James strode across the frozen wasteland, his men swarming over the ice and driving the last of the Windstride warriors from the ruined capital. They would pursue them no farther—this territory now lay in Frostbane’s hands. The air was still and frigid, broken only by the distant cries of men trapped beneath the ice, their agony echoing across a sea of frozen death.
A soldier approached, pointing to a man half-encased in the icy expanse. “Sire, what should we do with them?” he asked.
James regarded the captive for a moment, the frost-laden wind tugging at his cloak. “Show them mercy,” he replied quietly.
And with that simple command, the Frostbane warriors began the grim task of granting peace to those who remained, trapped in an icy tomb.\
Sanders walked up beside James, fatigue etched into every line of his face. “Sire, I have the casualty report,” he announced quietly. James nodded.
“We lost 4,234 men in total,” Sanders continued, scanning the scroll in his hand, “including thirteen Tenthblade leaders and, regrettably, three Centurions. Most of them were from the Second Company.”
“All right,” James said, his voice level with authority, “have Second Company remain at Camp Butcher. Tell Fourth and Sixth Companies to secure the capital and establish a foothold there. Dispatch messengers to the main army—they are to march for the capital and set up camp immediately. Second Company will fortify Butcher Hill as our primary defense for the supply routes.”
With that, his orders were given, setting the stage for the Frostbane’s full-scale invasion into the territorial lands of the Windstride clans.
Two days later, the once-proud Imperial capital lay in ruins, with thousands of Frostbane soldiers encamped around and within its shattered walls. After one hundred and twenty years, they had finally reclaimed all of their ancestral territory.
In the command tent, James stood around a sprawling war table with General Sanders, General Rothgar Wintersteel, and the Battlemaster of Company 2. Maps and tactical reports lay scattered before them, the weight of their decision palpable in the air.
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“We’re going to split our forces,” James began, his tone measured yet resolute. “After this last battle, the Windstride army should be significantly weakened. We’ve estimated they lost nearly seventy-eight percent of their standing troops. They’ll need time to muster their reserves, which makes this the perfect moment to strike.”
He turned toward the Battlemaster of Company 2. “Company 2, you’ll remain at Butcher Hill. We have 120,000 men stationed here, and we’ll divide them into three armies of 40,000 each. Companies 1, 3, 4, and 5 will be under General Sanders’ command. Companies 6, 7, 8, and 9 will be led by General Wintersteel. I’ll take charge of Companies 10, 11, 12, and 13 myself.”
“Sanders, you will take your army along this path and seize the city of Helena,” James continued, indicating a marked route on the map. “Rothgar, you’ll head north to capture Vadel. I’ll push into the center, driving them out of Asline pushing them back to the fort of Hisinberge. Afterward, all three armies will converge and lay siege to the fort. Once it falls, the Windstride capital will be left virtually undefended. Hopefully, they collapse quickly—before the Blackbears can rally and strike at us. Now, go relay my orders to your men.”
With that, the command tent stirred into motion each General making plans of battle.
In an unknown village, a man lay in a thatch hut, sunlight filtering through the gaps and making him groan in discomfort.
“Chief, how are you holding up?” a voice broke the stillness.
“I’m fine, Ulbar,” the man, Ulric, replied, wincing slightly as he shifted.
“How is the wound healing?” Ulbar asked, concern evident in his tone. “Is the healing magic finally taking effect?”
“Yes, it is,” Ulric said, gingerly touching his side. “The wound is almost gone. I’ll be back on my feet by the end of this moon cycle. So, gather our hordes. We’ll bring death to the Frostbane.”
Ulbar inclined his head. “On that note, there’s news from the battle for the Imperial capital. The Frostbane army devastated the Windstriders, leaving them too weak to defend themselves. Perhaps we should send out some raiders?”
A dark determination flashed in Ulric’s eyes. “I agree. Loot their lands.”
With those words, the conversation ended as the chief and his trusted aide began plotting their next, ruthless move.
In a grand castle, a spacious hall glittered with golden banners and lavish ornaments, each item a testament to the kingdom’s wealth and status. At the center of the room sat a man upon a throne of gold and carved wood. Before him knelt an attendant, head bowed in deference.
“My king,” the attendant began, his voice tinged with urgency, “I bring news from the clans of the Empire. They have broken their fragile peace and are now at war with one another. The Frostbane clan has decimated the Windstriders. If we move swiftly, our armies can finish off the Windstriders and then push into Frostbane territory—without having to force our way through Glaser’s Gate.”
The king rested his chin on one hand, expression calm despite the gravity of the news. “No,” he said at last, his voice echoing through the gilded chamber. “We shall wait until the Blackbear hordes lay waste to the Frostbanes. Then we will make our move.”