The autumn dawn broke over Emberhold, casting a golden hue across the settlement as warriors gathered for war. The air was crisp but not yet cold, the season still in its early phase. The morning mist clung to the ground, swirling in ghostly tendrils over the battlefield ahead. It was a day that would decide Emberhold's future.
Alexander stood at the front lines, his black-metal sword strapped to his hip, armor secured with practiced precision. His expression was unreadable, yet every man behind him knew—he would lead them to victory. His warriors—some seasoned, some new—stood in formation, their breaths visible in the cool morning air. This was no mere skirmish. This was their moment to prove themselves.
Tyrell's scouts had returned hours before, reporting the mercenaries' position and movements. The mercenaries had set their camp near the old stone outpost, believing themselves in a strong defensive position. They had seized control of the outpost several days prior, fortifying it with crude barricades and patrols, convinced that no force in the region could challenge them. Their leaders had grown complacent, treating the frontier as theirs to command. But Alexander had chosen the battlefield, not them. His scouts had tracked their movements, mapping their defenses, and now, under the cover of mist, the trap was set. Their defenses were solid, but Alexander had no intention of attacking head-on.
A battle should be won before the first blade is drawn.
He had chosen the battlefield, not them.
Marching to War
The warriors moved in disciplined silence, stepping carefully along the pre-planned routes. The morning mist cloaked their approach, keeping them hidden from the enemy's sentries. Every man knew his role—there would be no reckless charges, no wasted movements.
Elias adjusted his gauntlets, his usual grin flashing in the dim light. "They have no idea what's about to hit them."
Alexander's gaze was fixed ahead. "We end this today."
Tyrell and his scouts had already taken position in the hills and treelines overlooking the enemy encampment. His archers were hidden in the foliage, their bows already drawn, arrows nocked. Below, the mercenary camp was stirring, unaware that death lay just beyond the mist.
The enemy had stationed patrols near the perimeter—small groups of riders moving in lazy circles, half-heartedly scanning for threats. They weren't expecting an attack.
They should have.
Alexander raised his hand. A single motion.
Tyrell's archers let loose.The Ambush Begins
The first patrol didn't even have time to scream.
Arrows whistled through the air, striking with deadly precision. The lead rider crumpled in his saddle, blood spraying as an arrow lodged deep into his throat. The second toppled from his horse, gurgling as he clawed at the shaft buried in his chest. The remaining riders barely had time to react before more arrows rained down, cutting them down where they stood.
Shouts erupted from the enemy camp.
Confusion. Fear.
The survivors turned to flee, spurring their horses back toward the camp, but they rode straight into the second phase of the ambush.
Warriors wielding black-metal weapons emerged from the mist like specters of death. Blades carved through armor as the panicked mercenaries tried to wheel their horses away. The ground became slick with blood as men fell, screaming.
In the camp, the mercenary officers shouted orders, but discipline was already starting to crumble.
Then came the second wave.
Elias and his elite fighters crashed into the enemy's eastern flank, cutting through disoriented mercenaries like a scythe through wheat. They fought with a brutal efficiency—blades flashing, shields splintering under the force of impact.
A mercenary swung at Elias, his sword aimed for the warrior's exposed side.
Too slow.
Elias sidestepped, his gauntleted fist slamming into the man's jaw, sending him sprawling. Before he could recover, Elias' blade thrust downward, piercing his chest. He turned to the next enemy before the man had even hit the ground.
Alexander watched from a ridge, eyes sharp as he assessed the battlefield.
"They're breaking formation," Silas observed, his voice calm despite the chaos below.
Alexander nodded. "Time to crush them."
The Final Charge
With the enemy ranks in disarray, Alexander signaled the final phase of the attack.
"Advance."
His warriors surged forward, roaring as they clashed with the enemy head-on. Black-metal weapons met iron in a deafening cacophony of war. The mercenaries fought with desperation now, but desperation was no substitute for strategy.
Alexander moved through the battlefield with precision, his sword a blur as he cut through enemy ranks. A mercenary lunged at him, aiming for his exposed side.
Predictable.
Alexander twisted, the attack missing by inches, and countered with a swift downward slash. The black-metal blade cleaved through the mercenary's shoulder, cutting deep. The man collapsed with a gurgled cry.
Another came at him—a grizzled veteran wielding a battle axe. He swung wildly, his movements heavy with anger. Alexander sidestepped, driving his sword through the man's ribcage before wrenching it free.
The battlefield was a storm of bodies, blades, and blood.
Across the field, Elias fought like a man possessed, his heavy strikes sending enemies reeling. Tyrell's archers continued firing from above, each shot finding its mark.
The mercenaries were faltering.
And then, through the chaos, a single figure emerged.
The Mercenary Leader
A towering man, scarred and battle-hardened, pushed his way forward. He wore no helmet, his face twisted in a sneer as he locked eyes with Alexander.
"This ends now!" he roared, raising his greatsword.
Alexander met the challenge, stepping forward with his sword at the ready.
The mercenary leader swung first—a brutal overhead strike meant to cleave him in two.
Alexander dodged.
The blade slammed into the ground, kicking up dirt.
Alexander countered with a quick slash, testing his opponent's defenses. The mercenary parried, his strength undeniable. He was powerful, experienced. But brute strength alone would not win this fight.
The two clashed—strike, parry, counter.
Alexander was relentless, exploiting every opening, forcing his opponent onto the back foot.
The mercenary snarled, adjusting his stance. "You fight well, but you're still just a boy playing at war."
Alexander didn't respond. Words meant nothing now.
The fight continued, their movements blurring together in a deadly dance.
Then, Alexander saw his moment.
A calculated feint.
The mercenary took the bait, overextending himself.
Alexander struck.
His blade cut across the man's ribs, drawing blood.
The mercenary staggered, eyes widening.
The battle was shifting.
The mercenaries were breaking.
But would it be enough?