"Empires do not fear armies. They fear the man who refuses to kneel."

—Unknown Rebel, executed at the Gates of Aurion

The mountains do not forget. They remember every scream, every drop of blood spilled on their frozen spine. And tonight, they would remember this.

Eryndor Voss crouched on the jagged cliffside, the cold biting through his tattered cloak. Below, the Akkadian Warborn moved like a steel tide, their banners catching the moonlight—a golden sun devouring the horizon. He had once lived under that banner. Served it. Bled for it.

Now, he would make it bleed.

The Ironvein Caravan crawled through the gorge beneath him, oblivious to the death looming above. Hundreds of soldiers, their armor gleaming with the arrogance of empire, escorted the lifeblood of the Akkadian war machine—wagons filled with blackpowder, steel, and something far worse.

Children.

Bound in rusted chains, their eyes hollow, they marched at the rear of the convoy. Mule handlers, the Akkadians called them, tools of war like any other. They would polish armor, carry water, tend to the war-beasts, and when the time came, they would die just as easily as any soldier.

Eryndor clenched his fists.

The wind howled through the gorge, a whisper of ghosts long forgotten. He had seen too many like them—faces blurred by time, screams buried beneath stone. The Akkadians thought their power was absolute, their dominion unchallenged.

They had forgotten the mountains. They had forgotten men like him.

"Signal the hammers," Eryndor whispered.

Yohan lifted the raven-wing horn to his lips and blew. The sound was shrill, desperate, alive. A heartbeat later, the mountain answered.

The avalanche began as a murmur, a tremor in the bones of the world. Then, the earth roared.

Boulders, loosened over weeks of careful sabotage, came crashing down. The first to die never even screamed—one moment, a soldier rode at the front of the column, the next, he was nothing but shattered bone beneath a wagon-sized rock.

Panic spread like wildfire. Horses reared. Soldiers shouted orders, but the gorge was death itself, swallowing their voices beneath the thunder of collapsing stone.

Eryndor didn't watch the slaughter. His boots skidded down the scree, his body moving before his mind could catch up. The plan was clear: hit the caravan, take the supplies, free who they could, and disappear before the Akkadian retaliation began.

But then he saw her.

A child, no older than ten, pinned beneath a shattered wagon. Her hand was outstretched, reaching for something—hope, salvation, anything but this nightmare. Her Akkadian-branded tunic marked her as a slave, but her face…

His sister's face.

The world blurred. He moved without thinking, fingers gripping the splintered wood.

"Don't," Yohan warned, grabbing his arm. "She's bait. You know their tricks."

Eryndor ignored him. He heaved. Wood groaned. Muscle tore. The girl's lips parted, a silent plea.

Then—

A snap.

The wagon collapsed. A sickening crunch.

Eryndor stumbled back, her final breath still warm on his hands.

Silence.

Then, the sound of hooves.

He turned just in time to see them emerge from the smoke—war-beasts.

Massive hybrids of wolf and warhorse, their fangs dripping venom, their riders clad in Akkadian onyx. At their helm rode the Legate, his armor etched with a serpent devouring the sun. He did not charge. Did not shout. He simply dismounted, knelt beside the dead girl, and cradled her crushed hand in his own.

When he stood, his voice was colder than the mountain winds.

"Run, little raven. I'll let you taste hope first."

That night, as the Akkadians burned three villages in retribution, Eryndor carved a vow into his stolen Akkadian blade.

No more stones.

But the mountains knew the truth.

They were only just beginning.