Mirashan inspected the soldiers’ camp stretched out before him. Nearly three thousand men were stationed at this advance garrison post—cavalry wheeling their horses in tight formations, infantry parading with drilled precision, smiths hammering sparks from steel. Every man seemed battle-ready.

  But for what?

  For an old man’s ramblings? A phantom threat from the west?

  Mirashan’s lip curled. He had never believed in such things. Magic? Dead for two thousand years, slain by the great King Lufarich when he broke the sorcerers’ power. Dreams and prophecies? Nothing but tools to frighten the gullible and tighten a king’s grip on his throne. Zaekharan might cling to the whispers of some decrepit sage, but Mirashan was not such a fool.

  No—if these men were truly his to command, if the whole army of Drakhalor bent to him, he would not waste them on shadows. The entire continent of Cenraulia would already fly his banner.

  The sound of boots pulled him from his thoughts. The garrison commander approached, saluted sharply, and said, “Sire, we have distressing news.”

  Mirashan’s eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

  “It would be better,” the commander said carefully, “if you heard it from the man himself.”

  He raised his voice. “Bring him in.”

  A disheveled young soldier stumbled into the tent. Dust clung to his boots, sweat streaked his face, and exhaustion bowed his shoulders.

  “This,” the commander announced, “is Viranis, trooper of the western watchtower, fifty miles from here.” He turned to the soldier. “Speak, lad. You stand before Prince Mirashan, Warden of the West.”

  Viranis dropped into a bow. His voice cracked with fatigue. “My prince… it’s come. The attack. From the West.”

  Mirashan leaned forward. “Speak clearly, soldier.”

  And so Viranis told his tale—strange pale men with strange weapons that spat fire and thunder, cutting men down with a sound like cracking stone. At least a hundred of them, perhaps more. The watchtower overrun, his comrades slain. Only he had lived long enough to run the fifty miles to warn them.

  Mirashan might have scoffed—had it been anyone else. But the soldier’s state spoke louder than his words. No man ran fifty miles through swamp and forest for a lie.

  “See that he is rewarded,” Mirashan ordered curtly.

  When the soldier was led away, he sat back in thought. No, he did not believe in prophecy. Not destiny, not visions, not the rants of old men. But this—this was real. And it was an opportunity.

  An opportunity to prove himself worthy. To rise in the eyes of the army, of the people. To carve his name as the true Warden of the West—a title, he suspected, that his brother and that snake Riyan had contrived only to mock him.

  Well, they would not mock him after this.

  Fate, or chance, had placed this fire in his path. And Mirashan would seize it, shape it, wield it.

  Especially now, after his plan to assassinate Zaekharan had failed—though it had at least resulted in the death of that unkempt girl from Zhanoura, a minor irritation removed.

  -------

  Riyan waited in the shadows of the narrow lane, his eyes fixed on the plain, unremarkable house. To any passerby it was nothing more than a humble dwelling, the kind that melted into the countless others in Drakhalor’s twisting streets. But Riyan knew better. This was the place—the nest where the conspirators had whispered their orders, where mercenaries had been instructed to murder their king.

  The man they had taken alive—barely alive—had spoken under torments that would have broken most men long before. What he confessed was little, but enough. The mercenaries were sellswords, bound by nothing but greed, lured by an obscene amount of gold. Their orders had been given here, in this very house. Kill Zaekharan, kill his men, kill yourselves before you are captured.

  By chance, or perhaps by the gods’ grim favor, Riyan’s men had caught one who failed to die as instructed. That man had led him to this place. For three long days the house had been watched, silent and still. And now—at last—fortune shifted.

  His informants had rushed to him only an hour ago. Men had entered the house. Two of them. Riyan had wasted no time. Now he crouched in the gloom with three of his best at his side, eyes never leaving the door.

  The hinges gave a protesting groan, and the door creaked open. Two men stepped into the lane.

  Riyan’s eyes widened, his pulse hammering. He knew that face. The secretary of Rasthar, the Minister of Coin.

  Rasthar?

  The thought roared through him. If Rasthar’s hand was in this plot—if the Keeper of the Treasury himself had struck against the throne—then the rot ran deeper than he had feared.

  His jaw tightened. “Alive,” he hissed to his men. “I want them both alive.”

  They surged forward. The conspirators fought with sudden, vicious desperation—daggers flashing, fists swinging—but they were no match for trained soldiers. Steel bit into the night air, and in moments they were dragged down, arms pinned, their struggles smothered by brute force.

  Riyan strode forward, his steps measured, his eyes hard. The secretary kicked wildly, panic flaring in his eyes.

  “Search him,” Riyan ordered coldly. “Knives. Poison. Anything. He dies only when I allow it—and only after he tells me everything.”

  His men obeyed swiftly, stripping the man of hidden blades and a small glass vial tucked in his sleeve. The secretary shook, his lips trembling, fear breaking through his defiance. He was shoved into the waiting carriage, bound and gagged, his companion thrown in beside him.

  Riyan stood a moment in the street, his teeth clenched, his hands tight at his sides. He had them now—the first threads of a web that reached higher than anyone dared imagine. But he knew, even before the interrogation began, that the truth waiting for him would not just expose a traitor.

  It would bring a storm.

  -----

  Captain Pasgar Selmor raised his glass from the watchtower, straining to pierce the damned fog. Dawn had broken, but the first light only deepened the haze—trees and marshes melted into a white blur. He waited for a gust of wind, even a fleeting moment of clarity.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Something still rankled. That sound… when they had captured the watchtower—had it truly been an animal crashing through the woods? A boar, perhaps, or a wolf? Or a man, slipping away into the dark?If so, his stealth was broken. His advantage, lost.

  He exhaled sharply. No. Probably an animal. Yet the thought gnawed. His plan rested on secrecy and surprise.

  More than half of his men were still on the march — slow progress along treacherous trails. Around four hundred were encamped here; the rest, nearly six hundred, would join him in a couple of days. Only then would he advance. Only then would this tower become the true springboard of conquest.

  A soldier approached, saluting.“Sire, breakfast is ready. Shall I bring it up?”

  Pasgar opened his mouth to answer when faint noises pricked his ear. Hooves. Rhythm beneath the fog.

  Then—the alarm shout.

  A sentry stumbled in, face pale, voice breaking into rough Andrasian and desperate hand-signs.

  “Shields—shields coming! Too many!”

  Pasgar’s eyes narrowed. The mist shifted, and suddenly the world was banners and steel. Black-and-gold standards emerged, horses stamping, lines upon lines of infantry pressing forward.

  His gut clenched.“A hundred… a thousand… gods, how many?”

  He had expected weeks before facing the host of the natives. But they were here—charging straight for him.

  Pasgar’s voice cut the morning:“Form ranks! Musketeers to the front! Pikes braced behind! Kill the drums, light the matches!”

  Men scrambled, smoke curling from slow-burning matchcords. His veterans barked orders, driving them into position.

  Through the haze, the native army surged forward. Shields gleamed, spears lifted. Fearless. Too fearless.

  Pasgar raised his hand.“Hold… hold… FIRE!”

  Thunder split the marsh. Smoke erupted in rolling clouds. The first ranks of the natives dropped like straw before the scythe, bodies torn open, blood spraying across trampled reeds. The charge faltered, momentum broken by corpses underfoot.

  Pasgar’s lips curled into a cold smile.“Reload! Second rank—advance! Fire!”

  Again the roar, again the smoke, again the screaming collapse of men. The marsh shook as though the gods themselves had struck it.

  Still they came. Charging, roaring, pounding their chests like madmen. Brave bastards. Brave—and doomed.

  The hairs on Pasgar’s neck rose. So this was the measure of this kingdom. Not weaklings like the coast-rats. These men threw their lives at thunder as if it were nothing.

  But numbers meant nothing if they died before they reached his walls. He would make this tower their grave.

  ----------

  The roar still rang in Mirashan’s skull. Acrid smoke clung to the marsh-fog, searing his nose and throat. Men screamed all around him, cut down before steel had even met steel.

  This was no battlefield he knew. Not arrows. Not catapults. Something far worse.

  “By the gods…” he breathed. “They spit fire.”

  Another volley tore through his second wave. Shields splintered, men crumpled in blood and screams. Fear flickered in even the bravest eyes.

  No, he couldn't let these men lose courage or the battle would be lost.

  Mirashan yanked his reins, his voice sharp as steel.“Spread the lines! No more ranks—scatter!”

  Horns carried the order. The host loosened, no longer presenting thick, easy targets. He wheeled to his archers.

  “Loose! Drown them—arrows, javelins, anything!”

  Then to the shieldmen:“Forward with pavises! Walls of wood, keep moving! If one falls, another takes his place. Push until you touch their walls!”

  The marsh stank of sulfur and blood, but Mirashan’s eyes blazed. This was no phantom threat. It was real. It was deadly. But it was not invincible.

  He had seen it: the fire-spears killed, then paused. Reloading. Slow. His opportunity.

  “They fire like gods, but reload like fools,” he shouted to his captains. “Catch them between volleys—close the gap!”

  Already his brave Drakhalori army adjusted. Arrows forced the gunners down, shields crept forward step by bloody step.

  Mirashan grinned, savage and fierce.“You think fire can frighten me? I’ll smother your fire with bodies if I must.”

  ------------

  Arrows hissed into the lines. One musketeer dropped with a shaft in the throat, another screamed, clawing at a ruined face.

  “Pikes forward!” Pasgar barked. “Cover the guns, damn you!”

  The rhythm cracked. Reloaders ducked while pikemen stepped up, bristling spears protecting them. But the natives adapted—creeping behind shields, loosing arrows whenever smoke thinned.

  Pasgar’s teeth clenched. He had trained his men in countermarch: one rank fired, stepped back, another advanced. It worked—until the sheer weight pressing forward made the drill look like a child’s game.

  Four hundred against two thousand… or three? Even thunder had limits.

  Still, his men held with grim discipline. Another volley shattered shields, tore bone and flesh. The marsh became a carpet of corpses, blood seeping into black mud. The stone tower shook with thunder and screams.

  But Pasgar saw the truth. The enemy was learning. The gap closed. Inch by inch, bodies paving the way.

  His jaw hardened.He would not waste his men in a hopeless stand.

  “Begin retreat!” he roared. “But keep firing! Kill them as you go. Make them pay for every step.”

  ------------

  The marsh was a charnel ground. Mirashan’s boots sank in mud thick with blood as he strode, rallying men forward with voice and blade.

  The fire-weapons killed by the score—but still they advanced. Still they climbed the mountains of dead. Still they pressed, relentless.

  “Forward!” Mirashan roared. “For Drakhalor!”

  Wave after wave crashed. Each broken by volleys, each replaced by the next. Archers harried the gunners, shieldmen died in heaps, but the tide rolled on.

  The thunder grew ragged. Slower. Fewer shots. Muskets fell silent, one by one.

  Then—the Drakhalori reached the tower. Grappling hooks bit stone. Rams pounded gates. The last volleys cracked, then steel stormed in.

  The clash turned to butchery. No more drills, no more formations—steel tore flesh, rage met thunder in the courtyard.

  Mirashan saw a few of the invaders retreating into the fog to the west. He sent men after them, though he knew the chase would be difficult. The marsh was treacherous—and those fire-spears made any pursuit dangerous.

  ---------

  When it ended, the watchtower was ash and ruin. Smoke curled from burning stores. Broken muskets lay scattered among shattered shields.

  Mirashan, armor dented and face streaked with grime, stood on the parapet surveying the wreckage.

  Nearly two thousand of his men lay dead. The cost was beyond imagining. But the tower was his. Victory was his.

  His soldiers had counted nearly three hundred enemy dead and wounded in total; a few had escaped. The wounded prisoners moaned in chains, dragged away for questioning. He estimated the invaders had numbered five hundred at most

  His men had tallied nearly three hundred of the enemy, dead or wounded; a few had escaped. The wounded prisoners moaned in their chains as they were dragged off for questioning. By his reckoning, the invaders could not have numbered more than five hundred. These five hundred had taken a heavy toll. Or rather, their fire weapons had.

  Mirashan lifted his sword, dripping red, and spoke, his voice carrying to his tired but victorious men:“Drakhalori lions!”

  Slowly, his exhausted men turned to him.

  “Write it down,” he said. “This is the army of those brave men who faced these fire-weapons and triumphed—this is the army of Prince Mirashan, Warden of the West.”

  A roar of voices rose, ragged but fierce:“Warden of the West! Warden of the West!”

  In his heart, he felt the shiver of awe. The loyalty of these men was power. These strange new weapons were power. And power was what he had always craved.

  --------

  That's the end of Chapter 17. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Drop a like if you enjoyed reading it.

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