is some of you believed it."
A few lowered their heads. Others stared at him with hollow eyes.
Klaus stepped closer.
"I won't lie. Freedom is not waiting politely after this march. Death is there too. Some of you will die. Goblin blades, fire, tunnels, fear—choose one."
His voice stayed calm, but pain had already begun tightening around its edges.
"But that is not new."
The slaves stilled.
"You already lived with death. It slept beside you. Ate beside you. Walked behind you with keys and a whip."
Dark smoke gathered around his cloak.
"The Goblin King thinks he knows despair because he can burn a battlefield. Nobles think power means buying people and calling it law. Soldiers think courage belongs only to those born under banners."
He raised one hand.
"They are wrong."
Iron formed in the air.
Not behind him.
In front of every freed slave.
Long black barrels shaped themselves from shadow. Wooden stocks grew into place. Metal locks clicked softly. Straps unfurled like dark ribbons. Rifles hovered before them, silent and heavy, each one floating like a gift no god had bothered to send.
A murmur passed through the rows.
Klaus did not move.
Beneath the hood, blood slipped from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. MindForger tore through him with every weapon it shaped, each rifle another hook dragged through bone. The shadow hid most of the blood.
It did not hide the strain in his voice.
"This is not a sword," he said. "A sword favors the trained. The strong. The noble boy who practiced for ten years while you carried stones until your hands bled."
The rifles lowered slightly.
"This is not a spear. A spear still asks your arm to be longer, stronger, faster."
He swallowed blood.
"This weapon asks for eyes, hands, and the will to fire before the world puts you back in chains."
Gordor reached first.
His scarred hand closed around the rifle before him. It became solid in his grip.
One by one, shaking hands accepted black iron and polished wood. Chester stared at his rifle too long, face pale, before finally taking it with both hands.
Klaus watched them hold the weight.
Not freedom.
Not yet.
A chance.
"You have no grand family name," he said. "No polished armor. No songs. No glory waiting for you."
His mouth curved faintly beneath the hood.
"That is your advantage."
The former slaves looked at him now.
Really looked.
"You are the army of nothing. The forgotten. The discarded. The broken tools thrown beside the road."
His voice lowered.
"But nothing is hard to count. Hard to threaten. Hard to predict. And when nothing stands with weapons in hand, kings start making mistakes."
The morning wind moved through the rows.
"You will march by wagon groups. You will listen to your leaders. You will aim when ordered, fire when ordered, reload when ordered. If fear takes your legs, kneel and fire. If your hands shake, brace the barrel and fire. If the man beside you falls, take his ammunition and fire."
He raised his head, vision red beneath the shadow.
"Every shot says one thing."
Silence held.
"You are not property."
A woman began to cry.
"You are not cattle."
Gordor's grip tightened.
"You are not nothing."
The rifles settled fully into their hands.
Klaus almost swayed. He locked his knees before anyone could see it.
"You are my soldiers now. As soldiers, you may die. But if you live, you live free. Not because some lord pitied you. Not because a law changed. Because you took freedom with your own hands and made the world too afraid to steal it back."
He turned slightly toward Aegulus.
"Today, the Goblin King will learn something important."
The freed slaves stood straighter.
Still afraid.
Still hungry.
But armed.
Klaus' voice fell to a rough whisper.
"Despair changes hands."
Then he turned away before his body betrayed him.
"And we're bringing plenty."
No one cheered at first.
That was better.
Cheers were cheap. The silence that followed had weight. Men and women who had worn chains an hour ago now looked down at rifles in their hands, breathing like the world had shifted under their feet.
From the side, Shane watched with a faint frown.
He saw the blood before most did. A thin drop escaped the edge of Klaus' shadow and struck the burned soil.
Shane's eyes narrowed.
"What are you trying to prove, Klaus?" he muttered.
Klaus did not hear him.
Or he pretended not to.
Either way, he kept walking.