The storm was no longer mere weather.

  It was a living thing. A thrashing, snarling beast that stalked the camp with claws of wind and fangs of rain. It howled through the trees like a cursed wolf, tore at tent canvas, hissed into the flames, and drowned the world beneath thunder so loud it felt like the gods themselves had turned their fury on the earth.

  Captain Nathander stood beyond the reach of firelight, letting the shadows keep his eyes sharp. A battered tin mug of black coffee warmed his calloused hands—bitter enough to turn the stomach but steadying in that sacred moment between breaths.

  He knew this kind of night.

  If he were the enemy, he would strike now. The wind muffled the clink of armor, the scrape of boots. The rain blurred sight and sound alike. And so, he had drawn the line:

  Three hundred mercenaries, steel-eyed killers, crouched behind a barrier of merchant wagons—shields locked, weapons drawn. Above them, sharp-eyed scouts watched the ridgeline, horns in hand, ready to cry warning at the first glint of torchlight or steel.

  And still… dread coiled in Nathander’s gut like a waiting snake.

  Hooves splashed to his left.

  He set the mug down, hand already near the hilt of his sword.

  Sergeant Velk appeared from the gloom, helmet dripping.

  “What is it?”

  “The damned merchants,” Velk muttered. “Brawling again. Loud enough to raise the dead.”

  Nathander swung into the saddle with a growl.

  “They’ve no regard for their own throats.”

  He and Velk rode fast through firelit mud, rain lashing their faces. The clamor grew louder.

  Beriberto, red-faced and puffing, wielded a branch above a prone Gundred, shouting for order. Riggio, the boy nephew, was pinned by two brutes—Naub’s men.

  “Have you all lost your gods-cursed minds!?” Nathander roared as he reined in.

  Beriberto stumbled forward.

  “A merchant dispute, Captain! Couldn’t be helped—”

  “Terms were agreed upon!” Gundred snarled from the ground.

  “He lied!” Naub stepped out, sneering. “Cheated me. Now plays victim.”

  “I care not!” Nathander’s voice sliced through the storm. “The camp can hear you—and so can what waits beyond the dark. End this, or I will.”

  Naub gestured. His men released Riggio.

  “I’ll see your family banned from Rampur,” he hissed, then turned and vanished into the storm.

  Gundred dragged himself to his nephew, whispering apologies.

  Then—

  Thunk.

  A flaming arrow hissed from the sky and thudded into the mud between Nathander and Beriberto. Fire danced on soaked earth.

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  “To arms!” Nathander bellowed. “We are under attack!”

  He tore off into the camp.

  “Velk, rally the merchants! Yunna—on me!”

  Horns cried through the night. The Blood Riders scrambled into position. Dregor had already locked the lines. Swords were drawn. Shields braced. Eyes grim.

  The rain paused for just a breath.

  And through the mist—they came.

  Low shapes. Dozens. Hundreds.

  Orcs.

  ?

  High on the ridge, torches flared. The watchers had seen.

  Warmonger stood at the forest’s edge, a great axe slung across his back. Crimson runes glowed beneath the rain. His single red eye burned. His smile bared tusks.

  Beside him, Shermongrin stepped forward.

  “What does it mean?” the shaman asked.

  Warmonger turned.

  “It means Blood Render Clan dies first.”

  His voice was iron and storm.

  “You gathered them close to you. Hoping one would strike me. I demand loyalty. When I don’t get it—the gods demand blood.”

  Shermongrin froze. They had been his. Now they were Warmonger’s sacrifice.

  ?

  Below, Nathander raised his sword.

  “Now!”

  Thirty riders burst through the wagons. Yunna at the front. Nathander behind her, grim as a funeral pyre.

  The orcs were too close. Too clustered. Fire rained from above, setting rags and hides ablaze. Screams rose.

  Nathander’s sword flashed. An orc stumbled. Another fell. They carved through the vanguard like fire through wheat.

  Then he saw him.

  A red-armored brute, necklace of fingers swaying.

  Bwull.

  Nathander leapt from the saddle, drove his sword into the orc’s throat.

  A heartbeat later, he raised Bwull’s severed head high for all to see.

  “Back!” he shouted. “Back to the line!”

  They retreated. Ten fewer now—but the flank held.

  ?

  Shermongrin watched with fury.

  “We could have saved them!”

  Warmonger didn’t turn.

  “They failed. They burn. Now we send those who will not.”

  He looked to Oogold—a mountain of black armor and murder.

  “Take them.”

  Oogold roared—a high, piercing cry. The air answered with shrieking fireballs hurled from crude catapults.

  Boom.

  A wagon exploded. Screams. Fire. Blood.

  Oogold mounted his war boar and charged—two hundred orcs behind him.

  And then came the screams from above.

  Bodies rained from the cliffs.

  One landed beside Nathander, crushing a supply cart.

  He looked up—and the sky was falling.

  ?

  Ash and Honor

  The night had become a battlefield of shadows and flame.

  Rain poured like the tears of dead kings. Fires sputtered. The mud was thick with blood and worse.

  Nathander stood at the front barricade, soaked and screaming.

  “Push them back! To the last man!”

  Beside him, Captain Velk fought like fury made flesh.

  “They’re folding around us!” he warned. “If we hold here, we die here!”

  Nathander didn’t answer. He saw shadows swarming, too many to count.

  Then—

  Sergeant Yunna stormed up, blood on her face, fire in her eyes.

  “You summoned me?”

  “Get the merchants out. Twenty soldiers. Take only who can walk. Leave everything else.”

  “Sir—”

  “Now!”

  She vanished into the chaos.

  ?

  At the merchant quarter, panic reigned.

  Gundred clutched a wrapped bundle against his chest—Ar’Sul, the artifact. It pulsed faintly beneath the oilskin.

  “Uncle?” Riggio asked, voice shaking.

  “We’re leaving. We have to.”

  “But—”

  “If we stay, we die.”

  A new voice:

  “Well, well. The rat flees with the cheese.”

  Naub stepped forward, flanked by Dag and Maurel.

  “That piece belongs to me.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Then leave it. Or leave your head.”

  Then—Yunna arrived.

  “Move! All of you!”

  Naub stepped in.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are,” she said, eyes like knives. “Orcs are crawling through the dark. Keep talking, and I’ll hang your intestines on a cart wheel.”

  Naub said nothing more.

  “We march light!” she bellowed. “You carry more than your boots and bones, we leave you.”

  “We’ll die out there!” someone cried.

  “Aye. But stay here, and you’ll wish you’d died clean.”

  Axes rose. Wagons split. A path opened.

  “I’ve been ordered to save what I can,” she snapped. “The rest may rot.”

  She marched into the night, sword drawn. One by one, they followed.

  Gundred clutched Ar’Sul and dragged Riggio behind him.

  Naub vanished into the crowd.

  ?

  Back at the front, Nathander’s arms were lead. His blade cleaved on muscle memory alone.

  Velk was beside him, hacking through meat and steel.

  “We’re nearly surrounded!”

  “We hold!”

  “You need to lead, sir. I’ve got nothing left but curses.”

  Their eyes met.

  “You’d die for this?” Nathander asked.

  “Not for this. For you.”

  A silence.

  Then a nod.

  “It’s been my honor, Captain.”

  “And mine.”

  “Die well.”

  Nathander turned, rallying what few could still ride.

  “To me!”

  They tore from the field.

  Behind them, Velk's final war cry rang out—and then was swallowed by the storm.

  Nathander did not look back.

  He did not have to.