Lord Aric stood at the edge of the ruined village, Brighthollow now little more than a broken memory. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, and the remains of shattered homes lay scattered. He watched as the last of the villagers prepared to leave, their belongings hastily packed, eyes filled with despair.
Roland, his loyal squire, approached quietly. "My Lord, the villagers are ready. They're gathering for the march to Fairheaven."
Lord Aric didn't immediately respond. His gaze lingered on the broken walls of Brighthollow, the bodies of his militia, and the few remaining villagers who had survived the raids. He'd failed to protect them, and the weight of that failure sat heavily on his shoulders.
"I promised them safety," he said quietly. "And now we leave them with nothing."
Sir Allistair, the knight commander, stepped forward, his face showing the wear of countless battles. His armor, still bearing the scratches from the recent skirmish, seemed to gleam in the dying light of the sun. "My Lord," he began, his voice steady, "Brighthollow was lost the moment Gorak's forces broke through the wall. You fought with honor, but the numbers weren't on our side."
Aric clenched his fists, anger and guilt mixing inside him. "And now? We abandon what's left? We run to Fairheaven, tail between our legs?"
Allistair's expression softened. "Your father, Count Varian, is no stranger to retreat when necessary. Fairheaven's stronghold is where we can regroup, save what's left of our forces, and protect the villagers. The orcs aren't here to conquer, my Lord. They're here to supply their war."
Aric took a deep breath, looking toward the horizon. "Gorak's raids are just the beginning. He's clearing the way for something larger."
Allistair nodded. "The orcs will continue raiding the villages on the southern paths. They're gathering supplies for their campaign against the dwarves of Kaelmar."
"We need to warn the other villages," Aric said, his voice heavy. "Gorak won't stop until the southern lands are stripped bare."
Far beyond the walls of Brighthollow, Gorak stood among the remains of the battlefield, his dark eyes scanning the ruined village from afar. At his side, Captain Varzog, a massive orc with scars marking his face and arms, awaited orders. The goblins and orcs under their command moved with haste, preparing to retreat.
Gorak's lips curled into a snarl. "We need to regroup with the main army," he growled. "Lord Kargath will not wait. The supplies from these villages are vital for the campaign."
Varzog grunted in agreement, his hand gripping the hilt of his weapon. "The humans fought harder than expected, but they're broken now."
Gorak's eyes narrowed. "They were just an obstacle. We have what we need. Kargath's army marches south toward Kaelmar, and we will be ready when they arrive."
"The dwarves won't stand a chance once the southern villages fall," Varzog said with a toothy grin.
Gorak turned away, his voice low and filled with menace. "The humans have their strongholds, but their villages are weak. We strike quickly, gather what we need, and move on. Kargath's war will swallow them all."
Back in Brighthollow, the villagers had gathered, most of them weary men who had survived the raids, along with a few traders and farmers too stubborn to flee earlier. They were now loading carts with what little supplies they could salvage.
Garrick, the militia captain, stood with Thomas, Marcus, Elric, and Ava—Thomas' friends from the militia. Their faces were worn from the days of fighting, but their resolve hadn't faltered.
"We've done all we can," Garrick said grimly. "The walls won't hold another assault, and we've lost too many. We march with Lord Aric to Fairheaven."
Thomas looked out over the village, his eyes filled with worry. "Do you think we'll make it?"
Ava, the archer, placed a hand on his shoulder. "We don't have a choice. If we stay here, we die. If we leave, at least we have a chance."
Lord Aric, mounted on his horse, watched as the villagers prepared for the march. Roland stood beside him, holding the reins of his own horse, waiting for the signal to leave.
"My father will see this as a failure," Aric said quietly. "Count Varian won't care about the lives we've saved—only the village we lost."
Sir Allistair rode up next to him. "Count Varian is a warrior, my Lord. He'll understand that sometimes, the fight is in retreat. What matters now is keeping the people safe."
Aric looked ahead, where the path toward Fairheaven stretched. "I'll have to face him, Allistair. And when I do, he'll want answers."
The knight commander nodded. "And you'll give them, my Lord. With the supplies Gorak's raiders have taken, they'll be stronger in the war against Kaelmar, but they won't move too deep into Edros. They're focused on the dwarves. As long as we keep them from taking more, we'll have a chance to rebuild."
With that, Lord Aric gave the signal. The remaining forces of Brighthollow began their march, leaving behind their village, now nothing more than a scar in the land.
As the survivors of Brighthollow marched toward Fairheaven, Lord Aric's mind was weighed down by what lay ahead. His father, Count Varian, would be waiting for him at the stronghold, eager to hear of the battles fought and won. But this time, there were no victories to speak of—only retreat.
Sir Allistair, riding at Aric's side, spoke softly. "Your father will understand the need to fall back, my Lord. Gorak's forces aren't seeking conquest—just supplies for their war."
Aric sighed. "I know, but it doesn't make this easier."
Roland, ever the faithful squire, rode just behind, his face a mix of exhaustion and determination. "We'll make it to Fairheaven, my Lord. We'll be safe there."
Aric looked ahead, the stronghold of Fairheaven distant but visible in the horizon. "We may be safe, Roland," he said quietly. "But we've lost more than a village today. And I'm not sure my father will ever forgive me for that."
Back at the edge of Brighthollow, Gorak gave the signal to his forces. The goblins and orcs began their retreat, carrying what spoils they could. Varzog approached, his heavy steps echoing through the now-empty village.
"We move fast," Gorak commanded. "Lord Kargath's main army marches south. We need to regroup with them before they reach the dwarves' stronghold."
Varzog nodded. "The humans are scattering. They won't be a problem."
Gorak's eyes glinted with dark satisfaction. "They're not our concern. Kargath wants the dwarves, and we'll give him what he needs to bring them to their knees."
With that, the orc forces melted into the shadows, leaving the broken remains of Brighthollow behind. Their war was only beginning, and the dwarves of Kaelmar would be next in their path.