The cycle of blood and fire had no end.
Even the autumn sun seemed to recoil from this land, scoured again and again by death. It hung low and dim, its light fractured by towering columns of black smoke that clawed skyward like grasping hands. The air was thick—charred timber, roasted flesh, burnt grain—all fused into a suffocating stench that clung to the northern frontier like a curse that refused to fade.
And in the days that followed, nothing changed.
Only repetition.
Colin's army moved like a mechanism devoid of mercy—precise, tireless, inevitable. Along a predetermined path, it advanced without pause, crushing everything in its wake.
"Target: Stone Mill."
Anna's voice was cold, stripped of all humanity.
"A riverside settlement. Approximately one hundred twenty households. Minimal militia. Poorly equipped."
It sounded less like a report—and more like a sentence already carried out.
"Received."
Hask's reply carried its usual hunger.
Then came the thunder.
The Wolf Fang Cavalry surged forward, iron hooves tearing through the quiet dawn. But they had changed. They no longer rushed blindly into slaughter.
They herded.
Like predators guiding prey, they drove villagers from homes and hiding places—fields, sheds, riverbanks—forcing them into the open center. Whistling arrows and circling hooves closed every escape.
Anyone who resisted was cut down instantly—split apart, crushed beneath hooves, erased.
The message spread faster than fire:
Resistance was death.
Hope was death.
The Forest Trackers followed—silent, merciless. Their arrows came from impossible angles, striking down any spark of defiance: a man with a bow, a boy gripping a pitchfork, a shadow moving behind a window.
Precision. Efficiency. Finality.
By the time the infantry arrived, there was nothing left to conquer.
Only hollow shells of people—eyes empty, spirits already broken.
What followed was routine.
Slaughter. Fire. Destruction.
Wells filled. Fields ruined. Structures reduced to ash.
No hesitation.
No excess movement.
No wasted breath.
The soldiers no longer roared.
They no longer exulted.
Killing had become… work.
Clean. Efficient. Mechanical.
Colin watched it all from atop Mo.
Silent. Unmoved.
In his eyes, these people were no longer human.
They were components—pieces of Count Raymond's machine. Every life extinguished was a cog removed, every village burned a fracture spreading through that system.
With each corpse, the weight of his hatred diminished—just slightly.
It was a cold, brittle logic.
But it carried him forward.
Relentlessly.
Black smoke rose in endless pillars.
From above, it would resemble a grotesque painting—an unseen god using ash and flame to etch a sprawling mural of ruin across the land.
These plumes became banners.
Silent. Unmistakable.
A declaration to all who saw them:
Destruction had come.
After thirteen villages and two manors fell to ash, the army turned toward a new target.
Triple Fork Junction.
Unlike the others, this was no mere farming settlement. It sat at the convergence of three roads—a crude but thriving trade hub. Its earthen walls were low, but watchtowers stood alert. Guards patrolled. Merchants flowed in and out, sustaining a fragile prosperity.
Anna's report came sharper than usual.
"One hundred fifty stationed guards. Better equipped. Leather armor, iron weapons. At least fifty additional caravan guards inside."
She paused.
"A large caravan is preparing to depart east."
Colin studied the map, his finger tapping lightly.
A direct assault would cost time.
Time they did not have.
But the caravan…
That was opportunity.
Fresh. Exposed.
"Hask."
"Here."
"Feint from the west. Make noise. Draw everything."
A grin crept into Hask's voice. "Understood."
"Anna."
"Yes."
"Circle east. When that caravan moves—pin it. No survivors escaping."
A quiet nod.
"The rest—hold."
The plan unfolded with brutal simplicity.
Soon, chaos erupted at the western wall. Hask's cavalry roared forward, striking, retreating, taunting. Arrows flew. Shouts rose. Every eye turned west.
No one watched the east.
The caravan fled in panic.
And walked straight into death.
Anna's riders emerged like ghosts.
Arrows fell.
Horses screamed and collapsed. Guards died before they understood the danger.
The encirclement closed.
The battle ended in minutes.
When Colin arrived, it was already over.
Bodies littered the ground. Blood soaked the dirt.
The merchant lay headless.
Only the carts remained.
And the horses.
Colin's gaze lingered.
Not warhorses—but strong. Durable. Useful.
"Suitable for riding," Anna confirmed.
Fifteen in total.
Colin turned.
Behind her stood thirteen unmounted Forest Trackers—the last remnants of a slower force.
"Assign them," he said.
No hesitation.
Then, after a pause—
"Two more."
His gaze shifted to the Deer-folk.
"Choose the best."
Confusion flickered. Then obedience.
Two young warriors stepped forward—fear and pride intertwined.
Hask dragged one onto a horse with little ceremony.
"Hold tight! Legs, not arms! Don't sit like a corpse!"
The youth trembled, stiff as wood.
Laughter broke out.
But it wasn't cruel.
It was… alive.
A rare thing.
Colin watched.
Expressionless.
Seeds had been planted.
Whether they would grow—didn't matter yet.
Everything was being shaped.
Everything was being forged.
He looked north.
Into the dark.
Through distance. Through night. Through everything.
His gaze settled on a single name.
Iron Oak City.
And the storm had only just begun.