South of Korosten

  Feren stood among the trees beside a dead Vishap.

  The second one was still alive. Unwounded, at least visibly. It moved in a slow circle, tense and alert, trying to understand where it had ended up. Feren did not rush. He gave it time to regain its bearings. Allowed it to straighten up. Allowed it to draw its weapon.

  Other mercenaries had already gathered nearby. Lenar and Ruvan were there as well — overseeing the preparation of the defensive position, giving short orders, yet their eyes kept returning to this scene.

  Feren raised a hand.

  “Don’t interfere.

  His voice was calm, without challenge. He wanted to deal with the Vishap himself. The creature drew its weapon and attacked.

  The structure of Vishap's arms did not allow for effective slashing strikes. Thrusts, however, were fast, sharp, and brutally powerful. That was what the fighter relied on. It pressed forward relentlessly, denying time to think, forcing its opponent back.

  Most human soldiers would not have been ready for that. But not Feren.

  He gave his opponent no real chances. He slipped past the thrusts, deflected them at minimal distance, answered with his own strikes — precise, restrained. He fought not to kill. Step by step. Blow by blow.

  It lasted several minutes.

  Everyone stood aside in silence, watching as Feren methodically dismantled his opponent — exposing mistakes, breaking rhythm, stripping away confidence.

  And it continued like that until Rianes and Syra arrived. Feren was distracted for a moment — just a moment. That was enough.

  The Vishap seized the opening and lunged in a sudden, sharp thrust. Feren reacted in time. He parried and immediately counterattacked.

  This time — too hard. The blade went in deep. Not there. Not like that. Not with the right force. The Vishap jerked, took a step back, and collapsed. Dead.

  Feren froze.

  For several seconds, he stared at the body, as if checking whether he’d made a mistake. Then he slowly straightened up and exhaled. The fight was over. And there were even fewer answers.

  Rianes rushed over, made sure the Vishap was dead, then snapped around to face Feren.

  “What was that?” His voice was low and sharp. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Feren didn’t look away.

  “They chased us for half a day. I had to deal with him personally.”

  “Dealing with him doesn’t mean scratching him and teasing,” Rianes cut in.

  “He never stood a chance,” Feren shrugged. “Look at his armor.”

  Rianes shook his head hard.

  “Don’t judge an enemy by their armor.”

  He stepped closer.

  “Even a peasant with a pitchfork can land a fatal blow. And that’s exactly how you’ll be remembered. As the one killed by a peasant.”

  A pause.

  “Don’t rely on luck. If you can eliminate the opponent, eliminate them.”

  Feren nodded silently and turned back to the Vishap’s body, examining it carefully, now without emotion.

  Ruvan stepped into the conversation.

  “Sir Rianes,” he said calmly, “a worthy fight against an opponent raises a man’s reputation. Killing them while they’re down builds a foolish one.”

  Rianes looked at him as if weighing whether it was worth answering.

  “Do I look like an idiot who’s going to fight two Vishap officers?” he said at last. “I saw them in the battle beyond the pass. Each of them can turn any warrior’s fight into a brutal one.”

  He paused.

  “And two together leave almost no one a chance.”

  “What about Atrion?” Ruvan pressed on. “He fights with two swords.”

  “Any fight against two opponents comes down to one thing,” Rianes snapped. “You take one of them out fast.”

  He shook his head.

  “Two swords don’t let you attack two enemies at the same time. This isn’t a tournament. Out here, you either strike someone in the back, or you’re granted a ‘worthy’ death.”

  Rianes glanced toward the forest and the field.

  “We fall back across the river. Tomorrow, we return with reinforcements.”

  He shifted his gaze to Feren, Philip, and Orist.

  “While you were gone, we moved the camp behind the city walls.”

  A short pause.

  “Let’s go. You’ll tell us what you saw. Then rest. You’ve done your part.”

  He turned away first. And this time, no one argued.

  They left the forest thicket and crossed the bridge over the river, back toward the camp.

  The camp now stood in the open field beyond the city walls. It was barely recognizable. The guard had been reinforced: countless fires, archers along the entire perimeter, observation posts lining the riverbank. Patrols moved without pause, signals synchronized. Sneaking up on it unnoticed was no longer possible.

  This was no longer a temporary camp. This was preparation for a siege.

  Inside the tent were Orist, Philip, Feren, Lenar, Velm, Syra, Skeld, Rianes, Kesh, and Yakhim.

  A map lay on the table. Feren stood over it, his hand hovering above the parchment.

  “We observed from here,” he began, pointing to the edge of the map. “The barracks are here. They stretch along the cliffs, closer to the edge of the mountain ridge.”

  His finger shifted.

  “The siege engines are positioned here. Some are already finished, others are still under construction. The workshops are deeper in the forest, well protected. Observation posts are pushed outward.”

  He paused.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “The main body of the army is concentrated in a fairly narrow strip between the Maw and the cliffs.”

  Feren slowly raised his gaze.

  “The total number… is massive. I’d say at least two hundred thousand. Possibly half a million.”

  The tent fell silent.

  Syra was the first to break it.

  “That number is unbelievable.”

  She ran the calculation quickly in her head.

  “At most, the entire kingdom can muster a hundred thousand. Twenty from our clans and cities. Five from the Kutuli. Five from Netrin.”

  She shook her head.

  “At best, it’s one to two.”

  Velm exhaled and leaned against the edge of the table.

  “And that’s not even counting the fact that the king is in Solmar right now.”

  He looked at Rianes.

  “Even if he already knows what’s happening, he won’t be here for weeks. At best.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Now, everyone understood the same thing: They weren’t looking at a war. They were looking at something far greater.

  “That’s not all,” Feren added. “I also saw the Oakbound there.”

  Skeld snapped his head up.

  “The Oakbound? What the hell are they doing in that army? How many?”

  “A lot,” Feren nodded. “Their barracks are set apart from the main forces, but there are several thousand of them.”

  Skeld frowned.

  “How did several thousand pass through our lands unnoticed?”

  Velm slowly traced his fingers along the table, thinking.

  “They could have gone around the continent by sea,” he said. “But something else concerns me more.”

  He looked up.

  “Why did they join at all. Their High Leader has always favored isolation.”

  Rianes cut him off.

  “That’s not the priority right now.”

  He turned his gaze back to the map.

  “We’ll warn Vantsyl, so he knows that west of Kharin there are no allies left.”

  A short pause.

  “But what matters more is this. What do we do about this army?”

  Syra exhaled slowly.

  “If we prepare the city properly, we can hold a siege for a long time. That will give the king time to arrive.”

  A brief silence settled over the tent. In that moment, Orist finally dared to speak.

  “I know…” he began hesitantly. “There used to be an old route through the mountains. It should lead somewhere into the rear of this ridge.”

  Skeld spun around as if struck by lightning.

  “Oh,” he drawled. “Now that’s more interesting. Is this for observation, or for something more serious? Talk. What kind of route?”

  Orist spoke carefully, weighing every word, as if afraid someone might hold him to a promise.

  “I haven’t been there myself. But I know there’s a passage through the mines that comes out on the other side of the mountains.”

  He swallowed.

  “Long ago, it was used. Back in the days of the Southern Kingdom.”

  Kesh came alive at once. He even straightened, bracing his hands on the table.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I’ve heard of it too. And I even know who used it last.”

  The tent buzzed. Voices overlapped.

  “Who? Who went through it? When?”

  Kesh didn’t rush his answer. He let the silence return, then said simply:

  “The Pale.”

  A few people froze.

  “They used it to move their own out of the Black Forest.”

  The words landed heavily.

  Because if that was true, the route existed.

  And if the Pale had used it, then it wasn’t just an old myth.

  Which meant this war had gained another, very dangerous path forward.

  Rianes nodded, without a trace of satisfaction.

  “Then we need to find out exactly what kind of route this is.”

  He slowly looked over those present, as if weighing each of them in turn.

  “Yakhim. Kesh,” he continued. “We’ll send you to the Pale. I’ll write a letter. You’ll be given an escort to keep the scavengers off you.”

  His gaze lingered for a moment.

  “Skeld will go with you.”

  He wasn’t asking. It was a decision.

  “The rest of you,” Rianes said, already turning back to the table, “we meet again tomorrow and go over the plan in detail.”

  He turned to Lenar.

  “We begin preparing the city for defense. Actively. Very actively.”

  Lenar said nothing. He only nodded. That was enough.

  “Orist,” Rianes shifted his gaze again, “you join the crews servicing the existing machines. Study them.”

  A brief pause.

  “Consider yourself one of us.”

  At those words, Orist visibly let out a breath.

  “Thank you for keeping your promise,” he said quietly.

  Skeld gave a crooked smile.

  “If there really is a route,” he remarked, “you might even make some money.”

  The council began to break apart. Some immediately started discussing details, arguing as they walked. Others stayed silent, digesting what they’d heard, pausing at the exit as if they’d forgotten where they were going.

  The tent slowly emptied.

  In the end, only Syra, Rianes, Velm, and Skeld remained inside. Rianes slowly ran his hand across the map—not searching for routes, but as if steadying his thoughts. Then he looked up.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “At last, only our own remain.”

  A short pause.

  “Now give me real proposals.”

  And this time, no one expected them to be comfortable.

  Syra touched one of the markings on the map.

  “Their trebuchets…” she said softly. “The walls won’t save us. In a straight defense, they won’t leave us any chances.”

  “Yes,” Velm agreed. “They’re well prepared for a siege. This isn’t improvisation.”

  He sighed. “We need a different plan.”

  For several seconds, Rianes said nothing, staring at the map as if trying to see something that wasn’t there.

  “All their siege engines and barracks are concentrated in one place,” he said at last. “If we could go around the mountains and hit them from the rear…”

  He slowly traced his hand across the parchment.

  “We’d have time to destroy it. Burn the barracks. Smash the machines. While they sleep.”

  Syra didn’t argue right away.

  “And how do we withdraw afterward?”

  Rianes looked up.

  “We’ll stage rearguard battles from the White Ward side. Punch a corridor through and get out.”

  Silence settled over the tent again.

  “But,” Rianes added more quietly, “first we need to find out how to get there.”

  Skeld shook his head.

  “If there really is an army of that size, then even with perfect luck, we won’t be able to break out.”

  He looked at Rianes.

  “Whoever starts the rearguard fights will be surrounded very quickly.”

  “Then,” Velm replied, “someone else has to start the fighting to pull them out of that encirclement.”

  He added briefly: “We need to call Atrion and Balrek.”

  Rianes nodded. “I already have. The only question is timing.”

  He leaned on the table.

  “For a stunt this audacious to succeed, the moment has to be chosen perfectly.”

  Skeld grimaced.

  “None of this matters until the Pale show us the route. And until we know how many people can pass through it.”

  “As soon as we make contact with them,” Rianes said, “we’ll have to use it ourselves ahead of time and test everything.”

  He looked at each of them.

  “For now, we pretend we’re preparing for a full, grinding defense. No one knows the real plan.”

  A short pause. “Except Naelis.”

  They all nodded in silence. The council ended without another word. Each went back to their own tasks, knowing one thing:

  If this plan worked, it wouldn’t be called a plan. It would be called a miracle.

  Border City of Lozova

  It was the last settlement fully under Ceredan’s control. Beyond it stretched the border with the Compact—not a line on a map, but a zone of gradual transition, where order became conditional and rules flexible.

  Before Atrion was appointed governor of the Wild Lands, Lozova was considered the edge of civilization. A corridor into places sought only by the cast aside, the desperate for quick solutions, and those with no intention of returning. The city wasn’t decaying—it was clogged. Tight, overcrowded, in constant motion, filled with people who didn’t want attention and didn’t ask questions.

  Here, no one asked where you came from.

  And no one cared where you were going next.

  The Compact changed everything.

  As Khariv developed, Lozova began to change with it. The flow of goods increased, routes became permanent, and the temporary turned profitable. The city grew fast, almost without pause. It stopped being a refuge and became a hub.

  A port had appeared—first wooden and raw, later reinforced, with permanent piers. Roads were laid that no longer vanished after the first winter. Warehouses replaced old inns, and temporary barracks gave way to stone buildings.

  Lozova no longer hid. And yet, it remained dangerous.

  It was one of only two cities in the kingdom where mercenaries weren’t merely tolerated—they were respected. People here knew the value of weapons, experience, and words spoken without decoration. And they remembered well that civilization stands not only on laws, but on those willing to place themselves between order and chaos.

  That was why everything important came from the east.

  Soon or later, passed through Lozova.

  The Black Directive was in the city in full strength.

  They didn’t plan to stay long. The route was clear: next to Mosun, and from there to Korosten. The locals had long since grown used to mercenaries. Their presence raised no eyebrows—weapons, armor, discipline—all of it had become part of the city’s new, everyday face.

  Atrion, meanwhile, was dining with the mayor of Lozova. The man was genuinely pleased to see an old friend again. The conversation was warm, almost domestic, free of formalities—about roads, the port, new warehouses, about how the city used to be a dead end.

  But not everyone watched this with the same calm.

  Two locals were observing the mercenaries. They made an effort not to draw attention, keeping their distance, behaving as if they were discussing something mundane. In truth, the Compact was their primary target.

  They were guests from the north. They tried carefully to look local—clothes, accent, gestures. But a trained eye would have noticed the tension.

  “They won’t stay here long,” one of them said quietly. “At dawn, they’ll head for Mosun.”

  “The Blue Cohort is there as well,” the other replied. “Looks like the king is gathering forces in the west.”

  The first narrowed his eyes.

  “If they’re there, then the Reds should have moved already. So why are they still sitting on our border?”

  “How should I know?” the second snapped. “Maybe the king’s afraid we’ll strike.”

  “Or his agents are already everywhere in our cities.”

  They fell silent.

  Before them, Lozova unfolded—once a border town, half-forgotten, now lively, wealthy, self-assured. Lantern light, the noise of taverns, and armed mercenaries calmly eating alongside townsfolk.

  The city was living in a golden age. And what irritated them most was that it was living together with mercenaries.