In the south, General Sanders and his army approached the outskirts of Helena—a walled city with fortifications rising fifteen feet high and measuring six feet thick. Even from a distance, it was clear this settlement was better defended than the fallen Imperial capital. Upon reaching a broad plain just beyond bowshot of the city, Sanders raised a hand to halt his forces.

“Set up camp here,” he ordered, his voice carrying through the ranks.

Sanders dismounted, handing his horse’s reins to a waiting soldier. Moments later, his aide, Luke, strode up with a crisp salute.

“General, our scouts report that the village outside Helena’s walls has been completely abandoned,” Luke explained, gesturing toward the empty farmland and deserted huts in the distance. “The garrison was estimated at around ten thousand soldiers, but they’ve likely drafted many of the city’s citizens. We could be facing as many as thirty thousand draftees.”

Sanders took off his riding gloves, slapping them against his thigh as he surveyed the walls. “It’s unlikely they’ve drafted the entire city,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe a tenth of the population, at most. Even then, I doubt they’ve kept the full garrison here. They must know they can’t hold Helena against an army this size. More than likely, they’ve pulled most of their forces back to Asline to regroup, hoping to rebuild their main army and push us back later.”

Luke nodded, impressed. “Brilliant as always, General.”

Sanders exhaled, his gaze drifting to the city's battlements. “If the enemy were truly cunning, they’d realize they can’t hold Asline either. They’d withdraw completely to Fort Hisinberge, rebuild their forces there, and then strike at us from a position of strength. But pride is a powerful motivator, and Asline is their primary hub on this side of the mountain range. They won’t abandon it without a fight.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing with calculated focus. “Most likely, they’ve left just enough men in Helena to stall us, buying time to either amass their forces in Asline or to aim for Lord James’s army before we can reinforce him.”

Luke straightened, absorbing the weight of the situation. “Then we need to move quickly,” he said quietly.

Sanders gave a curt nod. “We do. But first, we establish this camp and make sure our supply lines are secure. Keep the men at high alert, and inform the men to be ready for any sudden strikes. We won’t let them catch us off guard.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, General Sanders convened with the battlemasters of his army in a large, canvas command tent. The tent itself was pitched at the fringe of their makeshift camp, its fabric illuminated by the lingering rays of daylight. Outside, squads of soldiers passed with hushed voices and clinking armor, fully aware that nightfall was drawing ever closer.

Within the tent, a single lantern hung from the central pole, casting tall, flickering shadows across a wide map table. The battlemasters—each a seasoned leader of their respective company—formed a tight circle, their attention fixed on Sanders as he spoke.

“We’re going to hit them with one volley of arrows to test their response,” Sanders declared, his tone cold and resolute. A sudden gust rattled the tent flap, bringing with it a biting chill. “I want half of the four thousand archers ready at twilight, with a suitable force of legionaries to defend them.”

A collective murmur passed among the battlemasters. They mentally tallied their available soldiers, fine-tuning how best to deploy their troops. Despite knowing this wasn’t intended to be a major assault—merely a probing strike—the risk and tension weighed heavily on them.

One of the battlemasters cleared his throat. “Any additional orders if the enemy retaliates harder than expected, General?”

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Sanders paused, the lantern’s glow accentuating the hardened lines of his face. “This is only a probing attack,” he reiterated. “One volley, then pull back to the main camp. I’ll be watching from a vantage point to gauge their reaction.”

An uneasy silence settled over the tent, broken only by the faint scratch of quills on parchment as a few leaders noted his directives. Outside, the twilight deepened, painting the sky in bruised shades of red and purple, signaling the fast-approaching hour for the archers to move into position.

Once he was confident everyone grasped the plan, Sanders offered a brisk nod. “That’s all. Dismissed.”

Without another word, the battlemasters filed from the tent, swiftly organizing their companies for the night’s operation. In moments, the camp hummed with quiet efficiency—archers inspected their bows and stocked quivers of arrows, while legionaries readied shields and formed defensive formations.

Meanwhile, Sanders stepped out into the encroaching dusk, the chill of evening stealing the warmth from the air. He cast a measured look toward the distant silhouette of the enemy’s fortifications. Soon, the probing volley would be unleashed, and with it, the Frostbanes would gain vital insight into how best to seize the city.

The moon was full and high, its pale glow illuminating the battlefield like a spectral beacon. Six thousand Frostbane warriors advanced under that silvery light, their movements hushed and deliberate as they closed in on the city’s walls. From his distant vantage point, General Sanders could barely make out the silhouettes of the Windstride sentries stationed atop the battlements, their positions lit by braziers and torches. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the ramparts, creating a misleading sense of motion.

Down on the ground, the Frostbane soldiers spread out into their designated formation, quietly positioning themselves within range of the enemy defenses. The air felt sharp, each breath drawn in tinged with the growing chill of the night. Centurions signaled silently, each gesture carefully rehearsed to avoid tipping off the Windstride guards. At their command, the Glacierborne Archers nocked their arrows and drew their bowstrings taut.

Suddenly, the temperature plummeted even further. A prickling, electric energy suffused the air as the Glacierborne infused their arrows with frigid power. Frost gathered along the shafts, and a faint, eerie glow reflected the moonlight. The archers held steady, breath misting in the wintry air.

Then, in a single, fluid motion, the Centurions dropped their arms in unison—a silent command to loose. Thousands of arrows streaked across the night sky, their frosty trails briefly visible against the backdrop of moonlight. From General Sanders’s vantage point, it seemed as though a silver storm had erupted from the darkness, arching high before falling upon the unsuspecting Windstride sentries.

No sooner had the volley been fired than the Frostbane force began a swift withdrawal, melting back into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared. The Windstride soldiers on the wall would have only moments to register the incoming threat before it struck; any thought of pursuing the attackers would be futile. By the time the defenders rallied, the Frostbane archers would be far out of reach, their mission complete, leaving only uncertainty—and a hint of fear—behind them.

rs watched as the arrows struck home, their icy magic wreaking brutal havoc. The first arrow found its target with a fatal headshot, the impact freezing the victim’s head and body in an instant before shattering them with cruel finality. The rest followed in rapid succession, and most of the sentries were annihilated with a single strike—those unlucky enough to survive the freezing only to be destroyed by the arrow’s impact. A handful dove aside just in time, some shrieking in terror or tumbling off the ramparts in a frantic bid to escape.

Though the entire volley lasted only a brief moment, the devastation was unmistakable. Patches of ice now clung to the stones of the wall, and a crucial war machine—likely a ballista—had been encrusted in frost. From his distant vantage, Sanders couldn’t tell if the siege engine was fully disabled, but that hardly mattered; the damage was done.

It didn’t take long for the Windstride defenders to realize the barrage had ceased. Alarm bells pealed into the night, and massive warning fires flared up atop the walls, sending columns of smoke and sparks skyward. That reaction took all of fifteen seconds, but Sanders was more interested in what came next: clusters of armored figures, most likely Mana Warriors, rushed to the battlements. Around them milled panicked draftees, wielding little more than farm tools—confirmation that the city’s main garrison had mostly withdrawn.

Then, without warning, the night sky lit up with a dazzling burst of magic, illuminating the plain like a sudden sunrise. Sanders cursed under his breath, the harsh glare stark against the darkness. “Damn,” he growled. “They’ve got a mage. This just got a whole lot more complicated.”