Captain Pasgar Selmor climbed the narrow wooden steps of the watchtower, his boots creaking on the damp planks. When he reached the landing, a bloody scene awaited him. Two bodies lay sprawled on the platform. One was the native warrior who had manned the tower—his dark eyes still open in defiance, a dagger clutched lifelessly in one hand, a musket wound bleeding sluggishly from his chest. The other belonged to a younger man—a gangly soldier from Pasgar’s own unit. A deep gash across his stomach had spilled most of his blood.

  The scent of blood and wet timber hung heavy in the air.

  Pasgar’s gaze shifted to the fire pit in the corner, where the embers still smoldered. The warning signal—the green smoke—had almost gone up. Perhaps it had, for a few heartbeats, before his men doused it just in time.

  He knelt beside the native’s body and touched the charred edge of the unlit herb bundle.

  That was close.

  Surprise had been the key. And this time, it had worked.

  He stood and looked out from the tower. The marshes lay shrouded in fog—a pale, suffocating sea of grey that stretched for leagues. Somewhere beyond it lay the domes and spires of a distant city they had glimpsed from the mountaintops during their descent. It had been no more than fifty miles away as the crow flew, but through forests and swamp, the journey would be far longer.

  Pasgar knew this land would not fall easily. The enemy lacked modern weapons, but they were organized, disciplined, and tightly networked through these watchtowers. His men had observed this post for two full days, noting the routine—the white smoke that rose twice a day at set times, clearly an “all clear” signal to the next tower east. Which, in turn, signaled to another.

  A web of vigilance.

  If the green smoke had risen today, their presence would be known before they took another step forward.

  Pasgar straightened, his jaw tightening. Surprise must be preserved.

  This morning marked the true beginning of their invasion.

  The campaign had already cost sweat and blood before they’d reached this point.

  The journey from the assembly point beyond the mountains had taken its toll. They had waited three days at the rendezvous as battered remnants of other units straggled in. Many had lost men. One company had lost nineteen of its sixty soldiers to a hostile native tribe—including its captain. Pasgar’s own company had fared better, but the losses still weighed on them all.

  Then came the worst blow: General Ferdanis, commander of the entire expedition of twenty companies, fell gravely ill. A mysterious fever wracked his body with waves of chills and burning heat, leaving him delirious and weak. He died on the third night, unable to recover.

  The next senior officer had already perished—killed during the marsh crossing earlier.

  And so, command of the entire contingent had fallen to Captain Pasgar Selmor.

  He did not waste time.

  On the fourth morning, he ordered the climb.

  The treacherous mountain pass would take days, and the native guides refused to go farther. They would escort the invaders only to the pass's mouth, whispering prayers to their gods before retreating as the slopes began.

  All except one.

  A young native named Aracanta stepped forward. Brave, ambitious, and eager to prove himself, he offered to guide them through the pass. He said he had traveled much of it before, in search of lost cattle, and believed he could lead them. His price was simple: a fire-spear, as the natives called the muskets. One to keep—and a lesson in how to use it.

  Pasgar had smiled at that. And he gave his word.

  The climb was as dangerous as expected—narrow ledges, loose rock, and slick slopes from rain gnawed at the men’s nerves. Three days later, they reached the top of the pass. Above them, mountains rose higher into snow-capped peaks. It was summer now, but Pasgar was certain the pass would be impassable in winter.

  It was there that Aracanta approached Pasgar, hand outstretched for his reward.

  Pasgar clapped him on the shoulder and drew a musket from his own satchel. His lieutenant muttered in protest, but Pasgar silenced him with a glance. He handed the weapon over.

  “Watch carefully,” Pasgar said, demonstrating how to load and fire on his own musket. He took aim at a distant boulder and pulled the trigger. The musket barked with fire and smoke, shattering stone.

  Aracanta’s eyes widened. He lifted the musket that Pasgar had handed over to him and aimed at the same target, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  The weapon exploded.

  The blast shredded his arm to the wrist. His scream tore through the thin mountain air.

  Pasgar’s men restrained him quickly as the healers amputated what was left. The boy wept, delirious with pain.

  Pasgar crouched beside him when it was done, speaking slowly so the boy would understand.

  “This is the weapon of the White Gods,” he said, his voice low. “It is forbidden to the tribes. Forbidden.”

  Aracanta could only sob, clutching the bandaged stump.

  The descent was quicker, though no less treacherous. Once they reached the foothills, the marshes began again—an endless stretch of sucking mud, leeches, and hidden sinkholes.

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  And then they found the watchtower.

  The green herb bundles, the white smoke routines—it all made sense now. The enemy had built a network of vigilance, and it would have to be dismantled, one tower at a time.

  So they waited, using the thick fog as their shield, observing the pattern of the men stationed there.

  And this morning, they struck.

  The tower had fallen quickly. No alarm was raised.

  Pasgar looked down at the bodies once more, then turned to his men.

  “This was the first,” he said quietly. “Not the last.”

  The invasion had begun in earnest.

  -----

  Azelrah sat cross-legged on a reed mat laid over the cold stone floor of the cave. The walls curved like a womb, shadowed and silent save for the flicker of lamps in bronze holders. This was the abode of the Wisest One, nestled high in the sacred mountains. There were no thrones or cushioned chairs here—only mats arranged in a semicircle around a single wooden cot at the center, where the Wisest One lay. Even King Zaekharan sat humbly on a mat a few paces from her, his broad back upright, his hands resting loosely on his knees.

  The journey had taken nearly a day and a half. They had halted the previous evening in a cave when the weather suddenly turned rainy and cold. The ascent had been arduous, made on sure-footed mules trained to climb the narrow, crumbling paths that wound through mist and pine. When they arrived—three hours ago, before noon—the disciples had greeted them in solemn silence. The Wisest One, they said, had not spoken in four days. His breath had grown so faint it scarcely stirred the fabric across his chest. These were his final hours.

  The Wisest One's skeletal frame was lost beneath layers of wool and linen, his skin gray and stretched taut over the angles of bone. This frail creature—this dying man—was the one who had spoken prophecy over her name. The one who had entwined her fate with Zaekharan's and whispered of storms from the West.

  A disciple approached quietly and offered Azelrah a steaming cup of kaffa. She accepted with gratitude, her fingers curling around the warmth. The cave was cold, the stone soaking heat from her skin.

  Zaekharan, seated beside her but at a respectful distance, refused the drink with a curt shake of the head. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the still form of the Wise One.

  Then—suddenly—a cry broke the hush.

  One of the disciples gasped aloud, pointing with trembling hands. “He moves!”

  The Wisest One’s fingers twitched. A flutter. Then again—slightly more. The cave seemed to hold its breath. One by one, they rose from their mats and approached the cot.

  His chest rose with a shallow, strained breath. His eyelids fluttered, then opened—filmy and clouded with pain. He blinked slowly, his head tilting as if searching for familiar shapes.

  His gaze found them—Zaekharan and Azelrah.

  Zaekharan was already rising, closing the space between them with swift, controlled steps. Azelrah followed.

  The Wisest One opened his mouth. The voice that emerged was no more than a broken whisper, each word scraped from the bottom of a dwindling well.

  “It has come... the threat from the West.”

  The whisper thickened with dread.

  “They bring death in their breath... and fire to kill.”

  A shaking finger rose from beneath the blanket, pointing at Zaekharan. His gaze, suddenly sharp, locked onto the king.

  “Protect your people,” he rasped. “Protect them.”

  The finger lingered midair a moment longer, trembling with effort—then dropped, lifeless, to the cot.

  A hush fell like a shroud.

  And then the wailing began. The disciples broke into cries and lamentations, their voices echoing off stone, rising in grief.

  Azelrah didn’t move.

  Her gaze was fixed on Zaekharan, who stood as if carved from basalt. His face betrayed no emotion, no reaction—neither shock nor sorrow. Only stillness.

  Yet Azelrah sensed something had shifted in him.

  Something heavy now weighed on his shoulders.

  It was the weight of prophecy.

  ---------

  -----------------

  The ride down from the Wisest One’s abode was swifter than the ascent, but no less dangerous—perhaps even more so. The narrow trail carved into the mountainside was slick from last night’s rain, and loose stones crumbled beneath the hooves of their mules. To either side, sheer drops yawned into mist-veiled gorges.

  Were it not for the surefootedness of the mules—animals trained over countless trips along this sacred path—a single misstep might have sent them plummeting to their deaths. The beasts carried on, unfazed by the heights or the shifting terrain.

  Azelrah, however, was far less at ease. It wasn’t the treacherous path alone that made her uneasy. Her thoughts were knotted around the dying words of the Wisest One.

  “Death in their breath... and fire to kill.”

  What had he meant?

  Were they to face an invasion of monsters?

  The final rites had taken place late last night. The air had been thick with incense and grief. She had not spoken with Zaekharan about the prophecy since then—not even when they’d lain down to sleep, the cave’s chill pressing against their cloaks and silence wrapping tighter than any blanket.

  Now, on the narrow trail homeward, there had been no opportunity to ride side by side. The path allowed for only one mule at a time, and conversation was impossible between the clip-clop of hooves and the whispering wind.

  By midday, they reached the same sheltered clearing where they had camped during the upward journey—a small hollow flanked by pine and rock, with a shallow cave just deep enough to shield from the elements. Zaekharan raised a hand, signaling a brief halt.

  They dismounted and took their meal in silence. Dried venison, seasoned with salt and smoke, torn in strips. Flatbread baked over coals and wrapped in linen. A flask of tart plum wine passed between them.

  As she chewed, Azelrah looked over at the king. His face was solemn, carved from shadow and thought.

  “What now?” she asked softly, breaking the silence.

  Zaekharan met her gaze. “We’ve been preparing for this for years,” he said. “Now is the time to see if we are ready.”

  “Are we?” she asked, voice lower still.

  He was silent a moment. Then: “We still don’t know what the threat is. The Wisest One’s words were once again... cryptic.” He took another bite of meat, chewing thoughtfully. “But we will mobilize. The moment has come. So are we ready?” He looked at her with steady eyes. “A warrior is always ready, come what may, my queen.”

  A cry tore through the clearing.

  One of the guards toppled forward, a black-feathered arrow lodged deep in his chest.

  Chaos erupted.

  “Attackers!” someone shouted. Swords hissed from sheaths. Spears leveled. Shields raised. The soldiers formed a tight ring around Zaekharan and Azelrah.

  Zaekharan was already on his feet, his blade unsheathed with lethal grace.

  “There!” one of the men shouted, pointing to the trees.

  Figures moved among the trunks—some descending from branches, others charging forward with blades drawn and cries on their lips.

  Azelrah saw them—faces partially masked, eyes glinting with murderous purpose.

  “Who are they?” she gasped.

  “Killers sent by our enemies,” Zaekharan growled. “Or friends.” He spat, his tone edged with fury.

  “Inside the cave! All of you!” he barked. “Let them come to us on ground of our choosing. We’ll bleed them one by one.”

  The guards herded inside. Azelrah followed, her sword already drawn—its grip cool and familiar in her hand.

  The cave entrance was narrow, the interior just wide enough to allow five men to stand abreast. It was defensible, but they were outnumbered. Azelrah counted nearly two dozen attackers outside. Zaekharan had fewer than fifteen men.

  And yet, this was sacred ground. By ancient law, no blood was to be shed upon the pilgrimage path to the Wisest One.

  But laws, it seemed, meant little to traitors.

  Zaekharan’s voice rang like a hammer on steel. “Leave a few breathing. I want to know who dares this.”

  The fight began.

  The first wave of attackers rushed the cave mouth, swords gleaming in the sunlight. Zaekharan met them head-on, his blade a blur, cutting down the first with a stroke across the neck. His men fought beside him—spears jabbing, shields slamming forward, daggers slashing in tight arcs.

  Azelrah stood back at first, defending one of the cave’s flanks. But when an enemy broke through, she stepped forward without hesitation, meeting his blade with hers. The clang of metal rang in her bones. She ducked a swing and drove her sword into his side. He fell, choking.

  Bodies piled at the threshold. The confined space turned to chaos—grunts, screams, steel on stone.

  The attackers faltered. Their numbers dwindled under Zaekharan’s relentless fury and the disciplined defense of his men.

  Then—panic. The remaining enemies broke and ran, fleeing back into the forest.

  Zaekharan did not wait.

  “After them!” he shouted, his voice a war drum.

  They surged from the cave into the clearing, the king at the front, Azelrah at his side.

  The sun was sharp overhead now, glinting off bloodied blades. The clearing was small—barely ten paces wide—and surrounded by trees on three sides and a gorge on the fourth.

  But the attackers’ retreat was a trap.

  A few had remained behind, bows already drawn, waiting in the underbrush.

  A whizzing sound sliced through the air.

  One arrow flew past Zaekharan’s head. Another embedded itself in a tree. A third—fast and unerring—struck Azelrah.

  The pain came after.

  She staggered backward, the breath knocked from her lungs. The arrow had struck just above her waist, piercing beneath the curve of her ribs.

  She tried to cry out. Her foot slipped.

  There was no railing, no guardpost. Only empty air.

  She fell in a free fall through open sky and silence.

  Zaekharan turned just in time to see her vanish.

  Her figure tumbled from the edge, swallowed by mist.

  “Azelrah!”

  His voice tore from him, raw and ragged, as he ran toward the gorge.

  But she was gone.

  ------------

  That's the end of Chapter 15. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely.

  Thankyou

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