Stecepiy’s unit was closing in on its final objective of this mission.

  Ahead lay the quartermasters’ cache — a site where valuable supplies were stored, gathered for the army’s further advance. Secure them and rejoin the Royal Army — that was how the end of this raid looked, clear and simple. At least on paper.

  This time, they had time to rest. They managed to warn the last observation post, passed on their reports, and now knew that the information would reach the rear without delay. That gave a rare sense of completion for such operations, as if most of the risk was already behind them.

  The unit set out in the morning, having rested in the forest. The damp ground still held the chill of the night, and the air was heavy and wet. A few hours of travel remained before the cache. They expected to reach it after midday, sort the supplies, and set off toward the Solmar border the very next day.

  The situation looked relatively calm.

  Yes, a sabotage unit was operating in these forests, but it was only a single detachment. There were no signs of an army presence, which meant there was no real threat of large enemy forces breaking into the rear. One unit, even the most professional, would be severely limited in its options when approaching any settlement of even modest size.

  Besides, word of their actions would soon spread throughout this part of the kingdom.

  The element of surprise never lasts long.

  This time, Stecepiy’s only real enemy was the weather.

  The rain had not stopped since early morning and had already washed out the roads. Clay clung to their boots, steps grew heavier, movement slower. As the rain intensified, the unit began to freeze outright: cloaks were soaked through, water ran down their collars, and fingers stiffened with cold.

  The cache was located in a cave near a waterfall — a place where they could warm themselves, light a fire, and dry their gear. That thought alone kept them moving.

  The path led along a river flowing from the waterfall. To the left rose cliffs — dark, slick, nearly vertical. Just before the waterfall, the road made a sharp turn to the left and disappeared behind stone outcroppings, vanishing from sight.

  The unit was already approaching the waterfall. It was visible to the naked eye: a white ribbon of water plunged downward, dissolving into mist. It looked as though the road simply ended there. Only those who knew the terrain remembered the turn — sharp, almost unnatural.

  The rain suddenly grew heavier.

  The unit picked up speed. In that moment, everyone forgot about formation. The line broke apart, people almost chaotically running forward — toward the waterfall, toward the cliffs, toward anywhere they could hide from the downpour.

  The scout ran first.

  He was the first to reach the spot where the road bent sharply. He didn’t stop or look back — just kept running, pulling about ten meters ahead of the others.

  That was the moment everything could have gone wrong.

  The instant the scout reached the turn, a heavy Manurd warrior appeared from the left, from behind the rocks.

  Their detachment was extremely close — literally just behind them. They too had been running for shelter from the rain, and until the very last moment, the rocks had hidden Stecepiy’s unit from sight and sound. The heavy rain drowned out footsteps, voices, and even the clatter of gear. The encounter happened suddenly — at a distance of just a few steps, with no time to react.

  Their composition was classic for a military squad:

  a heavy warrior, an archer, a Suggestor, a medic, a commander, and a scout.

  This was not the first Ceredan unit the Manurds had encountered in this forest over the past weeks. The others had failed to put up any serious resistance. Destroying yet another enemy squad had become almost routine for them — and even a source of grim satisfaction.

  The heavy warrior shoved Stecepiy’s scout hard.

  The scout slipped and nearly fell, but managed to stay on his feet, instinctively raising his shield just in time to take the axe blow. The strike was heavy and dull — metal howled, the scout’s arms jolted from the impact. Without giving him time to recover, the enemy immediately followed with a second blow — this time with the shield.

  The Ceredan scout was hurled backward and landed on his back several meters away, sliding through the mud.

  The heavy warrior was already moving in to finish him, raising his axe overhead, when Stecepiy burst into the fight.

  His attack was sharp and precise. Blow after blow rained down, denying the Manurd any chance to bring his strength to bear. The enemy’s momentum quickly collapsed — he fell into a tight, desperate defense, retreating step by step, breathing heavily.

  But almost immediately, another Manurd warrior rushed in to help him.

  Stecepiy took him on as well.

  He was faster, more precise, and kept his balance better even on the slick ground. The second warrior couldn’t withstand the pressure — a few clean hits forced him to retreat, losing the initiative.

  Nearby, the Manurds’ commander had locked into combat with the heavy warrior from Stecepiy’s unit.

  The balance of power was uneven. The commander fought cold and ruthlessly. He broke through his opponent’s defense quickly, knocked him aside, and without wasting a second turned back toward the primary target — Stecepiy.

  Stecepiy failed to stop the third strike.

  His foot slid on the wet clay, and he went down.

  The ground was too slick. Once down, there was almost no chance of getting back up under such pressure.

  Three Ceredan fighters lay on the ground.

  Two Manurds stood over them, weapons raised.

  Both were swinging to finish Stecepiy.

  But this was not Stecepiy’s entire unit.

  Just as he was ready to die, the enemies looming over him suddenly recoiled — sharp, instinctive movements, as if something had struck them before they could even understand what was happening.

  Lightning hit the Palmers’ commander and his comrade.

  Not real lightning — but the brain made no distinction.

  The commander collapsed, unable to rise. Darkness slammed into his vision. For a fraction of a second, everything vanished, then sight returned in fragments — the brain still resisted, struggling to maintain control over the body. But each attempt grew weaker. The darkness rolled back again and again, heavy and sticky, until consciousness began to fade completely.

  It was a suggestion.

  Stecepiy’s comrade worked brutally, without embellishment, forcing the sensation of death as if it had already happened. Stecepiy couldn’t see exactly what the Palmers’ commander was experiencing, but he saw enough to understand — he had gained time.

  He didn’t get up. He crawled.

  Together with two other warriors, just as wounded and stunned, he dragged himself back, sliding over the wet ground, grabbing at stones and roots.

  The Palmers’ commander couldn’t resist the Suggestion.

  Within seconds, his body went almost completely numb. Movement vanished, breathing grew shallow, and consciousness shattered into fragments. It felt like one more moment — and it would be over.

  Then, suddenly, it stopped.

  Sight snapped back. The world became sharp again. The body that had just been burned by imaginary lightning obeyed once more. The reason was simple and brutal.

  An archer from his unit shot Stecepiy’s Suggestor — and hit.

  The Suggestor was forced to break off. The Suggestion collapsed as abruptly as it had begun.

  A second later, Matif returned fire — and hit as well.

  He spotted another enemy Suggestor, shifted his aim, and shot him too.

  But immediately after that, the Palmers’ commander hurled a knife at him.

  The blade buried itself in Matif’s shoulder, breaking the shot, knocking him off his feet. He screamed and fell into the mud, clutching the wound.

  After a few minutes of fighting, the only ones left uninjured on either side were the medics.

  Everyone else lay on the ground — some stunned, some bleeding out, some crawling away, leaving dark trails behind them. Slowly, painfully, but stubbornly, they dragged themselves toward their healers — the only ones still standing.

  The fight didn’t end.

  It simply shifted into a phase of survival.

  The rain didn’t stop.

  With every passing minute, the movements of both squads grew clumsier. The ground turned into one continuous slick mass; feet slid out from under them, and people fell even without being struck. Because of this, the clash of two professional units increasingly resembled a drunken brawl — heavy, chaotic, and humiliatingly slow.

  At some point, it became clear: continuing the fight in this state was impossible.

  They stopped attacking.

  Instead, they started shouting at each other.

  “Damned Palmers! This isn’t your forest! Your place is the desert, catching mice!”

  “Ha! We came into your forest and kicked the ass of your whole unit!”

  “Yeeah, brave choice. Were you just as brave when you burned our farming villages on the border?”

  “Your villages? You’re the ones who burned ours!”

  “We burned them? You’re lying! I saw a surviving family. They told us about your actions!”

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “And I saw a family too! They said how at night you set fire to the straw around the houses so no one could escape, and then sent dogs after those who ran!”

  “What nonsense are you spewing! That was your beasts doing it! I heard it from a boy!”

  “A boy?” — the voice sharpened. — “Let me guess, red-haired, freckles on his face?”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because he was with us. And reported the attack!”

  The shouting and curses gradually faded.

  Both voices dropped lower, more cautious. As if one of them suddenly realized he’d said too much.

  “So what did they say after that?” came a quieter question from the Manurds’ side.

  The pause dragged on.

  “They said they had to leave the city…”

  “…because their relatives lived in a neighboring village,” the other voice continued carefully. “And then they disappeared?”

  There was no answer right away.

  The rain filled the silence, running down armor, faces, and the ground where, just minutes ago, people had been trying to kill each other.

  “Yes,” came the reply at last. “As if they had never existed.”

  There was no anger left in that silence.

  Only something worse — doubt.

  Now the fighters of both squads silently bandaged their wounds.

  Without insults.

  Without shouting.

  Without even looking at one another.

  Some sat with their backs against the rocks. Others lay still, teeth clenched, while the medics did their work. The rain washed the blood away, the bandages soaked through almost immediately, but no one complained. There was no hostility left in that silence — only exhaustion and understanding.

  Here, at the edge of the continent, they had met because of events none of them had started.

  Each of them had walked their own path, followed orders, trusted the words of those far away from this forest, from this rain, from this slippery ground. And only after the fight did it become clear: these were not the enemy.

  Not the ones they had been described.

  But it was already too late.

  The armies had been assembled.

  The armies were moving.

  And they were preparing to take revenge on one another for actions that none of these people had committed.

  Orders were already traveling along roads that do not turn back. Letters, messengers, signals — all of it moved faster than the truth that had been born here, in the mud and pain.

  And they were too far away.

  And too badly wounded.

  To warn anyone in time.

  Southern Border

  The army of Ceredan had already advanced several kilometers deep into enemy territory.

  The king’s scouts spread out in all directions, gathering fragments of information about enemy movements, roads, and the condition of cities and villages. But the farther they advanced, the clearer one strange thing became: they still had not encountered the army of Solmar.

  The king expected an enemy maneuver at any moment.

  The campaign was far too quiet.

  Ceredan’s forces were now closing in on the great city of the Palmers — Oratai. According to every calculation, this was where the decisive battle was supposed to take place.

  Serain climbed a hill together with his advisers.

  Before them, the valley opened up — wide and exposed, with a river cutting it in two. At the far end, like a frozen shadow, stood the city. Walls, towers, dark roofs — Oratai looked back at them in silence, offering no sign.

  Behind Serain, units of cavalry, infantry, and archers moved up the slope. Reaching the crest, they stopped to stare at the city.

  “At last — the enemy!” someone shouted.

  Others took up the cry.

  “We’ll tear this city apart!”

  The roar rolled through the ranks like a wave. There was more excitement in it than hatred.

  The kingdom had been developing rapidly over the past few years. Everyone could feel it — in the cities, in trade, in confidence about tomorrow. The army, however, had not fought for a long time. For many, this was meant to be their first real campaign.

  Because of that, morale was high.

  The expectation of glory had not yet been spoiled by the horrors of war.

  Orders came swiftly and clearly. The camp began to take shape, guards were posted, and defensive sectors assigned. Engineers prepared to build siege engines, officers prepared to protect the camp from possible counterattacks.

  Everything looked right.

  Everything looked under control.

  And only Serain, staring at the silent Oratai, felt that the most dangerous part was still ahead.

  In the distance, a scouting party was moving in.

  They advanced quickly, without bothering to hide — and that alone made it clear their report would not be routine. Their task had been to assess how many defenders the city had, where its weak points were, what the surrounding terrain was like, and how well supplied the defenders were. Standard work before a siege. But now there was something nervous, fractured in their movement.

  Serain waited for them to approach. When he recognized the signals and was sure they were his men, he stepped forward to meet them himself.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! We have urgent news!”

  The shout alone made it clear: this briefing would not be typical.

  Serain hurried toward them. Cael, Nahir, and Kordain followed close behind.

  “King Serain, sirs,” the scout began, breathing heavily. “Request permission to assemble a large detachment and move into the city.”

  Kordain immediately frowned.

  — “What do you mean, inside the city?” Kordain snapped. “Did the defenders decide to open the gates?”

  “No, General Kordain,” the scout shook his head. “We observed the city for several hours and managed to get close enough.”

  He swallowed.

  “The city is destroyed. It looks like there are no defenders left.”

  Serain tensed.

  “Destroyed?” he repeated slowly. “By whom? Are you certain? Did you see what’s inside?”

  “Yes,” the scout answered without hesitation. “We saw burned buildings. The rear gate is destroyed. You can’t see everything from there, but it’s obvious: whoever wiped out the defenders came in from the rear.”

  He leaned closer.

  “Permission to assemble a mounted detachment and enter the city. To make sure it’s not a trap. There appear to be bodies inside. There’s a stench. The city is… dead.”

  Serain was silent for several seconds. He looked at his advisers, as if searching for any familiar logic in what he was hearing.

  Kordain broke the silence.

  “Fine. Take my guard. I’ll go with you,” he said firmly. “We’ll cover your withdrawal if anything goes wrong.”

  Kordain looked at Serain, waiting for confirmation.

  “Very well,” Serain replied. “But don’t go in with the first men.”

  “I’ll go too,” Nahir added. “I might notice something.”

  “And me,” Cael said.

  Serain shook his head at once.

  “No. You stay here.”

  He glanced back toward the camp.

  “We need to prepare the defenses. This is either a trap, or there’s someone else here besides Solmar. Either way, we have to be ready.”

  Kordain gave a short nod, turned, and began issuing orders to the officers as he moved.

  Within minutes, he and Nahir, along with a detachment of cavalry, were riding swiftly toward the city.

  Oratay.

  A city that was never meant to be empty.

  Half an hour later, they were at the shattered gate, looking inside.

  The city looked exactly as the scouts had described it.

  Everything inside was ruined. Belongings lay scattered, houses were burned out, and roofs collapsed. Dead livestock lay along the streets—where it had fallen, there it remained. Bodies were everywhere. Far too many for an ordinary attack.

  And yet the outer wall was intact.

  Only the gate had been destroyed.

  The ground around it was trampled. Tracks of countless feet, hooves, and bodies dragged across the earth. Signs that many people had been here. But there were no marks of a siege.

  After the first scouts entered the city, Nahir and Kordain joined them.

  They moved carefully, without haste, listening to every sound. The scouts went into houses, checked cellars, storerooms, and attics. They searched for enemies. They searched for survivors.

  The city was empty.

  Nahir examined the bodies carefully. He was looking for familiar signs—similar to what he had seen in the border village. Wounds, traces of fire, the manner of death. The central buildings had been destroyed far more thoroughly than the rest, as if the main blow had landed there. Along the edges of the city, however, the buildings were almost intact.

  The Ceredanians had been roaming the city for nearly an hour now, entering every house, missing no corner.

  Nahir stepped into yet another dwelling, trying to find at least some kind of answer. Inside, it was quiet. He stopped near a wardrobe when suddenly he heard a scream from the neighboring house.

  Sharp. Broken. Panicked.

  The Ceredanian scouts had found someone there. Someone was screaming and trying to flee, not watching where they ran, slipping on ash and debris.

  They were caught quickly.

  Nahir ran toward the sound.

  It was an ordinary Solmar townsman. Darker skin, black hair, a sharp nose—everything about him marked him as a typical native of these lands. His clothes were torn, his hands were shaking, and his eyes darted wildly. He was clearly not in his right mind.

  Two scouts held him by the arms.

  He muttered something, struggled, gasped for breath in terror, while the scouts had already begun asking questions—short, precise, without raising their voices.

  And Nahir realized:

  The answers they had been looking for might finally be spoken.

  “What’s your name? Where is the army? Answer!”

  The man screamed and did not respond. His eyes flicked back and forth, his body jerked, his words dissolved into incoherent cries.

  Someone splashed water on him. It worked—he flinched, coughed, and calmed down a little.

  They gave him water.

  He drank greedily, without stopping, spilling it down his chin. Then he rasped, almost pleading, that he wanted food. The scouts exchanged glances and gave him something to eat.

  He started eating immediately—fast, ravenous, swallowing almost without chewing.

  The scouts waited.

  They gave him a few minutes.

  Then they began asking questions—slowly, one at a time.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Numak… Numak is my name…” he answered, his gaze darting chaotically around. “I live here.”

  “Numak,” one of the scouts said carefully, “do you understand that there is no city anymore? Everyone is dead?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I take care of them. They ask me to take care.”

  The scouts tensed.

  “Numak, who killed them? Where are the others?”

  “They’re all here…” he whispered. “All here. There are no others.”

  “Numak,” the voice grew harder, “who killed them?”

  “They weren’t killed,” he replied. “They were freed.”

  He swallowed.

  “He said he would free everyone. They… they said so.”

  “Numak,” Nahir cut in, “listen to me. They are dead. And you are alive. And we are alive. For now.”

  Numak began looking around again. His gaze slid along the walls, the street, the dead bodies. He fell silent.

  Nahir said quietly, “Let’s get him out of here. Maybe he’ll come to his senses. Take him back to the camp.”

  The scouts took Numak by the arms to lift him onto a horse.

  His body relaxed. His gaze sharpened. His voice changed—steady, alien.

  “They’re from the forest,” he said calmly. “There are many of them.”

  He stared straight ahead.

  “They found us. And now they’ll find you, too. You won’t be able to hide in cities, because they have him.”

  The scouts froze.

  “He’ll reach you anywhere,” Numak continued. “Just as he reached us.”

  He smiled—but there was nothing human in that smile.

  “He’s back in the forest now. But soon he’ll come. You’re next!”

  He tilted his head.

  “Scavengers. Scavengers are his eyes.

  Where the scavengers are, he will be there.

  And they will be there.”

  The scouts exchanged looks. No one joked. No one asked questions.

  Kordain slowly turned to Nahir.

  “We need to get to Korosten immediately,” he said quietly.

  “Rianes and Velm won’t stand a chance.”

  And this time, no one argued.