Chapter 64: The Storm Breaks

  The night wind howled as Marcus, Vira, and Boruk tore across the moonlit plains, their mounts galloping at the very edge of exhaustion. Every hoofbeat against the hard-packed earth was a drumbeat toward war, their urgency a force that seemed to defy nature itself. The distant glow of firelight stained the horizon, an omen of the battle already raging at the Orc Stronghold.

  “We’re pushing them too hard,” Vira muttered, her sharp eyes flicking toward her horse’s heaving flanks. Sweat foamed at the beast’s neck, its breaths coming in ragged huffs.

  Boruk grunted, his expression grim. “No choice. We’re already two days behind.”

  Marcus barely heard them. His focus remained locked on the distant columns of smoke spiraling into the sky. The Stronghold was burning. The Thane’s forces had arrived in full, and every second wasted was another life lost.

  Suddenly, Vira raised a clenched fist, signaling them to slow. Her head snapped toward the thickening tree line ahead, her gaze narrowing.

  “Look.”

  Marcus followed her gaze. Along the bark of several trees, deep claw-like markings ran in sets of three, each one deliberately etched into the wood. The pattern was unmistakable.

  “Ambush markers,” she murmured. “Someone’s been here—recently.”

  Boruk leaned forward in his saddle, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the wind. His expression darkened. “Not the Thane’s men. This scent is different.”

  Marcus flexed his fingers, Ki humming just beneath his skin. A deep, instinctual prickle ran up his spine, warning him they were not alone.

  “We ride carefully,” he said. “Whatever’s out here... it’s waiting.”

  They pressed forward at a slower pace, senses on high alert. The wind carried distant whispers through the trees, the unmistakable sensation of unseen eyes following their every move. The night itself had become an enemy.

  Arixa found Vealeth where she expected him—seated atop a ruined temple outside Canindrus, his silhouette cast against the rising moon. The Drake warrior sat cross-legged, sword and shield resting beside him, his eyes closed in deep meditation.

  She stepped forward, her boots crunching against the ancient stone. “We need you.”

  Vealeth didn’t open his eyes. “War is coming, then.”

  Arixa folded her arms. “It’s already started.”

  Finally, he exhaled, opening his golden eyes to meet hers.

  Arixa hesitated only briefly before pressing on. “Marcus is riding into a warzone. The Orc Stronghold won’t survive without him—but he won’t survive without us.”

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  Vealeth tilted his head. “You’re invested in this.”

  Arixa’s hands clenched at her sides. “Because I believe he might actually win.”

  Something flickered in Vealeth’s gaze—amusement, perhaps. He smirked. “I never thought I’d see you put faith in a human.”

  She scowled. “Shut up.”

  Vealeth chuckled, standing and stretching his arms. “Fine. I’ll play my part.”

  Arixa exhaled, relieved. “Good.”

  As she turned to leave, Vealeth murmured, “This should be interesting.”

  Then, with a flash of movement, he vanished into the night.

  The Thane’s war camp was a beast of iron and fire. Thousands of soldiers moved in disciplined formations beneath flickering torchlight, their armor glinting like the teeth of some great mechanical beast. Siege engines—towering catapults, mana cannons, and iron-plated battering rams—stood poised for destruction.

  Inside the command tent, Thane Vulgaris loomed over a massive war map, his dark eyes studying every line and marker.

  Commander Dresk, still nursing his bruises from the earlier skirmish, stood beside him. “The Orcs resist harder than we anticipated,” he admitted.

  Vulgaris smirked, unbothered. “Good. I prefer an opponent with spirit.”

  He reached forward, dragging his armored fingers across the war map. “The preemptive strikes were only the first movement. Now, we bring overwhelming force.”

  Dresk inclined his head. “A three-pronged assault?”

  “Yes,” Vulgaris murmured. “Fire mages and siege weapons will bombard them first. The main infantry will strike from the south, while my cavalry flanks from the east.” His smile sharpened. “By dawn, the Stronghold will be ours.”

  Dresk hesitated. “And Marcus Elder?”

  Vulgaris chuckled. “Already accounted for.”

  He gestured toward the shadows of the tent. A hooded figure stepped forward—Kael, a Psycha assassin with cold, empty eyes.

  “Intercept him before he reaches the battlefield,” Vulgaris ordered. “Bring him alive.”

  Kael nodded and vanished into the night.

  From the highest wall of the Stronghold, Chieftain Miran gazed out over the endless sea of torches burning along the horizon. The Thane’s army was on the move.

  Below, the war council argued.

  “They’ll break through by morning,” Gurak growled. “We need to strike first.”

  “No,” Miran said firmly. “We hold.”

  Ragn, freshly returned from another successful ambush, wiped blood from his brow. “We’ve hit them hard, but they’re adapting.”

  Miran’s jaw tightened. “Then we force them to fight our battle, not theirs.”

  He turned back to the battlefield, his gaze heavy with the weight of command.

  "Hurry, Marcus."

  The war camp of the Thane was silent as Kael entered. He moved like a phantom, his Psycha energy shrouding him in the unnatural stillness of a predator on the hunt.

  At the center of the camp, a robed envoy from the Followers of the Black awaited him.

  “Our objectives align,” the envoy said. “The Stronghold is but a distraction.”

  Kael nodded. “Marcus Elder must be taken.”

  The envoy smiled. “He rides as we speak. We will strike before he reaches his allies.”

  Kael said nothing. He merely turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  At last, Marcus, Boruk, and Vira saw the first distant glow of the Orc Stronghold on the horizon.

  The sky churned with smoke, and the distant boom of siege weapons echoed through the plains.

  “We’re almost there,” Vira muttered, breathless.

  Then— A shift.

  Marcus’ instincts screamed.

  Something unseen lurked just beyond the trees.

  Before he could react, shadows moved.

  A glint of steel.

  Boruk barely had time to curse before the first blade struck.

  The assassins had arrived.

  Marcus dodged just in time, the first dagger missing his throat by inches. He twisted, striking out with his gauntleted fist—only to hit nothing but air.

  These assassins were fast. Too fast.

  Boruk roared, drawing his axe as a second attacker lunged. He blocked the strike, forcing his opponent back.

  Vira spun, blades flashing as she parried an incoming strike. "This isn’t random!" she shouted. "They were waiting for us!"

  Marcus gritted his teeth. The battlefield wasn’t

  waiting. The war wasn’t coming.

  It was here.

  And now, it had found him.