The entrance to Dry Bone Valley did not welcome.
It consumed.
In the dimming light, it resembled the open jaws of something ancient—stone teeth jagged, throat descending into a darkness that refused to give anything back. The wind moved through it like breath drawn over a corpse, low and hollow, carrying a sound that was almost a lament.
A dirge.
Not for those inside.
For those about to enter.
Colin did not hide.
He stood where the valley began—where shadow swallowed shape—placing himself in full view, as though daring the world to look.
He sat astride Mo, unmoving. The armor he wore, stitched from Frost-Claw Bear hide and reinforced with iron, drank in the weak starlight and gave nothing back but a dull, lifeless sheen. His eyes burned faintly in the dark—cold, steady, inhuman.
Behind him—
Thirteen Wolf Guards.
Still as grave markers.
Their mounts crouched low, white breath curling from their muzzles in slow, measured bursts. Crossbows rested in their hands, angled with quiet precision, bolts already set—waiting, patient, inevitable.
Further back—
Boulder.
And the Bearmen.
Massive shapes shifting slightly in place, their presence alone pressing against the air like weight. Axes rested on shoulders. Maces hung loosely in thick grips. Their breathing rolled through the stillness—deep, mechanical, relentless.
Sixty.
No more.
A number small enough to mock.
A presence heavy enough to suffocate.
They did not look like an army.
They looked like something cornered.
Something dangerous.
The night did not remain empty for long.
On the horizon—
Light appeared.
Not gentle.
Not scattered.
A line.
Then many.
Torches—dozens, then hundreds—coiling across the darkness like a burning serpent. The sound followed soon after.
Hooves.
Metal.
Movement layered upon movement until it became a single, overwhelming force rolling forward.
They had come.
Alfred saw them first.
And he laughed.
Not out of relief—
Out of contempt.
"So this is it?" he called, his voice carrying easily over the growing thunder. "This is the 'army' we were warned about?"
His whip pointed lazily toward Colin.
"Sixty?" he scoffed. "Seventy, perhaps? Is this some kind of joke?"
Behind him, the knights followed his lead. Laughter rippled through steel ranks, sharp and careless.
To them—
This was already over.
Baron Gus joined in, wheezing amusement shaking his heavy frame.
"All that talk—" he gasped, slapping his thigh, "—of cunning, of danger—"
He waved dismissively toward the valley.
"And this is what we find? Strays. Leftovers."
Only one man did not laugh.
Baron Wald.
His gaze did not leave Colin.
Not once.
There was something wrong.
Deeply wrong.
That stillness.
That absence of reaction.
No fear.
No urgency.
No attempt to flee.
It was not bravery.
It was certainty.
"Young Master," Wald said, his voice low, tight, "this is a trap."
Alfred didn't even look at him.
"They want us inside the valley," Wald pressed, tension cracking through his restraint. "This makes no sense. Their forces—this cannot be all—"
"A trap?" Alfred turned at last, a smile curling—but not kindly.
Mocking.
Sharp.
"With what?" he asked. "These?"
He gestured broadly at Colin's group.
"Do they plan to gnaw us to death?"
A ripple of laughter answered him.
Wald did not join.
"They destroyed Jinxi Town," he said, more urgently now. "They wiped out entire settlements. This is not their full strength. This is—"
"Enough."
Alfred's tone cut him off.
Flat.
Final.
"Opportunity," he said, lifting his sword slightly, "does not wait for cowards to finish speaking."
His gaze locked onto Colin.
Predatory.
"This is their leader."
A pause.
"Kill him—and the rest scatter."
That was all that mattered.
Not logic.
Not doubt.
Victory.
The sword rose.
Higher.
"Knights of the Spear of the West Wind!"
The name echoed.
Swelled.
"Forward!"
And they moved.
The charge began as a ripple.
Then became a flood.
Two hundred mounted knights surged forward, forming a wedge that cut through the darkness, iron and muscle aligned into a single, crushing force. Hooves pounded the earth in unison, each impact feeding the next, until the ground itself seemed to tremble beneath them.
Behind them—
Infantry scrambled to follow.
Slower.
Heavier.
Already lagging behind the storm they could not match.
Wald remained still for a heartbeat too long.
Then turned sharply.
"Infantry! Formation!" he barked. "Move!"
But his voice felt small now.
Drowned beneath the roar of momentum.
Colin watched.
And waited.
Distance collapsed.
Three hundred paces.
Two hundred.
One hundred and fifty—
Now.
"Fire."
The command was quiet.
But absolute.
The crossbows sang.
Not loudly—
But perfectly.
Thirteen bolts tore into the night, their paths clean, deliberate, merciless.
They did not aim for armor.
They aimed lower.
Impact.
Warhorses screamed.
A sound far worse than any human cry.
Bodies collapsed mid-charge, legs buckling, momentum turning them into weapons against themselves. The front line shattered instantly—riders thrown violently forward, steel-clad forms slamming into earth, into each other, into chaos.
The wedge broke.
Not gradually.
Completely.
Behind them, the following ranks had no time.
No space.
They crashed forward—
Into bodies.
Into falling horses.
Into ruin.
Metal screamed.
Bones followed.
The charge died before it reached its target.
Alfred saw it happen.
Felt it.
Rage flared instantly.
"Reform!" he shouted—
But the word came too late.
"Retreat."
Colin's voice cut through the aftermath.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Final.
He turned.
Without hesitation.
Without pause.
Mo moved.
Explosive.
A blur of white cutting into the darkness of the valley beyond.
The others followed.
Quick.
Disordered.
Convincing.
Shouts rose—ragged, urgent, desperate.
The illusion formed perfectly.
Boulder even played his part.
Turning back.
Throwing stones wildly.
A gesture of frustration.
Of fear.
Of failure.
"They're breaking!" Alfred shouted, disbelief transforming instantly into elation.
"They're running!"
Laughter returned—louder now, sharper, fueled by the sudden reversal.
Victory.
Clear.
Obvious.
Within reach.
"After them!"
The command came without thought.
Without restraint.
"I'll take his head myself!"
Alfred spurred his horse forward, skirting the wreckage, pushing deeper into the valley.
Behind him—
The knights followed.
Then the infantry.
All of them pulled forward by the same force.
Momentum.
Expectation.
Greed.
No one looked back.
No one looked up.
Because if they had—
They might have seen it.
The stillness.
On the ridges.
Behind the rocks.
Within the shadows.
Eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
The valley accepted them.
One by one.
Then all at once.
And when the last of them crossed the threshold—
The mouth closed.