Ethan had retreated to his private quarters, a makeshift tent adorned with the symbols of his kingdom, nestled in the heart of their clandestine camp. The atmosphere was tense, a mixture of fatigue and anticipation. His warriors, proud and resolute, were at their battle stations, maintaining vigilance over their forest stronghold.
"I need to cultivate," Ethan mumbled under his breath as he unrolled his meditation mat. Settling into a cross-legged position, he closed his eyes and began to channel his energy, focusing on the elusive Stage 7. Days turned into nights and nights into days as he remained in his meditative state, oblivious to the world around him.
Meanwhile, the camp was abuzz with the business of war. The sound of sharpening blades, the thud of arrows being tested against wooden targets, the murmur of soldiers sharing tales of valor and victory over their recent ambush, all filled the air. The successful retreat of their enemy had granted them a momentary reprieve, but the cost was high. Exhaustion was etched on every face, the anticipation of another battle weighing heavily.
On the fourth day, the monotonous routine of the camp was interrupted by the arrival of a raven. Its black wings flapped urgently; a note tied to its leg. Ethan, roused from his cultivation by the commotion, emerged from his tent. His eyes were brighter, his aura stronger. He had not reached Stage 7 yet, but he was close, he could feel it. "The two-kingdom alliance moves towards the Jubi river," Ethan read the letter. As the Ravens Shadow began to expand, they could not keep rushing back and forth, thus the ravens were used. The soldiers only knew it carried information, but from who? They did not know.
"Gather the forces," he commanded, his voice echoing through the camp. "We march east, towards the river."
The camp sprang into action; the lethargy of the past few days replaced with a newfound vigor. Tents were dismantled, weapons gathered, and rations packed. The forest echoed with the sound of hundreds of boots treading on fallen leaves as Ethan led his army towards their pre-built barrier by the Jubi river.
They traveled a few hours before reaching the river crossing. The sight of the river barrier bolstered their spirits. The river would be their ally, the barrier their shield. They settled in, preparing for the imminent war. As the sun set, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, the anticipation was palpable. The next few days would determine their fate, but they were ready to fight, to the very end.
As the dawn broke, the silhouette of the two kingdoms alliance's army appeared on the horizon, their banners fluttering ominously in the morning breeze. A shudder of anticipation ran through Ethan's ranks, every eye fixed on the approaching force.
"Only Florathell's archers and infantry can work here," Ethan told his captain, his voice steady. He pointed at the rocky terrain, the wide river, and the narrow bridge that connected the two sides. "Argenthrall's cavalry will be handicapped. Their strength lies in open fields, not on foot across a bridge."
The stand-off was a silent storm of tension, each side studying the other, waiting for the first move. Ethan saw his advantage. The topography was in their favor, the military strength was theirs, and his soldiers were better equipped.
"We attack," he declared, his voice steady. "Archers, to the front!"
His sixty Vale archers moved swiftly, their bows gleaming in the early light. They assembled in formation, their arrows notched and aimed at the advancing enemy. With a nod from Ethan, they let loose a deadly rain of arrows.
The first volley of arrows sliced through the air, a deadly rain that fell upon the enemy. The screams of men pierced the morning air, a grotesque harmony to the melody of war. The battle had begun.
But the enemy was not to be underestimated. Their archers retaliated, their arrows flying back in a lethal dance of death. The air was filled with the hissing sound of arrows, the cries of fallen men, the shouts of commands.
The narrow bridge across the river was awash with blood, bodies piled up like grotesque statues, a testament to the horror of war. The river below carried away the fallen, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, their bodies carried away by the relentless current.
All the while, the knights and commanders of the upper echelons watched the bloody spectacle, their faces hardened by the sight. Their hands rested on the hilts of their weapons; their bodies filled with a grim determination. Waiting for their turn to join the dance of death.
Their time would come, and when it did, the river would run even redder.
The onslaught from the Vale archers was lethal, a rain of death from above. But they were outnumbered, their ranks thinning under the persistent enemy fire.
Ethan watched from the rear, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. He saw his archers struggling and knew it was time to change the game. He turned to his infantry, his gaze hard as steel.
"Charge!" Ethan bellowed, his voice echoing across the battlefield. "Use the bridge as a shield. Let your guards cover you from the hail of arrows!"
With a savage war cry that echoed off the surrounding hills, the infantry charged. The narrow bridge became a gauntlet of death, their bodies became a living, moving wall, their shields up, deflecting the rain of arrows. They advanced relentlessly, a tide of steel and courage, each soldier a testament to the indomitable spirit of the Vale. Every man fought with an intensity that would have scared the gods themselves.
The sun moved across the sky, marking the passage of grueling hours. The battlefield was a gruesome spectacle of blood and gore, screams of pain and shouts of defiance filling the air as the two armies clashed.
As the afternoon waned, the enemy generals grew restless. They could no longer stand by and watch. With a roar of frustration and impatience, they too rushed forward, leading their men into the fray.
Ethan, seeing this, knew it was time. He turned to his knights; determination etched on his face. "Now! Charge!" he commanded. His knights, waiting for this moment, surged forward with a force that seemed to shake the heavens.
As his knights surged forward, a horn sounded in the distance. It was a low, mournful note that seemed to linger in the air. The sound was a signal for the trainees - a call to retreat.
The horn sounded again, a mournful cry that echoed over the battlefield. One by one, the trainees pulled back, their faces marked by the horror of their first battle. But they had survived, and they would live to fight another day.
As the sun began to set, the battlefield was a testament to the courage of the Vale soldiers, the strategic genius of Ethan, and the grim reality of war. The horn's echo lingered, a haunting refrain to a day of bloodshed and valor. But the war was not won for the deciding battle would begin.