Before the horizon could blush with dawn, the cold clung to the stones like a second skin. Leather creaked in the chill air, and the soft thud of shield against shield echoed as the soldiers moved into the yard, fully equipped, their gear heavy on aching shoulders. The weight of the training poles, thick and splinter-scarred, pressed across them as an unspoken challenge.
Harold stood to the side, arms folded, a silent observer as Hale moved through the ranks like a predator searching for the slightest sign of weakness. He watched, saying nothing, as Hale barked orders, the tension building with every step Hale took between the soldiers.
Each soldier carried their full marching load — gear, shields, a day's rations — and still had to keep up with the formations. The training poles weren't for fighting today. They were for dragging through the dirt. Weighted and ungainly. They were made to punish.
Two almost complete centuries were in place now — over a hundred and forty legionaries, split into squads of eight. Hale had assigned one optio to each team that morning, most pulled straight from the last few combat missions. And above them, two centurions, each commanding their own century with a barked cadence and a short baton of polished wood. Garrick had the pleasure of being one of the Centurions; the other one was Carter.
Hale only cared about pressure. Polished equipment on new recruits, fresh from the portal, was quickly dirtied.
The drills weren't just lines and shield walls. They were long marches followed by disrupted formations, then broken again by mock ambushes staged with recruits using padded poles and empty scabbards. Everything was a test. How fast the squads recovered. How well they reformed. Whether the optios shouted the right orders. As the soldiers trudged through the drills, the weight of exhaustion pressed on them. Garrick's right boot rubbed against his heel, where a blister had already burst, sending a sharp twinge up his leg with every step. He gritted his teeth, reminded of a promise he'd made to himself—to never show weakness in front of Hale.
And all of it under Hale's eye.
He circled like a judge. A quiet comment here. A sharp rebuke there. Barely any praise. Each moment of reflection stoking the fire, tempting the weary soldiers to rise again, and make the next jolt hit harder.
By noon, they were soaked through. Dirt crusted to sweat. Blisters are starting to bloom under the greaves and bootlaces. Garrick handled the water runs, calling short breaks every hour. But there was no reprieve. Not really.
This wasn't just readiness. This was preparation for a real fight.
Harold didn't miss the looks from the optios. Or the glances thrown his way between drills.
He didn't say anything, even as the quiet muttering started among the ranks:
"What did he do to piss off Hale like this?"
"Swear he said the wrong name in front of him."
"Nope, he told him the shields were too heavy. Hale took it personally."
The jokes came light and fast — a pressure valve against the bruises and the fear. And no one, not even Garrick, was safe from Hale's tempo.
But for all the ache and grumbling, the line held.
They ran together. Moved together. Fought together.
And when Hale finally gave the day's halt command, not one soldier broke formation before the word was given.
Meanwhile, the Landing itself pulled hard to match pace.
The smith was still locked to his priority: tools, not weapons.
The mine had finally struck an iron vein, and Lira's crew was digging in with everything they had. But without proper tools, progress was glacial. So the smith and his apprentices worked round the clock forging mining picks, spikes, wedges, and sledge heads — nothing fancy, just substantial.
That meant the soldiers had to make do.
Instead of pila heads, each legionary received two sharpened fire-hardened stakes — crude, carved, and balanced just enough to throw. They weren't elegant. But they could punch through thin leather at range and, more importantly, be mass-produced.
Even the smith's apprentices were pitching in, many of them only learning how to forge for less than a month.
At the alchemy hut, as it had been termed, the pace was just as brutal.
Two more workers — a former EMT and a farmer — had finally mastered the mana control needed to brew proper potions. That brought the potion team to four, including Harold.
They worked nonstop, pouring every ounce of stable mana into vials of healing solution. Leaves were dried, roots ground, and paste packed into stone mortars until their hands blistered. Among the team, a young recruit named Irwin felt the pressure most acutely. His brother was among the injured Adventurers, waiting for the new batch of potions to bring relief to his wounds. Every vial meant a chance for him to fight another day. But even with four brewers, the bottleneck wasn't labor. The Landing's need for increased production heightened the urgency of the situation, but it couldn't overcome the shortage it faced. It was glass. The demand far exceeded what they could supply, slowing their progress and threatening the well-being of those relying on their efforts.
The glassmaker — the one summoned by the system — worked deep into the night, the glow of his furnace painting the walls in amber light. Two new apprentices had been assigned to him to help manage materials, firewood, and the shaping process. Even when a second glass artisan was summoned, it wasn't enough to fill the gap.
Early that morning, Harold brought him the potion he had promised. His hands and scars receded at a visible pace, and the pain from living was gone from his eyes. By evening, the story had gotten around the village, and people were begging for the same treatment.
Still, every morning, fresh healing potions were delivered to the barracks — each one packed carefully in straw-lined crates, with glass still warm from the night's work.
But the most significant shift came from Caldwell.
His payment system was starting to take shape.
It wasn't actual coinage — not yet — but it was close. Workers and artisans were now paid in labor chits, tokens tied to a standard value of silver and guaranteed by the Landing. They could trade them into the Landing's growing market square for goods or favors, or hold them for later complex silver distribution once a whole economy was ready. Coinage was being made, but Caldwell was waiting until they had a reserve before fully running it out. The settlement perks Harold got from making their own coinage were pretty good, but he didn't get the world first for it. The perk they did get, though, reduced the amount of silver and gold needed for each coin, making them harder to counterfeit."
Adventurers got paid for fieldwork. Runners were compensated by distance and weight. Carpenters were paid by beam, stone haulers by ton.
The results were immediate.
Morale lifted. People talked. There were still bruises and cuts and long days, but there was pride now, too—visible progress. The wilderness was being pushed back, and the Landing was preparing to send out its first army.
Even the worst doubters — the ones who thought this was just another dead-end crash or doomed attempt at "playing lord" — were starting to watch the sunrise with something like hope. It helped that butter and milk were now available. And everyone knew they were still better off than the rest of humanity. The stories on the forums hadn't gotten any better. If anything, they had gotten worse as people settled into their new lives here, with no one to stop the worst parts of humanity.
By the end of the week, the Landing had changed.
The drills still started before sunrise. Hale still barked orders until his voice went hoarse. But the formations snapped into place faster now. The optios stopped second-guessing. The centurions led with clarity.
Harold had even found Hale in the bath one night, groaning to Margret. Guess he wasn't the unfeeling machine he presented himself as.
Shield lines held longer under pressure. Responses came tighter. Even the jokes got sharper.
And for the first time since arriving in Gravesend, the Landing had something that looked — and moved — like an army.
The crude stakes became second nature. Soldiers carried them like real javelins now — practiced, casual, mostly lethal. Their boots struck in unison, their breath timed to orders.
Behind them, the village itself caught the rhythm.
Lira's crew had dug deep enough to expose stable ore. The smith's newest batch of tools held up to the rock this time — fewer broken picks, fewer wasted hours. If nothing else, the mine was no longer just a dream on the map. It was a lifeline, and it was working.
Potions stacked higher by the day. Dozens of vials filled the storehouse shelves, each sealed and labeled by potency. Even the glassmaker, gaunt and soot-stained, started moving with something like pride — nodding to passing soldiers like he was part of the effort because he was.
The chits started to flow. Markets grew. Goods traded hands. Services got logged. Someone even carved a wooden sign to hang above the growing square: outside the storehouse.
"THE EXCHANGE"
Harold hadn't authorized it. He didn't stop it either.
Beth's teams had reinforced the pens and shifted to daily routines with the herd — feeding, watering, and calming the aggressive ones. A small crew of beast-handlers now rotated full-time, trained to move the massive creatures without panic or injury.
Two harnesses had been cobbled together from salvaged leather and scrap wood. Crude, but workable. They'd tested plow formations three times that week. The tatanka didn't love it, but they responded — slower than oxen, but stronger, and more willing to charge if provoked. Luckily, it was hard to provoke them.
And that quiet optimism — that this might actually work — it was everywhere now.
The mess halls are filled every night. New shelters were going up faster than the maps could be updated. People started asking to join the following scouting missions. The forge had a waiting list. Even the cooks were joking more.
Sarah's team didn't train with the rest of the team.
Sarah focused on movement. Her drills were tight, flowing, and fast — sword in hand, she moved through mock engagements like water through gaps in stone. She wasn't armored like the legionaries, but she didn't need to be. Her style was speed, control, and precision. Every strike she made was meant to end a fight in a single breath. She could sometimes be seen practicing with a couple of the legionaries in the evening.
Mira took a different approach. She spent her mornings drilling with the optios — studying how the legions moved, how threats emerged and spread, how formations shifted under pressure. In the afternoons, she built her own responses: how a smaller team like theirs could respond with speed where formation couldn't. When to pull back, when to push. She was building a second battlefield in her mind — one made for skirmishers, not shield lines.
Jace split his time between training and crafting. He worked in the shade behind the armory, building throwing spears and practicing with each one until they landed with solid, repeatable weight. When he wasn't throwing, he was tinkering — trap triggers, rope snares, tension-loaded spikes. He didn't just want to set traps. He tried to make them, quickly, quietly, and on the move.
Theo had somehow — no one asked how — acquired a rough chunk of iron ore from the mine. Sarah suspected it had something to do with the smudged miner woman he was always chatting up in the evenings. Either way, he'd convinced the smith's apprentices to help him craft a reinforced round shield — wood backed with iron strips and banded with boiled leather. It wasn't a regulation. It wasn't even subtle. But it was solid.
Probably the best shield in the Landing.
But by the end of the week, everyone in the Landing knew whose banner they were under — even if no one had ever seen it fly.
The night before the march, the Lord's Hall was quiet.
Not empty — just hushed in that rare way only the night before something big could bring. Armor was oiled. Packs were checked. Maps laid out. No one said farewell, but everyone felt it just the same.
Harold was sitting at the end of the long table, boots up, cup in hand — not drinking, just holding the warmth.
Beth and Margaret walked in together, thick as thieves, each holding a long cloth-wrapped bundle. Margaret had a grin. Beth looked proud, but she tried to hide it behind a raised brow.
"Harold," Beth said, stopping at the table. "We made you something."
Harold looked up slowly. "Please tell me it's more coffee."
Margaret said. "Just banners," she said, smiling.
They laid the bundles down one at a time and began to unwrap them.
The first was simple — a field of dark green, with a black vertical slash stitched down the center. The banner of the First Century.
I
The second was the same green, but this time with a black angled chevron — the Second Century. Meant to be carried into battle, meant to be followed.
⌃
The third was larger — longer, heavier. Beth unrolled it with care.
A pale linen field. A short sword, stitched in gray thread. Not raised, not dripping blood — just ready. Beside it, crossed at a clean diagonal, was a sprig of herb in green thread. It was clean lines and measured work.
Harold didn't say anything for a long moment.
Then: "The Sprig and the Blade?"
Beth nodded once. "Figured it fit."
"Guide and guard," Margaret added. "Heal and fight. You know. The whole thing."
Harold stood. Reached out. Ran his hand over the banner's surface — slow, careful. The stitching was tight. The fabric is clean, if rough. It wasn't made for glory. It was made to last.
He looked at them both, and his voice came low.
"Thank you both, you didn't have to do this." He looked up at them and got up to hug them. "I'd be a little lost without you both."
Beth just smirked. "Sure, we did. Someone had to make it real."
Margaret reached out and nudged the top of the banner toward him. "We figured you'd want to carry it tomorrow. Even if no one else knows what it means yet."
Harold stared at it.
Then he nodded once. "The banners will fly."
The Landing didn't wake quietly that morning.
Before the sun broke the horizon, the east field was already filled — soldiers moving in tight formations, packs checked, shields slung, javelin-stakes stacked neatly by squad. Armor creaked, boots stamped, and the sharp call of optios echoed across the still-cold ground.
It was the first army that the Landing filled. Even if most of the people were summoned people. The only people that weren't were the few ex-soldiers from Earth who switched into soldiers and the adventurers.
Two full centuries now stood in formation, consisting of nearly one hundred legionaries split into eighteen squads of eight. In modern terms, this force is akin to a reinforced company. Each squad had an Optio leading it. Commanding each century was a centurion — Garrick for the First, Carter for the Second — and each bore their banner proudly, carried by a dedicated standard-bearer. These banners, freshly stitched by the first looms in the Landing, unfurled to the cheers of each century. The Centurions quickly assigned a banner bearer for these valuable pieces of cloth.
Behind them stood the auxilia, sixty adventurers, each one armed and armored as well as the settlement could manage. Most had fought already, goblins, scouting runs, dungeon excursions. They knew what it meant to take a hit and return one. Evan led them after pulling each team leader aside for a briefing.
As he spoke, a flicker of doubt crossed Harold's mind, but he quickly crushed it—a fear that failure could mean not just the loss of lives, but the collapse of the Landing's fragile hope. Yet, there was also a spark of hope, burning alongside the fear. If they succeeded, they could carve out a secure future for everyone. Claiming the relic was a game-changer for the Landing.
Harold was worried about losing some of the adventurers, but he would be happy to use the respawn system to get messages back to the Landing. Each adventurer who respawned would come back to the Stele and be able to update the village on their progress, as long as their timer wasn't too long. He would rely on them to scout and skirmish for the legionaries.
And scattered throughout the formations were nearly three dozen fresh recruits — new arrivals from the week's portal activation. Some had been recruited that morning or the day before, but Hale had pressed them hard and slotted them into place. Some marched with regular squads. Others had been assigned to support roles — runners, guards, or wagon detail. Every hand mattered.
At the head of the formation stood Harold, in plain but well-fitted leather — the first real product from the Landing's fledgling tanners and leatherworkers. They had finally started to make the tannins needed from the bark of the large trees around here. He hadn't known that was the process until one of the leathermakers came from the portal and just started working. For now, he was working out of a large tub and stretching racks near the creek.
Harold had no cape or plume. No visible mark of rank besides the still furled banner being carried by the standard bearers by his side. His bodyguard detail stood beside him, still being led by Ren and Corwin. The two who had helped him figure out how to leverage the soldiers' mana method. They picked two others they trusted, and they followed him everywhere with the still furled banner.
Behind him, Hale walked with arms crossed, eyes scanning everything. Margaret, Beth, Josh, and Mark were back at the Landing, watching over what remained.
He didn't bother with a speech, choosing instead to signal Hale to begin the march. He still wasnt comfortable speaking in front of so many people like that.
Form march, Hale commanded. First Century, forward. Second, behind. Auxilia, center and screen. Scouts, go. Wagons, ready. Move in five.
At the rear, four very rugged wagons rolled into position — each pulled by a pair of tatanka, harnessed with double-thick leather straps and guided by long-handled poles. The wagons were made by some of the crafters who had come through the portal. The tatanka were still rough to guide, but with the extra people to help, they would go in the right direction.
The wagons were a miracle to complete in time for the march, which would be a godsend. The wagons were actually easy to make. It was the wheels that were harder, and they were lucky that a couple of the crafters who came through to the portal got together and figured it out. They had worked by firelight through the nights to complete them and required rushed, specialized tools that the blacksmith teams had to devise. They were the most complicated piece of construction the Landing had figured out how to make so far, and Harold couldn't have been prouder of them all.
Caldwell had overseen their construction. The supply from Lira finally trickled through. Supplies were stacked high: rations, spare weapons, rough cordage, bandages, extra stakes/javelins. The final wagon — painted with a crude red slash on its side — was double-guarded. That one held the healing potions.
The wagon teams were a mix of experienced haulers and recruits, handpicked by Hale's new supply tribune — Marcus Tran, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel. One of the few Hale had known from Earth. He ran logistics like a campaign, barking commands and snapping short nods at every checkpoint. When asked if he knew what they were marching into, he only replied, "A fight."
The scouts set off first, 20 of them spread in pairs. All on foot, they had neither mounts nor bows. Their best ranged options were short-throwing spears, carried across their backs in loops. The scarcity of mounts was going to hurt them, and bows required materials and craftsmanship the settlement had yet to fully develop. Bow staves required time to dry and shape. The area's dense forestation also rendered mounted travel less effective. Despite these constraints, the scouts moved fast and quietly, eyes scanning the trees and underbrush for signs of predators, traps, or ambushes.
Their job wasn't to kill; it was to guide. They marked the path with carved sticks and cloth flags, checked stream crossings, and scouted tree breaks wide enough for a legion line to pass.
And then the army moved.
The First Century stepped out, boots thudding in rhythm. Then the Second. The auxiliaries flowed in behind them, looser in formation but just as ready. Scouts returned constantly to the marching line — whispering updates, pointing new paths, handing off messages. A large part of the adventurer scout teams was figuring out where to march the army. There were no roads or paths for them yet, so they worked to find the best routes. Sarah's team moved alongside them, quiet and alert, already halfway between independent and integral.
The road — such as it was — barely deserved the name. It was a trail carved more by intent than structure, cleared through brush and marked by stone cairns every few hundred paces. Beth's engineers had done what they could in the few days they had, but it barely reached a couple of kilometers, and then they were breaking brush. But it was still wild country — ridgelines, old game trails, uneven footing, and the occasional fallen log that took half a squad to shift. It was a constant struggle to find a path that the Tatanka could manage with their wagons.
The Tatanka grunted and pulled. The men guiding them worked to keep them moving the right direction. The wagons creaked. Shields bumped in time with the march.
Hale kept the pace sharp but steady. March for an hour. Halt for ten minutes. Rotate squads, shift load bearers, and redistribute water. Then move again. It wasn't a forced march, but it wasn't easy. It was built to leave them tired, but not broken, and they didn't leave the wagons behind.
Even the adventurers kept up. There were numerous skirmishes through the day against some groups of goblins and the forest cats, but it was nothing the adventurers and scouts couldn't handle on their own. At one point, there was a crashing and thudding that shook the forest, but it was moving away, so they didn't bother running it down. Harold was worried it was a forest or hill troll.
By late afternoon, they reached the first day's target — a shallow basin between two low ridges, partially forested, but clear enough to make camp. It was defensible. Easily screened by scouts and a slow stream ran along the far edge.
Hale called the halt. Garrick and Carter assigned watches. The wagons were drawn into a loose square, with the potion wagon at the center. The legion didnt really have any tents. There were a couple of large shelters, but they weren't put up. Squads would have to make do with huddling by fires for warmth in the cool nights. Water was drawn, and rations were passed out. The squads moved like they'd done it before — because they had.
Harold walked the edge of the perimeter just as dusk fell, checking every detail. He didn't make them build a typical Roman marching camp; it was more important to get a few more kilometers in the early days than it was to have walls up.
Garrick took the first watch, with four squads. Evan rotated adventurer teams along the outer ring, overlapping with Hale's pickets. Mira sketched the terrain into her slate, noting where the trees thinned and where sightlines were broken. Jace and some of the other scouts built a simple perimeter trap with some thread and stakes. Theo kept to the fire, shield propped beside him.
Sarah didn't rest. She ran through sword drills by the edge of the camp, her steps quiet, precise, and deliberate.
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By full dark, the camp was quiet — watchfires burning low, the army bedded down, weapons close to hand.
The command teams gathered near the center of the camp — no tents or chairs, just a flat rock they used as a map table, and the soft crunch of boots in cold grass. Breath steamed in the air—crows called in the distance. And the smell of weak stew and stronger tea drifted from the cooking fires.
Harold was already there, a rough cloak draped over his shoulders, eyes scanning the charcoal map Mira had marked on the slate. Garrick arrived first, stretching out his sword arm and rolling his shoulders. Carter followed, pulling his gloves on tight. Hale came next, as always, expression unreadable.
Evan stepped in last, a short nod exchanged with Hale, then Harold.
"Here's the latest updates from the scouts," Evan said.
Harold studied it. "Elevation?"
"Rolling hills. Enough slope to strain the wagons, but not bad enough to split the formation. Scouts marked two possible ambush choke points, but we flagged them last night. We can route around them with a slight detour. We're mostly descending from the plateau today through some of the open passes down into the basin proper."
Harold looked to Hale.
Hale grunted. "We detour. Not risking a tangle before we're even close, some of the dens near hear are going to be large ones."
Harold nodded. "Done My Lord."
Evan folded his arms. "My people are fine. No fatigue. We'll keep the scouts rotating in pairs, as we did yesterday. I want to shift one pair farther ahead, though. Make contact with that cave network that got spotted. Could be goblins, or something worse."
Harold agreed without hesitation. "Send your best. No heroics. I think the crashing we heard in the forest earlier was a forest troll; it could be a hill troll for this area, too, though. If we run into one, we will need fire to kill it. Take some of the resin torches."
Evan didn't smile, but he tapped a fist to his chest.
Evan pointed again at the map. "If we maintain pace, we'll hit the southern ridge by sundown. Good high ground. Decent field of view."
"That's tonight's camp," Harold confirmed.
Then he looked to Hale. "Anything else?"
Hale gave a short shake of his head. "Discipline's holding. No slackers. No complaints worth mentioning. Food distribution is clean. Gear's holding up. If something breaks, it's getting fixed fast. Tribune Tran knows his job."
"Alright, let's break camp and start moving. Speed is essential." Harold ordered.
They didn't linger. The officers dispersed with practiced ease, each heading to their squads, their teams, and their wagons.
Harold stayed behind for a moment, fingers resting on the slate, eyes on the path ahead.
Only Hale remained beside him.
"Something's coming," Hale said quietly. "You feel it too?"
Harold nodded once. "Yeah, we're being tracked. I'm hoping they decide we are too big to fight."
"Today?" Hale asked?
"Hmm," Harold grumbled..."I hope not, but maybe, the adventurers just don't have the perk accumulation to really flush this forest."
Hale grunted again, then turned back toward the waking camp, voice rising in command.
"Form up! First call! Shields on backs, ruck up! You've got two minutes to make me believe in you again!"
The army moved — slowly at first, then with purpose.
The sun was already slanting low when the warning came.
A sharp whistle — two notes, high and fast. One of Evan's scouts. Then another. Then a runner sprinting downhill through the trees, breath ragged.
"Movement! Goblins! East ridge! A lot of them!"
Everything snapped into motion.
"Form up!" Hale's voice cracked like a whip. "Optios—call your ranks!"
Shields came off backs in a wave. Training poles dropped, real swords drawn. The air filled with the sound of boots pounding dirt, of armor scraping, of names shouted across the column.
"Squad three, on me!"
"Shields up!"
"Form the line—now!"
The scouts had bought them minutes—maybe less. But it was enough.
Harold vaulted up onto a low stump, scanning the treeline. Black shapes moved fast through the brush, dozens of them, maybe more. It was goblins and too many for a simple raid. Worse, he caught glimpses of something larger in their wake, broader shoulders and metal glints that could only be hobgoblins. The ridge narrowed where the shield wall had to hold its ground, limiting their maneuverability and creating a natural choke point. It heightened the tension, as Harold could see that any misstep in such tight quarters would leave them vulnerable.
Hale was already in front of the line, voice iron.
"First century! Shield wall forward! Second century, left flank hold! Keep it tight!"
Garrick and Carter bellowed commands, batons raised. The line stretched across the narrow field just ahead of the planned camp — grass torn up by boots, eyes forward. The second century wheeled smoothly into position next to the first and linked their shields forming a solid line of shield against the oncoming horde.
Then the goblins crested the ridge. And charged.
They came screaming with no formation or plan. Just raw numbers and hate, slamming toward the center like a tide of knives and green skin.
The line held. Shields were braced and feet dug in. The first wave hit like a wave crashing against stone.
Goblins smashed into the formation with shrieks and steel, blades scraping over shields. Soldiers grunted under the impact and dug their feet in, but not a line broke. Swords jabbed through gaps and the goblins began to scream.
"Hold!" Hale shouted. "Steady!"
The line absorbed the second wave. More goblins hurled themselves forward. Then two hobgoblins joined the rush, barreling toward the right side — Harold saw the formation bend, but not break.
"PUSH!" Hale roared.
The command was thunder.
With a sudden, synchronized movement, the entire line surged forward. Shields slammed into goblin bodies, staggering them, throwing the front line back a step. And in that space—
Swords flashed.
Goblins screamed and died, hacked apart before they could recover.
"Reset!" Hale snapped.
The line drew back, just slightly, locking shields again.
Then—
"PUSH!"
Another wave of violence. Another crash of shields. Another sharp thrust of blades into exposed throats and bellies. The field stank of blood and churned earth.
The goblin charge faltered.
And that's when Evan's team arrived.
The adventurers swept in from the right flank like a blade drawn from the dark — sixty strong, teeth bared, weapons flashing. Sarah's team led the charge, silent and swift. Followed by a sharp-looking team led by a fierce blonde woman.
The goblins broke.
What hadn't been crushed between the legions and adventurers scattered into the trees, shrieking and scrambling. A few of the hobgoblins tried to rally — one even charged Evan directly.
It didn't make it three steps towards him before he was killed.
Then it was over.
Harold dropped from the stump, boots hitting the dirt.
He exhaled — slow.
Hale called over the chaos, "Optios! Get your counts! Check wounded! 1st—secure the field. 2nd, lock the flanks!"
Harold walked through the aftermath, stepping over twitching bodies. Some still groaned, some didnt but none were from the legion.
The field still stank of sweat and blood when Harold stepped away from the line and called for Hale.
"Garrick. Carter. Evan."
The officers broke from their formations and made for him at a jog, blood spattered, but alert. Evan had a cut along his cheek, and his cloak was torn at the shoulder — but he moved with purpose.
Harold didn't waste a breath. He turned to Hale first.
"That wasn't a random warband. That was too many, and they hit too fast and aggressively. That close to where we meant to camp?" He shook his head. "There's a den near here. Has to be."
Hale nodded once. "I thought the same. Their cohesion was too good for a wild group."
Harold turned to Evan, his voice clipped.
"Your scouts missed it."
Evan didn't flinch. "Yeah. They did." He looked toward the treeline. "Could've been underground in the tunnels. Could've moved in behind us from another line. We'll find it."
"Not later," Harold said. "Now," Harold commanded.
He looked between them — the weight of command cold in his voice. He was new to command like this but something about him made them listen. Harold could feel his starter perk flaring when he spoke urging them to listen to him.
"We don't camp with that thing behind us. I won't leave it to fester or wait for another ambush. It's here, and if we leave it alone, it'll track us." Harold said.
Hale nodded. "Then we'll finish it."
"Good," Harold said. "We sweep the whole sector. I want both centuries ready to deploy within the hour—March light. No wagons. No supplies beyond what they can carry for a short engagement."
Carter stepped forward. "You want both on this?"
Harold didn't hesitate. "If it's big enough to throw that many bodies at us now, it's big enough to deserve our full weight. We eliminate it tonight — or we can't move forward. We'll leave a large detail to protect the wagons."
Evan cracked his knuckles, grim. "We'll scout ahead again. Tighter formation and we'll find the hole."
Harold nodded, bending down to pick up a small goblin sword, "You're with Hale this time. We crush it fast."
He turned to Garrick and Carter.
"Prep your squads. I want ranks checked, wounds pulled, gear replaced. You have until we find the den to loot the dead. I want as many of those hobgoblin spears as we can get."
Then he looked toward the forest, where the last goblin body twitched in the grass.
"And next time," he said to Hale and Evan, "I don't want the warning to come that late, that proves our need for a dedicated scout program."
The field was quiet now.
Quiet in the way only battlefields ever were, thought Marcus Tran as he surveyed the scene. Broken blades scattered among bodies, the stench of blood hanging just under the smoke of campfires. Most of the goblins were dead. A few still breathed, but he knew that wouldn't last long.
The legionaries moved like a well-drilled machine. Optios barked orders. Squads hauled bodies into heaps, sorting goblins from hobgoblins. Swords and daggers were taken, and anything still usable was pulled into neat piles. Spears. Leather bits. Even boots. Anything not ruined was stripped.
Marcus Tran, the new supply tribune, stood in the center of it all with a wax board in hand, shouting numbers to two younger recruits tallying numbers.
"Stack anything metal in column B! That means buckles, too, genius! You think we've got iron to waste?"
"Potion wagon forward!" he snapped at another group. "Double check the seals! I'm not losing stock because someone stacked them like a sack of potatoes!"
Near the edge of the field, a pair of auxiliaries moved through the wounded goblins — daggers in hand, throats opened quick and clean. Mercy, in a place like this, was a sharp blade.
The sun was sinking fast now. Orange light filtered through the trees, painting the field in a strange warmth that didn't reach the skin.
Harold stood beside Hale, cloak drawn tight around his shoulders, watching the last of the gear come in. His jaw was tight.
"We're running out of light," he muttered.
Before Hale could answer, a commotion at the treeline drew their eyes.
A team of adventurers sprinted into view — panting, sweat-soaked, their rough armor streaked with brush and blood. One of them raised a hand high.
"We found it!" he shouted. "We found the den!"
They didn't even wait to catch their breath, just shoved the scout's slate into Hale's hands and began pointing. Harold and Evan were there in moments. Here, the scout said, jabbing a finger into the charcoal-drawn map. East slope. Hidden hollow behind a rockfall. Looks like it was disguised, but we caught the tail of a runner going in. If they regroup and the den works to make more, they'll be able to launch another attack before dusk. We have to neutralize it now to secure the rear.
Evan was already nodding. "That lines up with the direction they broke. I thought they were running blind. They weren't."
Hale's eyes scanned the map. "Tight approach. Narrow entrance. Defensive for them. Bad for us."
"How many?" Harold asked.
"Hard to say," the lead scout replied. "We didn't press close. At least three dozen in sight, could be more behind. Sounded like a lot. Goblins for sure — maybe a few bigger ones too. Could be another squad or two of hobs."
Harold exhaled slowly. The light was falling fast.
"We hit it now," he said. "Before they move or reinforce. Hale?"
"I want both centuries," Hale replied immediately. "I'll take First on the approach. Second will bring up the rear."
Evan stepped forward. "I'll take the auxilia ahead. We'll take the back of the entrance. If there are goblins, there's no way there's only one entrance. We will find other holes."
"Do it," Harold said. "We can't afford to let this fester. Take torches"
Carter and Garrick were already organizing their squads. Shields were rechecked. The last of the scavenged spears were redistributed, mostly to veterans in the first century who didn't yet have one.
The scouts led out again, this time not ranging far. No broad sweeps — just silent hand signs, flagging direction as the army fell into a wedge formation behind Hale.
Hale turned to his officers, voice low. "Once we move, we do not stop until that den is ash. Break through, clear it, and burn everything that doesn't scream like a man. Optios need to keep control. Once we breach the den, it will get chaotic." For a moment, a strange quiet settled over the troops. The leaves whispered in the breeze, and a solitary bird called out from the trees, its song eerily echoing over the field. The calm was unsettling, as if the forest itself held its breath.
Then, as if punctuating the silence, Hale gave the signal to advance.
Then he nodded to Carter. "Leave two squads to guard the wagons and hold the camp. Keep the potion crate under full watch. If we don't come back, fall back to the Landing."
Marcus didn't flinch. "I'll have it ready to move by dawn."
Harold gave a final look at the field behind them — the churned grass, the broken weapons, the piles of the dead — and then turned toward the trees. He turned and tossed the goblin sword he had picked up onto the pile of swords by Marcus and moved off to join the formation.
The legion moved like a wave — into the woods, into the falling light. The den waited.
The forest grew sharper as they approached the den — shadows twisting, trunks narrowing, the slope rising until it funneled into a steep, rocky pass flanked by dense brush and jagged ridges.
Hale raised a fist, and the column halted.
Ahead, a dark hollow yawned beneath a curved outcropping of stone — the entrance, just as the scouts had described. Rocks had been stacked to obscure it, but the trail of scuffed footprints and torn earth made the lie plain.
"First Century," Hale said, drawing his sword with a smooth motion. "Advance in information. Shields high. Second Century, follow behind us. standard spacing."
Garrick passed the signal. They began to move — careful, steady, shields up.
Then the knife-edge spur above exploded.
Small shutters snapped open along the stony slope—concealed slits in the rock. Dozens of goblin archers burst into view, green-skinned and grinning, bows already drawn.
The first volley hit like a scream.
One legionary dropped with a strangled cry — an arrow buried deep in his neck. Another stumbled, shield raised too late, a shaft sprouting from his thigh.
"Testudo!" Hale roared.
The call echoed like a war drum.
The line immediately shifted — practiced instinct taking over. Shields rose and locked overhead. Side shields overlapped. A living wall formed in seconds, flat planes of oiled wood braced for impact. The next volley struck like hail against a roof — arrows glancing off shields, embedding in leather, pinging harmlessly against reinforced edges.
But they had nothing to fire back with. No bows, no slings, nothing that could respond to the rain of arrows from above. Only short spears and blades. Hale's mind screamed at the futility of it.
"Advance!" Hale bellowed, sword raised. "Hold formation! Shields up!"
The testudo moved forward, slow but implacable.
Then the den screamed.
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A swarm of goblins burst from the entrance in a rush of limbs and steel — behind them, taller shapes. Hobgoblins. At least a dozen of them. They crashed into the front of the first century like a wave.
The line buckled.
"Hold!" Garrick shouted. "Lock shields!"
The Century held but barely. The front was bowing from the strain of holding the monsters back. Goblins slammed into them, trying to break the formation with speed and mass. Arrows continued to rain down from the ridge, forcing the rear to keep shields raised even as the front fought for their lives.
Behind the fight, Carter paced, the Second Century poised behind him — but the pass was too narrow.
They couldn't reinforce. Then Harold was beside him, voice sharp.
"Those archers are pinning us down," he said. "Send two squads around. Get up that ridge. Hit those sniper holes from above, then sweep down through the Den."
Carter's eyes flicked up. Then he nodded.
"Three squads. I'm not taking chances."
He turned and barked the order. Three options peeled off immediately, racing low and fast toward the far slope with their squads, vanishing into the trees.
Harold turned back — just in time to see the real fight begin.
The front rank of the First Century had been holding — barely — behind their shields. Sword arms are bloody. Faces were soaked in sweat.
Then their blades began to glow.
Soft at first. A flicker of blue-white light along the edges. Then brighter — mana flowing down steel. They raised them in unison.
And struck. The sound was a song.
Steel sang as it cut — not with brute force or precision. Implacability. Like slicing water with light. Goblins fell in clumps — cleaved through shields, arms, and bone. Nothing could stop the sword light.
Then Garrick's voice roared out, hoarse from the strain.
"Shift!"
The front rank moved — rotating back, shields high. The second rank stepped forward, seamlessly locking in.
It was something they drilled, but not very often. But it worked.
The rotated rank reset — panting, wounded, but still standing and just in time.
"Push!" Garrick bellowed.
The line surged. Shields slammed forward, staggering the goblins. Blades flashed out again — this time not just cutting but slamming forward to stab into the goblin bodies. The ground in front of the formation turned red and wet.
More hobgoblins rushed to stem the tide — but the next rank's fury met them.
The line didn't break. It advanced.
Behind them, the second century waited — swords drawn, eyes locked.
Up on the ridge, the first of the detached squads reached the goblin snipers.
Harold didn't look away.
The last wave of goblins had broken.
Their bodies littered the base of the ridge, some still twitching. The archers had been silenced. The testudo had advanced. The den entrance now lay open, black and reeking of blood and something older — the stink of a place where things had lived and died for years.
Elements of the First Century were beginning to enter.
Harold stood near the Second Century's staging point, watching as the squads slipped one by one into the shadowed opening. Optios barked orders. Shields were drawn tighter. Torches were passed forward, lit by quick flares of mana.
Then the sound hit them.
A roar. Low, guttural, massive. It rolled from the depths of the den like thunder in a stone canyon.
Harold's breath caught, and the color drained from his face.
"That's a troll," he said. "A hill troll. Has to be." Before the sentence had entirely left his mouth, he was moving — hand on sword, already halfway to the mouth of the den.
Carter stepped in front of him, arm outstretched. "My lord. Stop."
"We need to get in there—"
"No," Carter said, firm. "We can't fit more people inside. That tunnel's too tight. And if we crowd it, we'll block each other."
Harold's jaw clenched. "That thing could rip through a squad in seconds."
"And if it does, we'll act. But until then…" Carter looked him straight in the eye. "Trust them to work the problem."
Harold stopped just short of the entrance, the roar still echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat. He stared into the blackness, his fingers curling and uncurling around his hilt.
Inside, the sounds of battle raged — steel on stone, shouting, and more distant thuds.
He turned, pacing back and forth at the edge of the staging area like a wolf in a too-small pen.
Carter didn't move. Just stood with his arms folded and his eyes steady.
Then, without turning, he said, "Stand still, my lord."
Harold froze.
Carter finally looked at him. "Don't make the men nervous. They're watching. We need to project confidence — even when we don't feel it."
Harold exhaled slowly. His hand dropped from the sword.
"Right," he said, quieter. "You're right."
He stayed still after that. He wasnt close to calm but worked to appear that way. He didn't know how Carter did it. His eyes remained fixed on the mouth of the den, every second stretched thin as wire.
Then—Movement.
Figures appeared at the entrance. The first optio came out, dragging a wounded legionary with another man's arm over his shoulder. More followed, some coughing, others grim. Bodies were dragged out, but mostly alive.
And then came the adventurers — streaked with blood, grinning like lunatics, one of them waving a bent spear with something massive and hairy impaled on it.
"We killed it!" one of them shouted. "Gods, it was huge — bigger than a truck! But we burned it, and it died! Perks, too — a couple of us got one!"
Cheers broke out in the staging line. Legionaries clapped each other's shoulders. Optios let out tired, relieved laughs. Even Carter gave a slight nod.
Harold stepped forward to one of the Optios, eyes searching.
"Any casualties?"
"Three dead. One badly injured, we need to get him back to camp," came the reply. "But everyone else is mostly walking out."
He nodded, "Take this potion and give it to him. I have some on me if we need it."
Harold moved deeper into the den, boots scraping against scorched stone and blood-slick gravel. The air was thick with smoke, the reek of burned flesh, and the copper sting of blood. Shadows danced across the walls, where torches flickered in iron brackets hastily hammered into the stone.
He stepped into the den's central chamber.
The troll's body lay sprawled across the far end of the cavern — a hulking, blackened mass. Its head was gone. The wound smoked where its thick neck had been severed, and fire-blackened bones poked out from cauterized stumps where limbs had been hacked off or burned away.
Standing over it was Sarah, her blade still drawn, shoulders squared. Mira and Theo stood just behind her, dirty, bruised, but alive — and alert. Jace was crouched by the wall, wiping soot from a throwing spear and muttering something under his breath about stupid goblin traps.
They looked triumphant.
Hale stood nearby, hunched slightly, hands on his knees. Sweat streaked down his face, cutting clean lines through the ash and blood. His armor was scratched, and his shield split down the middle, but he was still on his feet. Barely.
Evan was beside him, one hand gesturing as he talked. Harold caught the end of it as he stepped closer.
"—came in just in time," Evan said. "Your boys were holding the line, but it was turning. This space is too tight. Too many bodies in the way. When we came up from the rear, it split its focus. That gave your front line enough room to work."
Hale straightened slowly, nodding. His voice was low and hoarse. "Thanks. We would've lost a squad in there without your push. Your teams saved them. I won't forget that."
Harold stepped into the torchlight. "Neither will I."
They turned as he approached. Hale gave a short nod. Sarah flicked the blood off her sword and sheathed it. She didn't smile — but she didn't have to. Her team stood taller in that moment than they ever had.
Harold looked down at the corpse.
The troll was even bigger up close, nearly the size of a carriage, with knotted limbs and skin like tree bark. The stench was choking, scorched hair and seared muscle filling the air. But the worst was the silence, the sheer weight of it, now that the roar was gone. Harold bent down, his eyes catching something half-buried in the ground: a shard of its burnt tooth. He picked it up, its edges still warm, and slipped it into his pocket, a small reminder of the price they had paid.
"Well done," Harold said.
Hale didn't answer at first. He just looked at the body, then at his split shield.
Then he muttered, "Next time, I want more fire. Or a bigger sword."
Harold stared down at the troll's body a moment longer, then turned to Hale and Evan.
"Loot everything we can from this place; the rewards should be substantial," he said, voice flat. "Troll parts sell and craft well, too. If it's not nailed down, we're taking it."
Evan gave a quick nod, but as he looked at Harold, a flicker of concern crossed his face. The relief of survival was tempered by the command's ruthlessness. One of the adventurers groaned at the idea, voicing a rare moment of dissent. Most got to work with grim efficiency, their motives diverging as the spoils would soon reveal.
Harold turned next to Hale.
"You know what to do better than I could tell you, good work."
Hale didn't even argue. Just gave a tired nod and started moving toward the remaining legionaries, already barking new orders as he passed.
The next morning came slower than usual.
No shouted orders. No snapping banners. Just the faint reek of wet ash blending with the low clatter of cooking gear and the muted rustle of soldiers stirring from where they lay down to sleep, cuddled together around fires. The field where the den had stood was quiet now; the troll's corpse burned to ash, the goblin gear stacked or stripped and tallied by Marcus.
Harold walked the camp perimeter just after dawn, cloak drawn tight, boots slick with dew. He passed tired legionaries huddled over their rations — thicker than usual this morning. Hale had told Marcus to add extra bread and dried fruit to the breakfast rotation. Energy for the march, he'd said. But everyone knew what it really was.
A small reward.
Near the burned-out hollow where the troll had died, a short row of shields had been staked into the earth. Three of them. Polished clean, the insignias still visible — not as decorations, but as names. The centurions had made sure the fallen weren't forgotten.
There was no priest or prayer—just a moment of silence.
Then Garrick stepped forward, cleared his throat, and said:
"We remember the victorious fallen." Then saluted the berms and said, "Vivat Imperium."
No one shouted. But every soldier there stood a little straighter, saluted the berms and said "Vivat Imperium" as they turned back to their squads and shouldered their packs.
The terrain changed fast.
What had been sloping hills and dry passes gave way to a denser forest, filled with brambles, ancient trees, and branches that clawed at cloaks and caught on spears. The air grew cooler, heavier, and wagon progress slowed to a crawl.
The tatanka, usually dependable, began spooking more often. Snorting. Stomping. One even reared and snapped its harness after a flock of unseen birds bolted through the trees. It took two full squads and a handler with a blunt spear to calm it.
Marcus fumed at every delay for his wagons. But they pressed on.
The adventurers bore the worst of it — forced to screen constantly ahead and to the flanks. The goblins weren't gone. Twice on the second day, small swarms staged ambushes along ravines or from fallen logs, springing up from dirt-covered hides with squeals and rusted blades.
Neither attack got through the scouts.
But it kept the army tense and tired.
Forest cats struck once during camp setup, moving swiftly and silently, drawn by the scent of fresh meat. One adventurer was clawed across the ribs, and Mira's potion quickly sealed his wound with scarlet liquid. Sarah's sword was the first to reach the danger, slicing through the air with practiced speed, a testament to her perk. Two other adventurers with quick spears followed her lead, finishing the beast. After the den, the adventurers were much better equipped, each now wielding a real weapon, with most having more than one.
The fourth night out, camp was calm.
Scouts said they were close now, about a day out, if the terrain held.
Harold sat by the central fire with Hale, Carter, and Garrick, their mugs filled with the same bitter tea they had been sipping for days. The stars were out. The wagons were parked tight. And for once, no one was yelling. Yet, a wary glance was cast toward the distant woods, where shadows seemed to shift and play tricks on the eyes.
Carter stretched his legs toward the fire. "You know, I was halfway convinced we'd lose a wagon to a forest cat."
Garrick snorted into his mug. "Yeah? I had my bets on a Tatanka trampling someone. I saw one try to fight a tree yesterday." His laugh, however, was hollow, and his eyes darted momentarily to the treeline, betraying a concern beneath his amusement.
"That tree started it," Carter said deadpan.
Even Hale cracked a tired smile at that, though his eyes remained fixed on the woods, always watching, always wary.
Harold leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The firelight danced across the worn lines of his face.
"We're close," he said. "You can feel it."
Carter nodded. "Half the boys are already thinking about what they'll get out of this relic. Perks. Items. Stories."
"They earned something," Garrick said. "They didn't break. Even when things got hard. And the First got some good perks out of that fight. Especially the ones who managed to use their mana skills in combat for the first time."
Hale raised his mug slightly. "First Century's better than I thought they'd be."
Carter tilted his head. "Bah, Second would've done just as well. They're just lucky we flushed out those archers for them."
Harold raised his own mug, just a little. "Calm down, children. You'll both have your turn to prove your mettle before we get our reward."
That drew a few chuckles.
Hale just looked at him and said flatly, "I'm older than you."
Harold glanced over his cup. "Ah," he said, "but if you include my previous time here, I'm almost as old."
He leaned a little closer, lowered his voice just enough to make Carter and Garrick lean in.
"And when it comes to women…" He gave Hale a sly smile. "I'm far more experienced."
Garrick groaned. Carter choked on his tea. Hale didn't even blink — just took another sip and muttered, "Still not sure how you convinced anyone to follow you."
Harold leaned back, satisfied. "Charisma, and looks," he said, deadpan. "Clearly."
The final camp before the relic was something else entirely.
The scouts picked the spot—a low ridge overlooking the approach, with sparse trees. Good sight lines. Solid ground. Water was a short walk downhill, and the slope meant any attackers would have to come up through kill zones.
Harold gave the order.
"Build it by the book."
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The legion moved with purpose. They had not been trained to do this yet, but Marcus and Hale directed people with a purpose. The sound of shovels biting into the earth echoed through the camp, the smell of fresh-cut stakes filling the air as pickets were posted. Work details, energized and focused, turned the clearing into a flurry of organized activity. A ditch was dug, earth thrown in steady rhythm, while a low berm of soil and stakes rose around the encampment like a protective cocoon. Fires were laid in ordered rows, the smoke curling lazily skyward. A command area was set up because there weren't any tents for anyone yet, and banners were planted at its corners.
For the first time, it looked like a real army's camp — not a scrambling survival group.
The auxilia bivouacked just inside the berm — less strict, more relaxed, but still watchful. Sarah's team was already sharpening blades. Marcus had all four wagons in a tight square, almost in the center of the formation. Potion and food crates are double-covered. Tatanka tethered and calmed, they were allowed to graze as far as the tethers allowed.
Everything was ready.
Then Harold gathered all the Optios and above and all the adventurers. It was time to tell them why they were out here.
They stood in a wide circle inside the earthen berm, just beyond the tight ring of wagons—Optio's in a complete kit. Adventurers leaned on spears and blades, hands rough, eyes alert. At the center, the firelight played across the dual banners and the faces of the four men who had led them this far: Hale, Garrick, Carter, and Harold.
Harold stepped forward. The flames caught the edge of his leather coat, the glint of iron at his side. He didn't shout.
"Well, we made it," Harold said.
He continued, his voice steady and strong. "Tomorrow, we will reach the site of a Relic. With a capital R."
In the wake of his words, an uncanny stillness settled over the camp. A shiver seemed to ripple through the air, as though an invisible force hovered around them, its presence felt but not seen. The closest men to Harold exchanged glances, reaching instinctively for the comfort of their weapons, while the crackling fire dimmed slightly as if in respect of the ancient power just spoken of.
He let that word sit for a breath before going on. The adventurers were murmuring excitedly to each other.
"This is not just a magical trinket, or something you hand off to a noble to buy favor. This relic is old. Don't ask how I know this, accept it as truth. It was supposedly made by races that failed their crucible here on Gravesend."
He took a slow step forward, voice gaining weight.
"It's not protected by puzzles or in some ancient temples. It is surrounded by two still maturing armies. One of the kobolds. One of the goblins. At this time, there are probably around 1000 monsters, clawing over that relic, killing each other for even a moment of control where it rests."
He let the image sink in.
"And every day it's left alone, the relic defends itself a little more. It draws power. It turns the land around it into a living battleground."
Murmurs moved through the ranks — quiet, serious. Some of the adventurers looked to one another. The legionaries stayed still.
Harold's voice dropped — not softer, but deeper, as if it carried something heavier than sound.
"We need this," he said.
A pause.
"Humanity needs this, and the Landing needs it. He said.
He looked across the firelit faces. Some are hardened, and others are young. Some are still bruised from the last fight.
"I won't lie to you. You've already bled. Some of you will bleed again. Some of you will probably die tomorrow, but the relic at the center of this storm — we need this."
He touched the center of his chest.
"It's a lever."
Then he raised his hand slightly, palm open.
"We have a chance here. To pull something out of the dark that will change everything. For the Landing. For every human trying to survive in this broken world. This is our shot to carve out a future that's more than scavenging and surviving."
He turned slowly, so that everyone had a chance to see him, to hear him clearly.
"We are first. And if we win tomorrow, we won't just have survived. We'll have staked a claim that we belong here and we aren't going anywhere!" He said boldly.
He let that hang.
Then, quieter, like a promise:
"We remember the victorious fallen."
A pause.
Then, as one voice — from the legionaries first, then the adventurers — the answer came:
"Vivat Imperium!"
The fire flared slightly in the wind.
The oath lingered in the air like smoke.
The scout lay flat against the ridge, one cheek pressed to the cold moss, barely breathing. His cloak blended into the brush, patterned like bark and leaf. He had no metal to shine. Just a dull, wary man, weathered by weeks of holding the line.
The camp near him glowed like a fallen constellation — fires carefully spaced, each one ringed by dark forms. Figures moved between them. Dozens of them. Some sitting, others standing. A few sharpening blades. Many just resting, their gear still within reach. Not a single tent. Not a single wasted fire.
He narrowed his eyes.
Discipline. That was the word. It dripped off every formation, every movement. The entire camp felt… constructed. It was apparent it had just been built.
He'd expected some backwater militia, maybe a large adventuring party pushing too deep. Not this.
He counted in his head. By groups. By silhouettes.
Two hundred? Maybe more.
His chest tightened.
Lord Dalen had… maybe a hundred trained fighters left. Not even that, if he was honest with himself. Most were half-starved. Half of them still limped from the last fight with the kobolds. And they couldn't spare the Crafters. Every non-disabled person in Dalen's hold was now on picket duty. They had to. The goblins never gave them time to rebuild. And the kobolds — smarter, crueler — had started striking during the rain. They lost people in every engagement.
But this force… this army next to him?
They had structure and numbers. They had organization. Fires lay in even rows. Weapons stacked. Watches rotated. He couldn't hear their voices from this distance — but he could feel their readiness. A camp that expected to fight and was ready to win.
And for a moment, for the first time in weeks, he felt something warm stir under the fear: hope. His grip on the bow loosened, and a deep breath filled his lungs, giving him a fleeting sense of calm. Maybe they were here to help. Maybe someone had finally rallied. A real lord. One with steel. With people and plan. All of a sudden, he heard some call; it was a different language than he knew, but it was said with gusto and belief.
He began to shift, crawling backward to reposition. Just a little farther to the right, past the rockfall, and he might find a better angle—
A hand closed around his ankle.
His body froze — heart jackhammering, throat too tight to scream.
Then — pressure. Light and cold just under his ear.
"Don't move."
The voice was low and steady. A professional female, her voice steady and firm.
He froze, his breath locked in his throat, eyes wide.
She leaned in closer — he couldn't see her fully, but he caught the glint of a short spear tip just past his cheek. Leather armor. Mud-caked boots. A short scarf pulled up over her mouth.
"You're good," she said. "Almost missed you."
A pause. "But you got too close."
He exhaled, slowly—the universal response of someone trying not to die.
"I'm not a threat," he whispered.
"Everyone says that," she replied. "Now get up. Slowly."
He rose to a crouch, hands out. No weapons drawn. He didn't dare look her in the eyes.
"I came from the west," he said. "I'm a scout. From Dalen's Hold."
She didn't lower the spear. But something in her stance eased.
"You're going to come with me," she said. "And if you're lucky, you'll get to explain that to someone who cares. I'll take that bow."
Then she gave a sharp whistle — one note, low and fast.
And from the trees behind them, more shadows moved.