The first warning came with smoke.
Villages along the northern border burned through the night. Refugees arrived at Greyhaven's gates with nothing but ash on their clothes and terror in their eyes.
"Draven," they cried. "House Draven is coming."
Scouts confirmed it.
Ten thousand men.
Heavy cavalry.
Siege engines.
Black wolf banners stretching across the hills.
The enemy army moved like a storm.
Unstoppable.
The council gathered in haste.
General Caelis slammed a map onto the table.
"They'll reach the River Torin in twelve days," he said. "If they cross, the capital is exposed."
Prince Edric spoke first. "We defend the river."
Malric shook his head. "We lack supplies."
Rowan leaned forward. "We strike before they gather."
Arguments flared.
Voices rose.
Fear ruled.
Aren studied the map.
Silent.
Then spoke.
"Burn the crossings."
All eyes turned.
"The bridges," he continued. "Destroy them. Flood the lowlands. Slow their march."
Caelis considered.
"Risky," he said. "But effective."
Rowan nodded slowly.
"Do it."
Orders flew.
Messengers rode.
Engineers worked day and night.
Villagers were forced to abandon homes.
Fields were flooded.
Livestock drowned.
The land was sacrificed.
Lysa rode north with scouts.
Aren followed days later.
The air smelled of smoke and rot.
Blackened ruins lined the roads.
Children cried beside mass graves.
War was no longer distant.
It breathed beside him.
Near Torin, they saw the enemy.
Draven's army stretched across the plain.
Fires burned.
Drums thundered.
Steel glinted.
Aren's stomach tightened.
So many.
Too many.
That night, Rowan met with commanders.
"We hold here," he said. "Or we lose everything."
Aren stood beside him.
Not a beggar.
Not a spy.
A strategist.
A leader.
Across the river, Draven's banners rose.
Black wolves howled in the wind.
And the first battle for Valenreach began.