The world outside Seeker’s tent held its breath, a hush blanketing the camp as snow whispered down from the dark sky. It settled over the barren ground, muffling the remnants of the day and wrapping the camp in a quiet so profound it seemed the earth itself was bracing for what was to come. The campfires glowed faintly, embers struggling against the frost, little rebellions against the relentless cold.
Inside the tent, the air was no warmer. Seeker sat cross-legged on a worn mat, his cloak pooled around him in a futile attempt to stave off the chill. His back was rigid, his shoulders taut with the weight of too many battles fought and too few answers found. His breath came in shallow gasps, visible clouds of tension forming and dissipating in the frigid air.
Memories raked at his mind, jagged and relentless. The battle in the ravine replayed itself in vivid fragments—images that flashed like lightning against the black void of his closed eyes. The shouts of soldiers, the sharp tang of blood mixed with the acrid burn of ozone. And above it all, the wild surge of power that had roared through his veins. It had been untamed, an elemental force that had refused to bow to his will. He had wielded it, yes, but only barely, as if clutching the reins of a storm that could trample him as easily as his enemies.
His chest tightened. The weight of the memories pressed down like an iron yoke, crushing his lungs with every shallow breath. He pressed his fists against his temples, his knuckles whitening with the force. Behind his eyelids, the faces of the fallen waited for him—the Disciples, their crimson eyes wide in shock as he cut them down. He hadn’t hesitated. That was what haunted him most. The power hadn’t left room for hesitation. It had demanded action, destruction. And he had obeyed.
Then came another face, softer, clearer than the rest. Zara. Her laughter, once so warm and bright, now echoed as if heard through deep water, distant and distorted. It wasn’t just a memory; it was a wound, raw and bleeding. He reached for it instinctively, but the moment he did, the storm inside him surged. The lightning crackled, the weight of guilt and fear amplifying until it became unbearable.
“Breathe, Seeker,” a voice said, cutting through the fog like sunlight breaking through a thundercloud.
His eyes snapped open, focusing on the faint glow beside him. The fairy hovered at eye level, her translucent wings shimmering like frost caught in firelight. Her usual sharp-edged humor was absent, replaced by an expression he hadn’t seen before. Concern.
“You’re spiraling,” she said, her tone firm but tempered with an odd softness. “You need to stop chasing it. Stop trying to hold it all at once.”
“I can’t—” Seeker’s voice cracked like brittle stone. His fists tightened against his temples as if trying to squeeze the chaos out of his skull. “I can’t control it. The memories, the power, the—” His voice faltered, breaking under the weight of his own admission.
The fairy flitted closer, her glow intensifying just enough to cast soft shadows on his face. Her small hands settled on his shoulders, a gesture that should have been insignificant but carried an unexpected warmth. “You’re trying to control something that isn’t meant to be caged,” she said, her voice low and measured. “Magic, Seeker, isn’t about control. It’s about harmony.”
The word struck him like a blow, not because it was new, but because it was so far from what he had been taught to believe. Magic, in the arena and beyond, was power. It was a weapon, a tool. Harmony had no place in that world. And yet, her words resonated, unsettling something deep within him.
He exhaled shakily, the weight of her words sinking into his chest. “And what if it destroys me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It might,” she admitted, her tone laced with both pragmatism and an odd sort of sympathy. “But right now, it’s keeping you alive. The trick is finding balance—not crushing it, not letting it crush you. Balance.”
Balance. He turned the word over in his mind, its edges unfamiliar but not unwelcome. His breathing slowed, though his chest still felt tight. The storm inside him hummed, a distant growl of thunder rather than a raging tempest. He focused on the sensation, not pushing it away, but not surrendering to it either.
“Try again,” the fairy said, her voice gentle but insistent. “Focus on the now. Not the past. Not the storm. Just this moment.”
Seeker closed his eyes once more, but this time he reached outward, not inward. He let his senses drift to the world beyond his pain. The quiet crackle of the campfire. The muffled murmur of his unit as they prepared for the mission. The crisp bite of the winter air as it seeped through the tent’s seams. He let the now anchor him, pulling him back from the chaos in his mind.
Slowly, the tightness in his chest began to ease. His breaths came steadier, deeper, each one pulling him closer to the surface. The storm inside him receded, its roar diminishing to a faint hum at the edges of his consciousness.
When he opened his eyes, the fairy had perched on his knee, her luminous form casting faint shadows on the canvas walls. Her expression was unreadable, her usual smirk absent.
“Better,” she said simply. “You’re still a mess, but at least you’re not falling apart.”
A faint, humorless smile tugged at Seeker’s lips. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
She shrugged, her wings fluttering softly. “I call it like I see it. Now, go. Your people need you.”
For a moment, he just stared at her, the words she’d said lingering like the faint taste of smoke in the air. Balance. Harmony. They felt like impossible goals. But for now, they were enough to keep him moving.
With a slow, steadying breath, Seeker pushed himself to his feet. The storm was still there, waiting. But so was he.
The campfire crackled faintly, its warmth barely denting the frigid air. Seeker stood at the center of the group, his dark hair catching faint glints of firelight as he surveyed the faces around him. His original unit—the ones who had followed him through hell and back—formed the core of the circle. Harken loomed at one side, his shield resting on the frosted ground. Sarra methodically tested the weight of her spear, her sharp eyes darting between the others. Gale leaned casually on a crate, his smirk as constant as the dagger he spun idly in his hand. Among them, Marlen, the low noble from Seeker’s original unit, moved with an air of discomfort that no amount of armor or duty could conceal. His polished breastplate gleamed in contrast to the battered leather and dented steel of those around him. And Liora stood just behind Seeker, the youngest of them, her hands gripping her spear like it was the only solid thing in her world.
But the circle was larger now. New faces surrounded the fire—freed slaves, gladiators, and soldiers from the dregs of the army. They carried the rough edges of desperation, their gear mismatched and their expressions hard. Seeker’s gaze lingered on the group. Each carried their own weight, their own scars, but they had been entrusted to him. And while they followed his lead, the tension between the old and the new was palpable, like a cord stretched too tight.
As Seeker began to address them, one of the newer recruits stepped forward. A man named Torin, lean and sharp-eyed, with a voice that carried the clipped precision of someone used to speaking his mind. His armor was cobbled together, the pieces ill-fitting, but he wore them like a challenge.
“Before we head out, I’ve got a question,” Torin said, his tone measured but carrying an edge. He crossed his arms, his gaze locked on Seeker. “You keep saying to stick together, to watch each other’s backs. But what happens if this ‘plan’ of yours falls apart?”
The murmurs that followed were faint but charged. Some of the newer recruits exchanged glances, their unease rippling through the group like a low current.
Seeker’s face remained unreadable, his dark eyes steady as he met Torin’s gaze. “The plan is to adapt,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “No plan survives the enemy, but we’ll make it through by trusting each other and staying sharp.”
Torin didn’t flinch. “That’s easy to say. But trust goes both ways. Most of us barely know you. And we’ve all seen it—whatever it is you do. The lightning. The way you move like you’re pulling power out of thin air.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s mage work. But you’re not like any mage i saw.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Even Gale stopped spinning his dagger, his sharp eyes flicking toward Seeker with a flicker of curiosity.
Sarra tensed, her grip tightening on her spear. “Careful,” she said, her voice low but edged with warning. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Torin ignored her, his gaze locked on Seeker. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. What are you? And how are we supposed to follow someone when we don’t even know what they are?”
The question hung in the air like frost, sharp and cutting. For a moment, even the fire seemed to quiet, its crackle dimming under the weight of the confrontation.
Seeker stepped forward, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. He didn’t raise his voice, but when he spoke, it carried the weight of thunder. “What I am doesn’t change what I’ve done,” he said, his dark eyes fixed on Torin. “You’ve heard the stories. You’ve seen the results. I’ve bled for this unit. I’ve fought for every one of you. And I’ll do it again if it means getting us out alive.”
Torin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Around the fire, the tension began to shift. Harken stepped closer, his shield now firmly in hand. “Seeker’s the reason we’re here,” he said, his voice rough but unwavering. “If you’ve got a problem with how he leads, maybe you’re in the wrong group.”
Even Gale chimed in, his smirk returning as he leaned back on his crate. “Besides, Torin, you really think you’d last a day without him? I’ve seen how you hold a blade. It’s a miracle you haven’t tripped on it yet.”
A few chuckles rippled through the group, easing the tension. Torin’s expression faltered, his posture shifting slightly. He wasn’t cowed, but the force of the group’s unity pressed against him.
Seeker took a step closer, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “I don’t expect blind loyalty. You’re right to ask questions. But out there—” he gestured toward the dark horizon—“there’s no room for doubt. When the Elves come, they won’t care who you trust or what you believe. They’ll kill us all the same. So you can either stand with us, or you can walk away. But if you choose to stay, you fight with me. All of you.”
The quiet that followed was absolute. One by one, the others nodded, their resolve hardening. Even Torin lowered his arms, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting Seeker’s. He gave a reluctant nod, the tension in his shoulders easing.
Seeker let out a slow breath, the weight on his chest lifting slightly. He turned to the rest of the group, his voice steady once more. “This isn’t about me. It’s about us. We fight as one, or we don’t fight at all. Understood?”
A chorus of murmured affirmations followed, their voices low but firm. The fire crackled again, its warmth returning as the group settled back into their preparations.
Sarra gave Seeker a faint nod as she passed, her gaze sharp with approval. Harken clapped him on the shoulder, his grip solid and reassuring. Even Gale gave him a mock salute, though his smirk lingered.
As the camp returned to its rhythm, Seeker allowed himself a moment to breathe. He wasn’t sure if he’d won them all over, but for now, it was enough. They were ready—or as ready as they could be—for whatever lay ahead.
The Baroness watched from the shadows, her crimson cloak blending with the darkness that lingered at the edges of the camp. The firelight from Seeker’s group flickered across the jagged rocks, illuminating the hollow-eyed men and women who surrounded him. Her emerald gaze lingered on the young man at the center of it all—the one the Archduke’s emissary had spoken of with such calculated pragmatism.
Seeker moved like a blade in its sheath: deliberate, restrained, but unmistakably sharp. He gave orders with an ease that suggested experience far beyond his years, his voice steady and calm even as the weight of the mission pressed down on them all. He was scarred, but not broken. Marked by his past, but not defined by it. To Illara, it was a strange contradiction, one that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
She tilted her head slightly, her gloved fingers brushing the cold hilt of her blade. Why send him? The question had gnawed at her since the war council, a persistent itch that refused to fade. Why entrust such a dangerous task to someone so new to his power? To someone so… raw? Seeker wasn’t a soldier in the traditional sense. He was an Initiate barely past the cusp of his transformation. A storm in its infancy, untempered and unpredictable. And yet they had sent him. Why?
Illara’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. She knew why, of course. The Archduke’s emissary had made his reasoning painfully clear, even if he hadn’t spoken the words outright. Seeker was expendable. His potential, no matter how great, wasn’t enough to outweigh the immediate needs of the war. Not here. Not now.
But there was more to it than that. Potential. The word tasted bitter on her tongue. She had seen it used as a weapon in court, wielded by those who sought to shape the future to their liking. Potential was a promise, a fragile, glittering thing that could shatter under the weight of reality. And reality was unforgiving.
Her thoughts drifted to the Disciples who had fallen in the ambush, their power like a wildfire consuming the battlefield. Even now, she could still feel the echoes of their magic, a raw, primal energy that had burned itself into the air. A single Disciple was worth more than a dozen soldiers. Two could turn the tide of a battle. They were forces of nature, untethered by the constraints of mortal limitation.
And Seeker had killed them both.
Illara’s gaze returned to the young man, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. The emissary had called it a miracle, but miracles were dangerous things. They bred hope, and hope was often the first casualty of war. Seeker’s survival, his victory—those were anomalies, not guarantees. And yet, here he was, leading a group of battered soldiers and broken slaves into the maw of the Elves’ territory.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
“Why him?” Illara whispered to the night, her voice a soft exhale. The question hung in the air, unanswered.
Because it’s too late for potential, she thought, the realization settling over her like a shroud. That was the truth of it. The emissary, for all his posturing, understood the grim arithmetic of war. A Disciple in the present was worth more than a Magus or even an Archmagus in the distant future. The Elves weren’t waging a war of attrition; they were waging a war of annihilation. And annihilation didn’t leave room for waiting. For nurturing. For potential.
If the Archduke’s mages had been sent instead of Seeker, the loss would have been catastrophic. Each one was a pillar holding up the fragile balance of their defenses. A trained mage wasn’t just a weapon—they were a symbol of stability, of hope. To lose one would be to lose far more than their magic. It would be to lose the foundation they represented.
But Seeker? He was a different kind of weapon. One that could be spent.
Illara’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade, the leather of her gloves creaking faintly in the cold. It was cruel, yes. But war was cruelty wrapped in pragmatism, a dance where every step crushed something beneath its weight. She had learned that lesson long ago, and it had served her well. Still, watching Seeker now, she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name.
He moved through his unit, his scarred hands gesturing as he spoke. There was no flourish to his words, no rallying cry. Just calm instructions, deliberate and measured. And yet they listened. They followed. Not because they trusted him—Illara could see the doubt in their eyes, the unease in their postures. But because he was there, standing between them and the void.
A storm in its infancy, she thought again, her gaze lingering on his scars. Those marks should have faded during his Initiation, washed away like the grime of a battlefield. But they hadn’t. They clung to him, etched into his skin like a story written in blood and pain. A reminder, perhaps, that not even power could erase the past.
Illara stepped back into the shadows, her cloak brushing the frost-dusted rock. She would watch him, for now. Observe. There was more to Seeker than the emissary realized, more than even Seeker himself seemed to understand. He was potential, yes. But he was also something else. Something that made her chest tighten with an uneasy mix of curiosity and dread.
In the end, she thought, it doesn’t matter why they sent him. He’s here. And whatever lies ahead, he will face it. Whether he survives it, though…
Illara turned, her figure swallowed by the night. That, she thought, is another question entirely.
The Torvald Pass yawned before them like a jagged wound in the earth, its narrow path winding through sheer cliffs and jagged rocks. The cliffs loomed high, their frozen faces streaked with dark veins of ancient stone, as if the mountain itself bore scars from battles long past. Snow clung stubbornly to the crevices, thick and treacherous, and the air held a biting chill, sharp with the scent of frost and mineral.
The group moved cautiously, their breaths misting in the cold, their footfalls muffled by the soft crunch of snow. The silence was profound, broken only by the occasional scrape of boots against ice or the faint whistle of the wind. Yet the quiet wasn’t soothing—it was oppressive. Every sound carried weight, from the distant tumble of a loose stone to the echoing cry of a bird wheeling somewhere above. The pass felt alive, like a predator watching, waiting.
Seeker walked at the head of the group, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The blade felt reassuring at his side, its worn leather grip familiar beneath his fingers. But it wasn’t the steel he truly relied on. Beneath his skin, he felt the hum of magic—a steady, thrumming pulse that whispered to him, tempting and volatile. It was as if the storm within him could sense the tension in the air, rising to meet it.
He glanced back, his dark eyes sweeping over his unit. Liora struggled to keep her footing on the uneven terrain, her spear clutched tightly in her gloved hands. She stumbled as her boot caught on a buried stone, and Harken’s broad hand shot out to steady her.
“Careful,” Harken murmured, his voice low but steady. His shield hung at his side, its battered edge grazing the snow as he moved.
Ahead, Gale crouched suddenly, his raised hand halting the group in their tracks. He was a shadow against the pale snow, his cloak blending seamlessly with the surrounding gray. His sharp eyes scanned the ground, his fingers brushing the surface lightly. When he looked up, his expression was tight.
“Tracks,” he said, his voice just loud enough to carry to Seeker. “Elves. Recent.”
The air seemed to thicken, the temperature dropping further as the group tensed. Weapons were drawn, the faint sound of steel cutting through the silence like a whispered warning. Sarra shifted her stance, her spear ready in her hands, her knuckles white beneath her gloves. Even Gale, ever the one for jokes, was deadly serious now.
Seeker crouched beside Gale, studying the tracks. They were faint but unmistakable—imprints too light for a human’s step, their edges crisp and unmarred by time. “How recent?” Seeker asked quietly.
Gale sniffed, his breath clouding in the frigid air. “An hour, maybe less. They’re close.”
Seeker rose, the faint crackle of energy beneath his skin prickling more insistently now. He felt it stir, a flicker of lightning dancing along his veins, eager, restless. It wasn’t enough to see, but Sarra, standing nearby, shifted uneasily as if she sensed it.
“We keep moving,” Seeker said, his voice low but firm. “Eyes up. Stay close.”
The group pressed on, their formation tightening instinctively. The cliffs seemed to close in around them, the pass narrowing until the walls loomed so close that Seeker could have reached out and brushed the stone with his fingertips. The shadows here were deeper, the air heavier. The weight of the mountain above felt oppressive, a reminder of how easily the pass could become a tomb.
Liora’s breathing quickened as she glanced upward, her wide eyes searching the ridges for signs of movement. “It’s too quiet,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“It’s always quiet before they strike,” Gale replied, his tone dry but edged with tension. He kept his daggers loose in his hands, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “They like to make you sweat.”
“And you’d know this how?” Sarra asked, her voice cutting through the air like her spear might cut through flesh.
“Let’s just say I’ve run into their kind before,” Gale muttered. His smirk was gone now, replaced by something colder.
Seeker’s gaze swept the terrain, his senses on edge. The storm inside him had risen to a low rumble, the magic thrumming with restless energy. It wasn’t just a tool—it was a warning, a primal instinct that he had learned to trust. And right now, it was screaming at him.
“They’re here,” he said softly.
The words had barely left his mouth when an arrow whistled through the air, striking the rock beside him with a sharp crack. The group scattered, moving with practiced precision as more arrows rained down from above, their black shafts slicing through the air with deadly accuracy.
“Elves!” Harken roared, raising his shield to deflect a volley. The sound of the impacts echoed through the pass, a harsh staccato that broke the oppressive silence.
The ambush came with the silence of snowfall, a sudden storm of death that broke against Seeker’s unit with ruthless precision. Arrows rained from the cliffs above, their black shafts slicing through the frigid air like whispers of fate. The sound of steel on stone and the muffled cries of pain shattered the fragile calm of the pass.
“Cover!” Seeker barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. His unit scattered, diving behind jagged rocks and snow-laden outcroppings as more arrows whistled past.
Dark Elves emerged from the shadows, their movements as fluid as water, their forms cloaked in shades of black and gray that seemed to merge with the cliffs. They carried weapons of wicked design—curved blades that glinted with a cruel, dark sheen and spears tipped with jagged obsidian. Their crimson eyes gleamed with predatory malice, and their movements were so precise, so effortless, that they seemed almost otherworldly.
And at their head, she stood.
The Dark Elf leader moved with an arrogance born of centuries of supremacy. Her silver hair cascaded like molten moonlight over her jet-black armor, which was etched with runes that pulsed faintly with magic. Her angular face was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful, her sharp features a blend of elegance and lethal intent.
“Well,” she began, her voice cutting through the din like a whip, sharp and commanding. “If it isn’t the beast who thinks himself a man.” Her crimson eyes locked onto Seeker with an intensity that froze the blood. “You’ve caused quite a stir, killing my Disciples. A pity your defiance ends here.”
Her sneer was a blade of its own, and Seeker felt the weight of her disdain settle over him like a mantle. He stepped forward, his sword already drawn, the edge glinting faintly in the pale light. His heart pounded, not with fear but with something sharper—a burning resolve that refused to bow.
“Come and try,” he said, his voice low and steady.
The Dark Elf’s lips curved into a cruel smile. “Oh, I intend to.”
The battle erupted in an instant.
The first wave of Dark Elves surged forward, their blades flashing as they descended upon Seeker’s unit. Harken roared as he raised his shield, the impact of the first strike reverberating through the narrow pass. Sarra’s spear struck true, piercing the chest of an attacker and sending him crumpling to the ground. Gale darted like a shadow, his daggers finding gaps in armor with ruthless efficiency.
Seeker met the charge head-on, his sword moving in a blur of steel. He parried the strike of an incoming blade, the impact jarring his arm, and responded with a counter that left his opponent’s throat open to the cold. Blood sprayed in an arc, vivid and steaming against the snow. Another attacker closed in, their curved blade aiming for his ribs, but Seeker sidestepped, his own sword slashing across their chest in a motion as natural as breathing.
Lightning crackled along the edge of his blade, faint but unmistakable. The air grew heavy, charged with the promise of destruction, as the storm within Seeker stirred.
The Dark Elf leader observed from the back, her expression shifting from disdain to something sharper, something intrigued. “Interesting,” she murmured, almost to herself. “You’re not like the others. Perhaps I’ll keep you alive—long enough to break you.”
Seeker barely heard her. The world around him began to shift, narrowing into sharp focus as the storm within roared to life. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat stretching into an eternity. He could see the faint flicker of movement in the air as an arrow flew toward him, its flight path clear as if traced by invisible hands. He stepped to the side, the motion almost lazy, and the arrow passed harmlessly by.
This state—this hyper-focused clarity—was called Thal'noras in the Elves' tongue, the "Dance of Storm and Shadow." It was a gift to their most elite warriors, a state of perfect synchronization with the battlefield where reflexes, speed, and power transcended mortal limits. For a human to wield it was unthinkable, an affront to their centuries of dominance.
But Seeker wielded it now.
His sword moved like a living thing, guided by the storm that raged within him. He ducked under a sweeping strike, his blade flashing upward to catch an Elf beneath their jaw. The crackle of lightning danced along the wound, and the smell of ozone mingled with the metallic tang of blood. Another attacker lunged from his right, but Seeker twisted, his reflexes impossibly fast, and drove his blade into their side.
His movements were relentless, his strikes precise and brutal. The Elves fell around him, their crimson eyes wide with shock as the human before them fought with a power that shouldn’t have been his to command.
Yet with every strike, Seeker felt the storm push back. It wasn’t a gift freely given—it was a force barely contained, a power that demanded control and threatened to consume him if he faltered. The lightning in his veins burned, each surge of power leaving his muscles trembling, his breath short. He gritted his teeth, forcing the magic to bend to his will, but the cost was growing with every moment.
The Dark Elf leader stepped forward at last, her black blade gleaming with runes that shimmered like oil on water. “You fight well,” she said, her voice carrying over the chaos. “But power without mastery is a hollow thing.”
She moved like a whisper, her blade slashing toward Seeker with a speed that seemed to blur reality. He barely had time to parry, his sword clashing against hers with a screech of metal. The force of the impact drove him back a step, his boots slipping slightly on the snow.
“Your kind doesn’t belong here,” she hissed, her crimson eyes blazing. “You’re an aberration—a mistake.”
Seeker didn’t reply. He couldn’t. The storm within him surged, demanding release, and he let it. Lightning erupted along his blade, a blinding arc that forced the Dark Elf leader to leap back, her graceful movements betraying a flicker of unease.
But she wasn’t finished. With a shout in her own tongue, she summoned reinforcements—more Elves emerging from the shadows, their weapons drawn. Seeker’s unit was outnumbered, their defensive line buckling under the relentless assault.
Time slowed again. The storm roared, drowning out the sound of battle as Seeker moved.
He became a force of nature, his strikes too fast to follow, his movements too fluid to counter. He drove his sword into the chest of one Elf, then spun to deliver a crushing kick to another, his strength amplified by the magic coursing through him. His blade crackled with power, each strike accompanied by a surge of lightning that left his enemies stunned or lifeless.
But it wasn’t enough.
For every Elf he cut down, two more seemed to take their place. The Dark Elf leader advanced again, her blade a blur of shadows and sharp edges, and Seeker barely deflected her strikes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body screaming in protest as the storm within threatened to tear him apart.
He caught her next strike on his blade, their faces inches apart, her crimson eyes burning with hatred and fascination. “You’ll break,” she whispered, her voice like a promise. “They always do.”
Seeker gritted his teeth, the storm roaring louder. “Not today.”
With a surge of strength that felt like it would tear him apart, he shoved her back, his lightning-charged blade arcing toward her in a desperate strike. She dodged, but the sheer force of the attack sent her stumbling.
Behind him, Harken shouted, his shield raised against a flurry of arrows. Gale’s daggers flashed as he fought to keep their flank secure, and Sarra’s spear struck down another foe. Liora, trembling but resolute, loosed an arrow that caught an Elf in the throat.
“We need to fall back!” Harken bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Seeker hesitated, his body screaming for rest, his mind battling the storm that begged for more. But he saw the truth in Harken’s words. They couldn’t win this fight—not here, not now.
“Retreat to the ridge!” he shouted, his voice hoarse but commanding.
The unit moved as one, their retreat disciplined despite the chaos. Seeker was the last to move, his blade flashing one final time to drive back the Dark Elf leader. She didn’t pursue immediately, her crimson eyes narrowing as she watched him retreat.
“Thal’noras,” she murmured, her lips curling into a smile. “Interesting indeed.”
Seeker’s unit reached the ridge, the Elves’ pursuit slowing as they regrouped. But as they crested the rise, Seeker’s breath caught.
Below, an army stretched across the valley. Rows of Elves, their banners snapping in the icy wind, their siege engines dark silhouettes against the snow. It was a force that could crush Torvald with ease.
Seeker’s heart pounded, the storm within him still roaring. “We have to get back,” he said, his voice tight. “Now.”
And with that, they ran, the shadows of the Elves close behind.
The retreat through the pass was a blur of pain and determination. The narrow path forced them into a single line, each step a desperate attempt to put distance between themselves and the pursuing Elves. The cliffs loomed on either side, their shadows stretching long in the dying light. The air was thick with the scent of frost and blood, and every sound—the crunch of snow, the scrape of boots against stone—felt deafening in the silence that followed the battle.
Behind them, the Elves pursued with relentless precision. Arrows whistled through the air, striking dangerously close, and the echo of their footfalls was a constant reminder that the enemy was not far behind.
Then came the screams.
Seeker didn’t turn. He couldn’t. The loss of the recruits who had been slower, less experienced, was a weight that pressed against his chest, but he forced himself to keep moving. He could grieve later—if there was a later.
By the time they reached the outer edges of Torvald, the group was battered and broken. The fortress loomed ahead, its gates standing resolute against the encroaching darkness. The sight of its stone walls and towering ramparts brought a fleeting sense of relief, but it was short-lived. Seeker knew what was coming. The army they had seen in the valley was a force unlike anything Torvald had faced before.
The guards at the gate recognized them immediately, their expressions a mix of relief and alarm as they ushered the group inside. Harken stumbled, his shield slipping from his grasp as he leaned against the stone for support. Gale collapsed onto a crate, his chest heaving with exhaustion, while Sarra dropped to her knees, her spear clattering to the ground. Liora stood motionless, her wide eyes fixed on Seeker as if seeking reassurance he couldn’t give.
Seeker himself was pale, his breaths shallow, his body trembling from the strain of the retreat and the battle before it. The storm within him was quiet now, spent, but its absence left an aching void that felt almost worse.
“They’re coming,” he said, his voice raw as he turned to the guards. “An army. Thousands of them. Siege engines. Everything.”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances before nodding and disappearing into the fortress to deliver the message.
Seeker turned to his unit, his gaze heavy with the weight of their losses and the battle to come. “Rest,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. “We’ll need every ounce of strength for what’s ahead.”
As his unit dispersed, seeking what little comfort they could find within the fortress walls, Seeker remained standing at the gates, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Beyond the walls, the night was dark and silent, but he could feel the storm building in the distance—the enemy marching ever closer.
And he knew, deep in his bones, that Torvald would not stand unscathed.
But it would stand. It had to.