Chapter 46 - The Gathering Storm

The war drums of Aerthas echoed faintly in the distance, a low, rhythmic pulse that resonated with the stones beneath Drakar's feet. The sky above the fortress was beginning to darken, with thick storm clouds swirling slowly—silent heralds of the conflict to come.

The council chamber had emptied, save for the High Chancellor Lythera, Vaelen, Seris, and Drakar's companions. Lythera's gaze remained steady as she regarded Drakar.

"Before we continue," she said, her voice carrying an almost maternal gravity, "understand that Aerthas is not like the kingdoms of men or the clans of orcs. We fight not with strength alone, but with purpose, formation, and balance."

Taronis inclined his head. "Your warriors seem disciplined. But wars are not won by defenses alone."

Vaelen stepped forward, his crimson cloak billowing slightly. "You're correct. But here, we do not fight to conquer—we fight to survive."

Seris turned to Drakar, her eyes narrowing. "The Dral'Thar won't attack like common invaders. They are remnants of forgotten chaos, capable of striking in ways few can predict."

Drakar crossed his arms, his emberlit tattoos pulsing faintly. "Then we need to be unpredictable too."

Lythera nodded approvingly. "Exactly." She gestured toward a large table carved from obsidian at the center of the chamber. An intricate map of Aerthas and the surrounding regions was etched into its surface. Small, carved pieces represented allied forces, fortresses, and potential chokepoints.

The room grew quiet as Vaelen reached for a carved figurine shaped like a wolf-headed knight. He placed it near the eastern valley. "Our scouts report increased Dral'Thar movements here—along the Ridge of Hollow Winds. They've fortified the ravines with what appear to be summoning altars."

Taronis leaned forward, frowning. "Summoning altars? They're preparing to call reinforcements."

Lythera's expression darkened. "Yes. If the altars are completed, they will open breaches to other realms and draw in abominations. We cannot allow that."

Drakar's fingers traced the edge of the map, his eyes scanning for vulnerabilities. "They'll expect a frontal assault to destroy the altars." He looked up at Vaelen. "Do they know you're aware of their positions?"

Vaelen's eyes gleamed. "They'll assume we know something, but they won't expect us to act swiftly. They underestimate how quickly Aerthas can mobilize."

Kaelen, ever the opportunist, smirked. "Then we strike where they least expect it."

Drakar pointed to the west of the ridge—a stretch of dense woodland marked by narrow, hidden paths. "Here. We send a small force to flank their positions while the main army approaches from the front. If the altars require sustained protection, their forces will spread thin."

Lythera nodded slowly. "A pincer maneuver. But the west path is treacherous—steep ridges, unstable cliffs. Anyone who takes that route must move silently and be prepared for ambushes."

Seris's voice was calm but determined. "I'll lead the western strike."

Drakar turned to her, his brow furrowed. "You're an envoy, not a field commander."

Seris's eyes met his without wavering. "I am a daughter of Aerthas before I am an envoy. I know those paths better than anyone."

Vaelen stepped forward, his jaw tightening. "Then I go with her. If the flank collapses, we lose everything."

Drakar hesitated. The thought of Seris and Vaelen alone in enemy territory gnawed at him. He knew that war demanded risk—but risk with reason.

Taronis's voice broke the silence. "Then it's decided. We split forces, but our timing must be perfect."

The companions left the chamber and made their way to the main courtyard, where soldiers of Aerthas sharpened their blades, adjusted their armor, and exchanged solemn glances. The air was thick with unspoken fears and resolve.

Emberfang padded beside Drakar, his violet eyes scanning the soldiers with a quiet understanding. The wolf-dragon let out a low rumble, sensing the tension.

Kaelen adjusted his bowstring and glanced at Drakar. "Are you sure splitting up is the right move?"

Drakar exhaled slowly. "No. But it's the only move that keeps them guessing."

Seris approached, clad in reinforced leather and silver-plated gauntlets. Her eyes were steely, but there was a faint softness beneath the surface. "We'll make it through this."

Drakar nodded. "Just... don't try to be a hero."

Seris smiled faintly. "I'll leave that to you."

Taronis's voice rang out. "Form ranks! The main force moves within the hour!"

The soldiers of Aerthas began to fall into formation, their synchronized movements a testament to their training.

Drakar moved to the head of the column, his tattoos flickering with emberlight as he addressed the soldiers. "Today isn't just another battle. It's the first step toward reclaiming peace. We don't fight for glory—we fight to protect."

The soldiers pounded their weapons against their shields in unison, a deafening sound that sent shivers down the spines of even the most hardened warriors.

The army of Aerthas began their march toward the Ridge of Hollow Winds. The air grew colder as the forest thinned, giving way to jagged cliffs and open sky. The sound of boots on stone was steady, a heartbeat of war.

Drakar rode beside Taronis at the head of the formation, his senses sharp. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but it only fueled his resolve.

"Do you hear that?" Taronis murmured.

Drakar listened closely. The wind carried a faint, distant hum—like the whisper of something unnatural.

"It's the altars," Drakar said quietly. "We're getting close."