The Dusmir camp was a living wound on the landscape—raw, restless, and stinking of oil, sweat, and smoke. Rows of tents stretched across the battered earth like scars that refused to heal. Soldiers moved through the gloom with mechanical purpose: sharpening blades, packing rations, sharing rumors in hushed, tired voices. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that pressed on your chest and made every breath feel stolen.
Another siege. Another castle. Another graveyard in waiting.
I moved through the camp in silence, head down, shoulders heavy from the weight of too many battles. I knew how these stories ended. They always ended the same way.
A familiar voice rumbled behind me. "Rex."
I glanced up to see Arlan—towering, broad-shouldered, his skin a patchwork of old scars. Once a barbarian, now a mercenary, or perhaps just a man who'd found a flag to justify his violence. He offered a crooked smirk.
"Still breathing, huh?"
"Barely," I replied.
He nodded, clapped my shoulder with a force that bordered on affection, and together we fell into step with the rest of our unit.
At the heart of the camp stood the command tent, a hulking structure of black canvas and steel rods, Dusmir banners snapping in the cold wind. Inside, the real war was already underway—fought with maps and words rather than swords.
Gerald Von Baron, Grand Commander of the Dusmir Forces, stood over the war table like a statue carved from marble—tall, refined, and utterly unyielding. His presence alone made junior officers straighten their spines. There was no warmth in his gaze, no comfort in his voice. Only the cold precision of command.
"The outer fortifications of Grannis are triple-layered," Gerald intoned, his gloved hand tracing the map. "Elevated walls, sloped embankments, a kill zone between the barriers. We will not take this with brute force."
Vice Commander Christopher Jaxen stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking over the map with clinical detachment. On Gerald's other side, Legion Leader Jayden Craze watched, his sharp gaze betraying a hunger for action, tempered by discipline.
Gerald gestured to the southern edge of the fortress. "They expect our assault here. We'll give them what they expect." He looked at Jayden. "You'll lead the southern attack. Not to breach, but to draw their eyes. Position siege towers and archers, but hold until the signal."
Jayden nodded, crisp and silent.
Gerald's finger moved to the east. "There's an old waste tunnel beneath the eastern cliff. Narrow, but intact. Five men, no more. Infiltrate, open the northern gate. Once it's open—"
Jaxen placed a marker on the map. "We push everything—cavalry, heavy infantry, support—straight into the courtyard. One decisive strike. No retreat."
Jayden's brow furrowed. "And if the tunnel fails?"
Gerald didn't hesitate. "You hold the south wall. Until you die."
No one flinched. There was no room for fear here.
"We're not playing heroes," Gerald continued. "This is a calculated breach. Any delay, any deviation, and you die—not by my hand, but by theirs." He locked eyes with each of us. "This is not a gamble. This is Dusmir."
The meeting ended with a silent understanding. Outside, the camp moved like a well-oiled machine. Helmets were fastened, straps pulled tight, last meals eaten in grim silence. I sat at the edge of our circle, sharpening my battered sword while Arlan loomed nearby, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"You feel it?" Arlan muttered. "That tension. Like something's watching."
I nodded. "Always feel it. Before every real fight."
"Think this one'll be bad?"
I paused, blade still. "I stopped guessing."
In the distance, torches flickered along the walls of Fort Grannis—a fortress of stone and fire, looming like a tomb waiting to claim us.
Somewhere inside those walls, a commander no one expected was waiting. His presence unknown to Dusmir, but destined to change everything.
– • –
Dawn arrived not in gold, but in a sickly smear of gray across the sky. I stood in formation with the northern assault force, the air thick with the scent of dirt and metal—the prelude to slaughter.
On the high walls, Solmere archers lined the battlements, spear tips glinting in the weak light. Fort Grannis stood unmoved, a wall of death awaiting us.
Gerald's timing was perfect. From the south, the first horn blew, followed by another, then the relentless pounding of war drums. Jayden's diversion force surged forward, siege towers rolling, arrows flying, the noise swallowing the land.
We in the north remained hidden, waiting beyond the treeline. Arlan hummed a barbarian tune under his breath, more growl than melody.
"Hope those rats in the tunnel don't get crushed," he muttered.
I kept my eyes on the gate, heart steady, mind clear. Minutes crawled by.
Then—movement. The fortress's inner portcullis groaned. Chains rattled. The massive gate began to rise, just enough for us to slip through.
We surged forward, silent and focused—boots pounding, steel drawn, breath measured. No speeches, no shouts. Just the cold, efficient rhythm of trained killers.
Inside the courtyard, Solmere soldiers scrambled to form a line, but it was too late. Dusmir was already among them. The first clash of steel was thunder. Men fell, shields splintered, bodies collapsed under the force of our momentum.
I cut down a man with my second breath, another with my third. There was no thought, only instinct—survival honed by years of war.
A knight tried to flank me. Arlan's hammer crashed through his helmet, ending the threat with brutal finality.
"Watch your back," he grunted.
"I trust yours more than mine," I replied, parrying another blow.
The courtyard became a storm of noise and violence. Dusmir banners poured in, Gerald's gamble paying off. But something felt wrong—a slow, crawling dread along my spine.
From the upper balcony of the inner keep, a man appeared. He wore no Solmere standard armor—his plate was silver-gold, noble-crafted, a lion's crest gleaming on his chest. Even at this distance, his eyes burned with cold fire. He drew no weapon, just watched, a faint smile on his lips.
I didn't know his name, but my bones did.
Suddenly, a sword whistled toward me from the right. I turned just in time, catching the blade on my own, the impact jarring my arm. The knight stumbled back—Arlan finished him with a savage blow.
"Three," Arlan muttered, keeping count.
I never counted. The bodies piled up regardless.
The breach had worked—our forces poured in faster than Solmere could respond. But now the chaos thickened, formations breaking down into desperate, bloody knots. The enemy wasn't shattering as expected. Instead, they regrouped, forming pockets of resistance near the inner keep—too quickly, too cleanly.
"We're being funneled," I muttered to Arlan.
He looked, then swore. "They're baiting us."
Above us, the lion-armored figure still watched, unmoving, as if this entire battle was a test. Not a defense, but a trap.
– • –
Beneath our feet, deep in the fortress, Jayden Craze and his squad crawled through the waste tunnel. The air was thick with the stench of rot and old water. Jayden pressed forward, hand on his shortblade, senses sharp.
"Sir… doesn't this feel wrong?" whispered Larn, the youngest.
"Yes," Jayden replied, voice tight.
They reached a shaft opening into the keep's lower barracks. Empty. Dust floated in the light. No guards, no alarm—just the distant echo of battle above. Jayden's grip tightened. "Hold here," he whispered. The squad fell silent, listening to the fortress breathe around them.
Back in the courtyard, a knight's blade sliced across my ribs. Pain flashed, but I didn't falter. I pivoted, drove my sword into the knight's thigh. He screamed. Arlan covered my flank, hammer swinging.
"Barely," I replied when he asked if I was alright.
He grinned. "Better than usual."
But the pattern of battle had shifted. The enemy wasn't collapsing; they were repositioning, pulling back toward the keep—not retreating, but guiding us deeper. We were being drawn in, like water into a trap.
Above, the lion-armored figure remained. Watching. Waiting.
Far from the chaos, Gerald observed the field with a surgeon's eye. Every move, every shift in the enemy's formation was calculated, orchestrated. They had expected the breach. They had designed for it.
Through his scope, Gerald saw the figure in silver-gold armor—no insignia, no rank, but standing above every officer. A name whispered in intelligence circles: Leon. Lionheart. Not a commander, but a weapon. A warning.
"Jaxen," Gerald said quietly, "signal a full halt. No more troops through the breach."
Jaxen blinked. "Sir? We're already—"
"Now," Gerald snapped, voice iron.
Because the man above wasn't commanding an army. He was waiting for the right one to step forward.