The plains stretched before us like a sea of dry grass, the early morning sun casting long shadows across the rolling hills. After the cold brutality of the mountains, the open expanse felt strangely calming, though none of us dared to relax completely.

The Freeholds were out there, somewhere. A scattered network of independent city-states, each one fiercely protective of its autonomy. They were fractured, their alliances tenuous at best, and Ecclesion’s shadow loomed heavily over them.

The thought made my stomach twist. Convincing the Freeholds to work with us would be like herding wild animals, and I wasn’t sure we had the time—or the leverage—to pull it off.

“Why do I get the feeling this is going to be even harder than the Frostblades?” I muttered, staring out at the horizon.

“Because it will be,” Jessa said, her tone matter-of-fact. She adjusted the straps on her pack, her gaze scanning the distance. “The Freeholds aren’t bound by loyalty or tradition. They’ll look at us and see a risk, not an opportunity.”

“Fantastic,” Farron said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Another group of people eager to not trust us. I’m sensing a theme here.”

As we moved across the plains, the terrain shifted from open grasslands to scattered clusters of trees and rocky outcroppings. The air was warmer here, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and earth.

Ryla and Toren walked ahead, their sharp eyes scanning for signs of trouble. Behind them, Jessa kept a steady pace, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. Farron and Orin flanked me, their silence unusual but not unwelcome.

“We’ll reach the first city by nightfall if we keep this pace,” Ryla said, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Which city?” Jessa asked.

“Reven’s Gate,” Ryla replied. “It’s small, but important. They control the western trade routes, so they’re well-protected.”

“And their leader?” I asked.

“Lord Enric,” Ryla said. “Ambitious. Cautious. Ecclesion’s been courting him for years, but he hasn’t fully committed to their cause.”

“Yet,” Jessa added grimly.

By midday, we stopped to rest near a small stream. The water was cool and clear, trickling over smooth stones that gleamed in the sunlight.

Farron plopped down on a flat rock, his bow resting across his knees. “So, what’s the plan when we get to Reven’s Gate? Flash a smile, wave a dagger around, and hope for the best?”

Jessa shot him a look. “We’ll assess the situation when we arrive. Lord Enric’s stance on Ecclesion will determine our approach.”

“Which means we’re walking into the unknown,” Orin said, crouching by the stream to fill his canteen.

“Exactly,” Jessa said.

Farron sighed dramatically. “Oh, good. I love being unprepared. It’s my favorite way to die.”

“You’ll live,” I said, smirking.

“Maybe,” he replied, grinning. “But if I don’t, I’m haunting you.”

The sun was low in the sky by the time we crested a hill and saw Reven’s Gate in the distance. The city was smaller than I expected, its stone walls weathered but sturdy, with a handful of towers rising above the rooftops. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the distant sound of market chatter carried on the breeze.

“Looks peaceful enough,” I said.

“For now,” Jessa said. “But looks can be deceiving.”

As we approached the gates, the guards on duty watched us warily, their spears gleaming in the fading light.

“Halt,” one of them said, stepping forward. “State your business.”

“We’re travelers,” Jessa said, her tone even. “We’re seeking an audience with Lord Enric.”

The guard frowned. “The lord doesn’t see strangers without good reason. Who are you?”

Jessa hesitated, but I stepped forward. “I’m the Chosen One,” I said, my voice steady. “We’re here to discuss the growing threat of Ecclesion.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his spear. “The Chosen One, you say? You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical.”

“Let us through, and Lord Enric can decide for himself,” I said.

The guard studied me for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Very well. But don’t cause any trouble.”

Reven’s Gate was bustling with activity despite the late hour. The streets were narrow and crowded, lined with wooden stalls and stone buildings. Merchants hawked their wares, children darted between carts, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread.

Farron’s eyes lit up as we passed a stall selling skewers of grilled meat. “I think I’ve found my reason to fight Ecclesion,” he said, grabbing a skewer and tossing the vendor a coin.

“Your priorities are inspiring,” Jessa said dryly.

“What can I say?” Farron replied, taking a bite. “A man’s got to eat.”

We were escorted to the central keep, a squat but imposing structure built of gray stone. The guards led us into a sparsely decorated hall, where Lord Enric waited on a raised dais.

He was a lean man with sharp features, his dark hair streaked with gray. His eyes were calculating as they swept over us, lingering on me.

“So,” he said, his voice smooth but wary. “The Chosen One has come to Reven’s Gate. I can’t say I expected this.”

“We didn’t come to surprise you,” I said, stepping forward. “We came because Ecclesion is expanding its reach. If they’re not stopped, they’ll consume everything—even the Freeholds.”

Enric raised an eyebrow. “Bold words. But what exactly are you asking of me?”

“Your support,” Jessa said. “We need allies to fight Ecclesion, and Reven’s Gate is in a position to lead the Freeholds in resisting their influence.”

Enric laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Lead the Freeholds? You must think highly of me. The Freeholds don’t follow leaders—they follow their own interests. And right now, Ecclesion offers stability. What do you offer?”

“Freedom,” I said, my voice firm. “Ecclesion doesn’t bring stability—it brings control. They’ll take your city, your people, and your autonomy. If you side with them, you’ll lose everything that makes the Freeholds what they are.”

Enric’s expression darkened, but he didn’t respond immediately.

The tension in the hall was palpable, the air heavy with unspoken doubts. Finally, Enric leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“I’m not a fool,” he said. “I know Ecclesion’s promises come with chains. But standing against them is a risk—one that could cost this city everything.”

“Doing nothing is an even bigger risk,” Jessa said.

Enric studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I’ll consider your words. But if you want my support, you’ll need to prove that you’re capable of more than just talk.”

“Name it,” I said.

Enric’s lips curved into a faint smile. “There’s a merchant caravan due to arrive tomorrow. They’ve been delayed, and I suspect Ecclesion is involved. If you can find out what happened and ensure the caravan’s safe arrival, we’ll talk further.”

“Consider it done,” I said.

As we left the keep, Farron sighed dramatically. “Caravans, huh? I was hoping for something exciting, like fighting another Ravager or overthrowing a corrupt mayor.”

“Think of it as practice,” Jessa said, smirking faintly.

“Practice for what?” he asked.

“For staying alive,” she said.

And with that, we headed into the night, the streets of Reven’s Gate bustling around us as the next step in our journey loomed ahead.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The streets of Reven’s Gate were quieter as night settled in. The bustling market crowds had thinned, leaving only a few stragglers and the occasional patrol of guards. The flickering glow of lanterns lit the narrow alleyways, casting shadows that seemed to stretch and shift with the wind.

We walked in silence, each of us processing Lord Enric’s words. The merchant caravan was more than just a task—it was a test. He wanted to see if we were capable of taking action, of proving that our cause wasn’t built on empty promises.

“So,” Farron said, breaking the quiet, “caravan rescue. Sounds like the beginning of a bad song.”

Jessa glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “If we don’t succeed, Enric won’t even consider helping us. This is bigger than the caravan.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Farron said, though his tone remained light. “Still, it’s nice to know our future depends on cart wheels and overpriced silk.”

We reached the small inn where we’d arranged to stay for the night. The building was modest, its wooden beams weathered and its sign creaking faintly in the breeze. Inside, the common room was quiet, the faint smell of stew lingering in the air.

Toren and Ryla took seats near the hearth, their silence a reminder of the Frostblade mentality: focus, observe, and speak only when necessary. Jessa sat at a table near the window, spreading out a rough map of the surrounding area.

“Here’s the most likely route the caravan would have taken,” she said, tracing a line with her finger. “It’s direct, but it also passes through a narrow valley—perfect for an ambush.”

“Ecclesion’s style,” Orin said, sitting across from her.

I leaned over the map. “If they were attacked there, how far could they have gone?”

“Not far,” Jessa said. “The terrain is rugged, and caravans aren’t exactly fast.”

“Alright,” I said, straightening up. “We’ll start at the valley at first light.”

The innkeeper, a round-faced man with a perpetually worried expression, approached with a tray of steaming bowls. “Your supper,” he said, setting the food down. “You’ll need your strength if you’re heading out tomorrow.”

“How do you know that?” Farron asked, narrowing his eyes playfully.

The innkeeper chuckled nervously. “Word travels fast in Reven’s Gate. Everyone knows Lord Enric asked you to deal with the caravan.”

“Great,” Farron said. “Nice to know we’re already the talk of the town.”

“Good luck out there,” the innkeeper said, his smile fading slightly. “The roads aren’t safe these days.”

The meal was simple but hearty, and for a moment, the tension eased as we ate in relative silence.

Farron, of course, couldn’t stay quiet for long.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the over-under on this being a trap? I’m thinking... seventy percent chance of an ambush.”

“Eighty,” Orin said without looking up.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I muttered.

Jessa’s lips twitched into something resembling a smirk. “It’s not about confidence. It’s about being prepared.”

“Exactly,” Farron said, raising his cup. “To preparedness—and surviving another day.”

“Cheers to that,” I said, clinking my cup against his.

The night passed uneventfully, though sleep didn’t come easily. My thoughts were a storm of doubts and possibilities, each one weighing heavier than the last. The Freeholds were critical to our cause, but Lord Enric’s reluctance to act was a stark reminder of the uphill battle we faced.

When morning came, it arrived with a pale, overcast sky and a chill that seeped into my bones.

We set out early, following the map’s path toward the valley. The terrain shifted gradually, the flat plains giving way to rocky slopes and narrow trails.

The silence of the journey was unsettling, the usual sounds of birds and rustling leaves conspicuously absent.

“Feels too quiet,” Ryla said, her bow in hand.

“Agreed,” Jessa said. “Stay sharp.”

When we reached the valley, it became immediately clear why it had been chosen as the caravan’s route—and why it was such a perfect spot for an ambush. The narrow passage was flanked by steep cliffs, with jagged rocks and scraggly trees providing ample cover.

The remnants of the caravan were scattered along the trail: overturned wagons, broken crates, and the unmistakable marks of a struggle.

“Looks like Ecclesion was here,” Orin said, crouching near one of the wagons. He ran a hand over a deep gash in the wood. “This was no random raid.”

“They took the supplies,” Jessa said, pointing to the empty crates. “And the people?”

“Gone,” Ryla said, her voice tight. “Either captured or worse.”

“Tracks,” Toren said, gesturing toward a faint trail leading deeper into the valley. “They didn’t leave long ago.”

“Then we follow them,” I said, gripping my dagger.

The trail led us into the heart of the valley, the cliffs pressing closer as the path narrowed. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, and the tension heavier with every step.

When we reached a clearing, we found them.

A group of Ecclesion soldiers stood near a cluster of captives, their armor gleaming dully in the weak light. The captives—men and women, bound and huddled together—looked terrified.

“We need a plan,” Jessa whispered, pulling us into the shadows of a nearby rock.

“Take out the guards,” Ryla said. “Fast and quiet.”

“Not possible,” Farron said. “There are too many of them. We’ll need a distraction.”

They all looked at me.

“Why do I feel like I’m the distraction?” I muttered.

“Because you’re the Chosen One,” Farron said with a grin. “You’ve got that... aura of recklessness.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

The plan was simple: I’d draw their attention while the others flanked the soldiers and freed the captives. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best we could do with the limited time we had.

As I stepped into the clearing, dagger in hand, the soldiers turned toward me, their weapons ready.

“Who goes there?” one of them barked.

“Just someone who really doesn’t like Ecclesion,” I said, activating Shadow Veil as I darted toward the nearest guard.

The fight erupted in an instant, the clang of steel and shouts of alarm filling the air.

The battle was chaotic, but we had the element of surprise. Jessa and Orin moved with deadly precision, their blades cutting through the soldiers’ ranks. Farron’s arrows flew true, each one finding its mark, while Toren and Ryla fought with the brutal efficiency of the Frostblades.

I focused on keeping the soldiers distracted, my dagger a blur as I darted between them, using Shadow Step to evade their strikes and sow confusion.

When the last soldier fell, the clearing was silent except for the heavy breathing of the captives.

“Let’s get them out of here,” Jessa said, cutting the ropes binding the nearest captive.

By the time we returned to Reven’s Gate, the sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the city.

Lord Enric met us at the gates, his expression a mix of surprise and approval.

“You succeeded,” he said, his tone begrudgingly impressed.

“Told you we would,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow.

Enric studied me for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. You’ve proven your worth—for now. Reven’s Gate will hear your call to action.”

It wasn’t a victory, not yet. But it was a start.

And in a war like this, every step forward mattered.

Lord Enric’s approval didn’t come with fanfare or celebration—just a curt nod and an acknowledgment that Reven’s Gate was now listening. It was more than I’d expected but less than I’d hoped. The captives we’d rescued were tended to by the city’s healers, their tearful thanks warming something deep inside me that I hadn’t realized had gone cold.

As we followed Enric into his keep, the guards at the gates exchanged murmurs. Word of our actions was already spreading, carried on the wind like sparks from a fire.

The keep’s great hall was quieter now, the ambient hum of politics and power subdued in the late evening. Enric led us to a private chamber off the main hall, where a simple table and a map of the Freeholds awaited.

“You’ve done well,” he said, gesturing for us to sit. “But don’t mistake this for unshakable trust. Reven’s Gate is still a precarious position, and Ecclesion’s influence continues to spread.”

“Then let us help you fight it,” Jessa said firmly.

Enric’s sharp eyes locked onto hers. “You’ve proven yourselves capable. That much is clear. But this war isn’t just about swords and daggers—it’s about strategy, alliances, and leverage. If you want the Freeholds united against Ecclesion, you’ll need to convince more than just me.”

He pointed to the map, his finger tracing a line across several city-states.

“Three key leaders control most of the trade and resources in the Freeholds. If you can bring them to our side, the others will follow. Without them, this fight will collapse before it even begins.”

Jessa leaned over the map, her brow furrowed. “Who are they?”

“Lady Serin of Frostford,” Enric said, his tone laced with disdain. “She controls the northern supply routes. Cold and calculating, but her hatred for Ecclesion is well-known. She’ll listen, but only if she sees a clear benefit.”

He tapped another city on the map. “Darnell, the merchant prince of Ashreach. He’s the wealthiest man in the Freeholds and values his coin above all else. Convincing him will be... difficult.”

“And the third?” I asked.

Enric’s expression darkened. “Lord Gerrik of Redspire. A former ally of mine, now a puppet for Ecclesion. If you can turn him—or eliminate him—the Freeholds’ resistance will solidify.”

“Eliminate him?” Farron asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s war,” Enric said flatly. “And Gerrik made his choice long ago.”

The weight of the task sank in as we studied the map. Each leader represented a different challenge, a different piece of the puzzle that we had to assemble if we wanted to stand a chance against Ecclesion.

“We’ll start with Lady Serin,” Jessa said, her tone decisive. “If she’s already hostile to Ecclesion, she might be the easiest to sway.”

“Good,” Enric said. “But tread carefully. Frostford’s alliances are as icy as its name. One misstep, and you’ll find yourself frozen out—or worse.”

“Noted,” I said, though my confidence was more fragile than I let on.

Enric stepped back, folding his arms. “You’ve bought yourself my attention, Chosen One. Now let’s see if you can keep it.”

As we left the keep, the weight of the task ahead pressed down on me.

“We’re not just fighting Ecclesion anymore,” I said, my voice low. “We’re trying to hold this entire region together.”

“That’s what war is,” Jessa said. “It’s not just about battles. It’s about winning hearts and minds, building alliances, and surviving long enough to make them count.”

“No pressure,” Farron muttered, kicking a loose cobblestone as we walked. “Just unite a bunch of people who don’t trust each other and take down an unstoppable empire. Easy.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to complain the whole time,” Orin said, smirking faintly.

“Someone’s got to keep things interesting,” Farron shot back.

The night air was cool as we returned to the inn. The streets of Reven’s Gate were quiet now, the lanterns casting faint pools of light on the cobblestones.

Inside, the common room was empty except for the innkeeper, who nodded to us as we climbed the stairs to our rooms.

Jessa stopped me just outside the door. “You did well today,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

I blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks.”

“But this was just the beginning,” she continued, her tone firm. “The Freeholds are a powder keg. One wrong move, and it all blows up in our faces. You need to be ready for that.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“Good,” she said, turning to leave. “Because there’s no room for failure.”

As I lay on the lumpy mattress, staring up at the ceiling, the enormity of what lay ahead threatened to crush me.

Lady Serin. The merchant prince. A puppet lord turned traitor.

Each of them was a challenge in their own right, and together, they were a gauntlet that would test everything I had.

I tightened my grip on the dagger resting beside me, its faint hum a reminder of the power I carried—and the responsibility that came with it.

No turning back now.

Tomorrow, we’d head north to Frostford.

And the fight would continue.