The First Strike of War
The time for waiting had passed. The final preparations had been made, and now Emberhold would act.
The war camp was silent, save for the distant crackle of torches and the faint sound of metal being strapped into place. The cold morning air carried the scent of damp earth and steel, the last remnants of winter clinging to the land. The warriors before Alexander were hardened men—survivors of the siege, mercenaries who had sworn loyalty, and new recruits who had been forged through months of relentless training. They had bled for Emberhold, fought for its survival, and now they were preparing to strike before their enemy could do the same.
Elias adjusted the straps on his gauntlets, rolling his shoulders as he scanned the assembled warriors. "We hit them first. We hit them fast. Before Vale even realizes what's happening, his forces will already be bleeding."
Silas stood beside Alexander, arms crossed as he studied the layout of their planned attack. "Vale has spread his men too thin. He's trying to secure too many locations at once. If we strike his supply lines before he fully fortifies them, we can cut him down piece by piece."
Tyrell tightened his bowstring, eyes sharp. "We avoid pitched battles. Hit the convoys, ambush the outposts, and disappear before they can counter. If his men don't eat, they don't fight. If they don't have weapons, they're defenseless. We don't fight his army—we starve it."
Alexander's voice was calm, but resolute. "We control the battlefield, and we dictate the pace of this war. We bleed him until he no longer has the strength to fight."
The warriors responded with silent nods, gripping their weapons tighter. There was no need for further words. They all understood what had to be done.
The Ambush at Dawn
The first strike came under the cover of darkness, just before dawn. The scouting division, led by Tyrell, moved like shadows through the dense forests that flanked Vale's supply roads. Every step was precise, every movement calculated. Ahead of them, a convoy of wagons trundled forward, their wheels cutting deep grooves into the soft, thawing earth. Guarding them were a handful of mounted escorts, their armor faintly gleaming in the pre-dawn light.
These weren't just any supply wagons. They carried food, weapons, and medical supplies—all vital to Vale's growing army. If they reached their destination, it would mean weeks of provisions for his forces. If they were destroyed, it would be a crushing setback before his war had even begun.
Tyrell raised his hand, signaling his men into position. The attack had to be swift, precise. The archers took their places among the trees, their bows drawn, waiting for the signal.
Then, with a single downward motion, the first volley was released.
Arrows rained down.
The convoy guards barely had time to react before the first of them fell from their saddles, clutching at the shafts buried in their flesh. Horses reared, panicked by the sudden attack, throwing their riders into chaos. The remaining soldiers scrambled to form a defense, but they were already too late.
Before they could regroup, Emberhold's warriors surged from the treeline, cutting through the disoriented escorts. The battle was over before it had truly begun.
The last of the convoy's defenders fell, a blade thrust through his chest. The supplies were seized or set ablaze.
The survivors—left alive intentionally—were sent back with a message.
Emberhold would not allow itself to be cut off.
A War of Shadows
Over the following days, more skirmishes followed.
Supply wagons disappeared without a trace.Scouting patrols returned to Vale's camps bloodied and battered.Messengers sent to organize reinforcements never arrived.
For every one soldier Vale sent to protect his convoys, Emberhold forced him to send two more.
And every day he spent defending his logistics was another day he couldn't spend preparing an offensive.
At Emberhold, the blacksmiths worked tirelessly, forging more Tenebrium weapons as the warriors prepared for further engagements. Gareth's relocation efforts continued, moving the smelting operations to the western dead zone, ensuring that the strange effects of the black metal no longer threatened the land near the settlement.
Meanwhile, excavation of the iron deposits uncovered deeper veins than expected. If the ore was of high enough quality, Emberhold wouldn't just have weapons—it would have the foundations of an industry that could match Vale's own.
With every passing day, Emberhold grew stronger. Vale, however, was beginning to suffer.
Vale's Response
By the end of the first week of strikes, Vale was forced to react.
Scout reports confirmed what Alexander had hoped for—Vale had stopped his offensive preparations.
Instead of moving toward Emberhold, he was redirecting his forces to protect his own supply lines.
Silas smirked as he read the latest intelligence. "We've forced him into a defensive position. He's not thinking about attacking anymore—he's thinking about how to hold on to what he has."
Elias leaned forward, studying the map. "Good. That means we have the upper hand."
Alexander ran his fingers along the paths where their forces had struck. Vale was no longer dictating the war. He had been drawn into a war of attrition that he wasn't prepared for.
But it wasn't over yet.
Vale still had far more men, far more resources.
The key was ensuring he could never use them.
Alexander exhaled. "We keep up the pressure. We make sure this war is over before he ever reaches our gates."
The Next Phase Begins
With Vale now forced into a defensive position, Alexander knew it was time to escalate their tactics.
The initial raids had crippled his supply lines, but soon Vale would regain his footing. The noble had wealth, men, and allies. If given enough time, he would rebuild.
That could not happen.
"We need to start disrupting his ability to resupply entirely," Silas said, pointing to strategic locations on the map. "We've cut off his convoys, but he still has storehouses and supply caches within his territory. If we take those, his forces will have nothing left to sustain themselves."
Elias grinned. "Then let's burn them to the ground."
Alexander nodded. The war had begun.
Emberhold had drawn first blood.
Now, they would make sure Vale never recovered.