The air was thick with smoke, curling through the streets like a living thing as the first light of dawn stretched across the battlefield. Ironridge had not fallen, but neither had the mercenaries retreated.
Instead, they had dug in, turning the outskirts into a defensive fortress, preparing for the next assault.
Alexander stood at the barricade, his grip tight around his sword hilt. His eyes scanned the enemy lines, reading the battlefield like a board of shifting pieces.
They had held the town center, but the mercenary army still controlled the surrounding territory.
Elias stood beside him, blood drying on his blade, his breathing steady despite the exhaustion of battle.
"We can't let them regroup," he muttered. "If they get reinforcements, this turns into a war of attrition."
Silas exhaled sharply. "And that's exactly what Vale wants. If we're bogged down here, he has time to prepare his next move."
Alexander clenched his jaw. Vale's strategy was clear—stall The Maxwell Dominion, weaken them before delivering the final blow.
They needed to break the siege—fast.
The Mercenaries' Second Assault
As if in response to Alexander's thoughts, a war horn echoed across the battlefield.
At dawn, the mercenaries launched a renewed assault.
Their forces moved with precision, storming the eastern barricades with siege ladders and overwhelming numbers.
Elias and his warriors threw themselves into the fray, engaging in brutal hand-to-hand combat as mercenaries swarmed the defenses.
At the same time:
A detachment of enemy archers took up positions in the ruins, unleashing a rain of arrows that pinned down Alexander's forces.Tyrell's scouts reported movement to the south—possibly enemy reinforcements marching toward Ironridge.The mercenary captain, a grizzled veteran named Aric Drayton, led the charge himself, shouting orders as his forces pressed forward.
"They're trying to squeeze us out," Silas muttered. "If they break through, we lose Ironridge."
Alexander's eyes narrowed.
Then they wouldn't let that happen.
A Desperate Counterattack
The siege had reached a turning point.
Alexander made his decision in an instant.
"We hit them first," he ordered. "Hard."
The strategy unfolded in three precise strikes:
Tyrell's scouts slipped through the ruins, moving like shadows, eliminating enemy archers one by one until the high ground was reclaimed.Elias and Marcus led a surprise charge from the western flank, catching the mercenaries off guard and cutting through their disorganized ranks.Alexander personally led a cavalry strike to the south, meeting the reinforcements before they could reach the main battlefield.
The plan worked.
The mercenaries, caught between multiple engagements, began to falter.
For the first time, their formation crumbled.
Elias drove his sword through an enemy officer, turning to rally the militia.
"Push them back!" he roared. "This is our town!"
Marcus and his heavy infantry smashed into the ladder teams, toppling the siege equipment, crushing those still climbing.
And at the southern flank, Alexander's cavalry tore through the reinforcements like a storm, trampling foot soldiers beneath charging hooves, destroying their cohesion before they could even reach the town.
The battlefield descended into chaos.
For the first time, the mercenaries lost control.
Breaking the Siege
By midday, the momentum had shifted.
Tyrell's ambush wiped out the remaining enemy archers, forcing the mercenaries into close combat, where they were at a disadvantage.
Elias shattered their frontline, cutting down officers, disrupting their chain of command.
Alexander's cavalry turned the southern reinforcement line into a graveyard, isolating the main mercenary force.
And then—they began to break.
Panic spread through the ranks as mercenaries began to flee, abandoning their wounded and dead.
Drayton roared orders, but it was too late.
One by one, his men ran, their discipline collapsing under the weight of defeat.
By sundown, the battle was over.
Ironridge had held.
They had won.
But Alexander knew this wasn't just a victory.
This was the beginning of something far larger.
Vale's Reaction – The Aftermath of Defeat
In Vale's grand chamber, the air was thick with tension.
Baron Devrin sat stiffly across from his liege, eyes fixed on the war reports.
The silence stretched.
Until finally, Vale spoke.
"Drayton is dead?"
Devrin nodded slowly. "His forces are scattered. The siege failed."
Vale exhaled, his fingers drumming against the table.
A failure. A complete failure.
He had gambled everything on this attack.
And he had lost.
Devrin shifted in his chair. "Maxwell is stronger than we thought," he admitted. "If we attack again, we'll need more than just mercenaries."
Vale narrowed his gaze.
The Maxwell Dominion wasn't just surviving—it was adapting. Growing.
He had planned to stall them, to cripple them before they could truly rise.
But Maxwell had turned the battle around.
And now?
Now, he was out of options.
For the first time, Vale clenched his jaw. He needed time.
Time to rebuild.
Time to find a new strategy.
For now… he would retreat.
But this wasn't over.
Not yet.
Not until he had burned The Maxwell Dominion to the ground.