The warning came at dawn.
A rider galloped into Emberhold, his cloak soaked in sweat and dust. His horse staggered from exhaustion, its flanks heaving as it reached the gates. The moment the animal slowed, the rider barely held on, gripping the saddle with shaking hands.
He didn't wait for formalities. He shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice raw from the ride.
"Ironridge is under attack!"
The war room erupted into action.
Alexander was already there, poring over reports with Silas and Elias, but the moment the doors slammed open, they turned in unison.
The scout staggered in, his tunic damp with sweat, his boots leaving a trail of mud and blood.
"They came in the night," he gasped, catching his breath. "We weren't ready for them. At least 1,500 mercenaries, armed and trained. They're not bandits—they're professionals."
Elias muttered a curse, slamming his fist against the wooden table. "That means Vale is throwing everything he has left at us."
Silas, ever composed, folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "Or it means he's buying time for something else."
Alexander exhaled sharply, eyes scanning the map. This was it—the counterattack Vale had been waiting for. The moment to cripple The Maxwell Dominion before it could fully rise.
"How long can Ironridge hold?" Alexander asked, his voice level despite the tension.
The scout hesitated. "A day. Maybe two."
That wasn't enough.
Alexander didn't waste another second.
He turned to his commanders, his decision final and absolute.
"We march immediately."
The Battle Begins – Ironridge Under Siege
By the time Alexander's forces arrived, Ironridge was already burning.
Smoke choked the air, thick and bitter with the scent of scorched timber and blood. Even from a distance, the clash of steel and the screams of battle filled the valley.
The mercenaries had struck with brutal efficiency, smashing through the outer defenses and setting fire to supply depots and granaries.
The town's militia had fought desperately, but they were outnumbered and underequipped. They had held the line at the barricades for hours, but cracks had already begun to form in their defenses.
Elias and Marcus led the first wave of reinforcements, stabilizing the collapsing front lines.
Tyrell's scouts slipped through enemy formations, attacking their rear supply chains and picking off stragglers.
But this wasn't a typical skirmish.
The mercenaries fought with precision. Their formations shifted like a well-oiled machine, adjusting to every counterattack with terrifying speed.
They weren't just a ragtag band of killers.
They were veterans of war, hardened by years of brutal campaigns.
And leading them was a name Alexander recognized—Aric Drayton, a renowned sellsword commander, infamous for his ruthlessness on the battlefield.
Drayton wasn't a noble. He wasn't a fool playing war.
He was a man who made a living by winning battles.
And tonight, he intended to win this one.
A Brutal Standoff
The streets of Ironridge became a war zone.
Blood soaked the cobblestones, the bodies of mercenaries and militia alike littering the ground.
Elias fought at the front, his blade carving through enemy ranks as he held the makeshift barricades.
"Hold the line!" he bellowed, parrying an incoming strike before slamming his boot into an enemy's chest.
The militia rallied around him, refusing to let the mercenaries breach the town center.
Meanwhile, Tyrell's archers rained death from the rooftops, targeting enemy commanders and disrupting unit formations.
Gareth and his blacksmiths fought like demons, wielding hammers, axes, and anything sharp enough to kill, standing side by side with the militia.
And at the heart of it all—Alexander himself.
Leading a counter-charge, his black-metal sword carved through flesh and steel alike, forcing the mercenaries to retreat toward the outskirts.
The battle was chaos.
Each clash was vicious, each moment a brutal dance of survival.
The mercenaries pushed forward, driven by raw discipline and experience.
And yet—they didn't break.
Even as The Maxwell Dominion's warriors struck back, even as they fought through wave after wave, the enemy regrouped, countered, and pressed harder.
They were too well-trained.
Too organized.
And that's when Alexander realized the truth.
This wasn't just an attack.
It was a trap.
A Dangerous Realization
By nightfall, the battle was still undecided.
Fires still burned across the settlement, casting eerie shadows over the blood-soaked streets.
Alexander stood at the command post, his armor stained with soot and blood.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the enemy formations from atop the hill.
Something was wrong.
Drayton should have retreated by now. No mercenary force fought to the last man unless there was a bigger goal at play.
And then it hit him.
"They're not just here to take Ironridge," Alexander muttered. "They're trying to trap us inside."
Silas's expression darkened. "If Vale is planning something bigger, we need to break them fast."
Alexander nodded slowly.
This battle was far from over.
And the real threat had yet to reveal itself.
Vale's Next Move
Back in Vale's stronghold, Baron Devrin entered the war chamber, his face grim.
"Drayton's forces are still holding, but Maxwell is countering faster than expected."
Vale didn't react immediately. He merely sipped his wine, eyes focused on the strategy board before him.
Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke.
"It doesn't matter," Vale said, his voice calm and assured. "This isn't about Drayton winning. It's about keeping Maxwell occupied."
Devrin hesitated, but realization dawned. "Then that means…"
Vale smirked. "Yes."
He set his cup down, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood.
"Our real attack hasn't even begun."