My clash with Dakor left me bloodied, but not broken. The reason was simple: Dakor had poured time, wealth, and cunning into building his army. Had he won the Battle of White Valley, his reward would have been immense. Now, fate had cracked his plans, gifting me another shot at the man of fire, my archenemy.

Time was Dakor’s ally. Kedrone’s forces would need days, perhaps weeks, to regroup, assess his strength, and muster the courage to chase him again. In that window, Dakor’s raids would continue, swelling his ranks with men and riches, consolidating his power. If he grew too strong, I’d never get close to him again. But his defeat at White Valley kept hope alive—a flicker of chance to face him once more.
Yet the truth lingered like a shadow. Dakor may have lost the battle, but Hamdire remained his. His forces held several strongholds in the town, a plague Kedrone’s military was duty-bound to purge. I wavered on my next move. The Kedrone camp at Hamdire buzzed with resolve to hunt down Dakor’s remnants, so I stayed, blending into the ranks.

For days, we scoured the lands, rooting out Dakor’s scattered bandits. They clung to their plan to seize Hamdire as a stronghold, but Captain Barkwood and his officers were relentless, determined to cleanse the land of Dakor’s curse before withdrawing. Hope was fading for Dakor. After White Valley, his men lacked spirit, fleeing at every clash. We gained ground daily, but a nagging question gnawed at me: when would I face Dakor one-on-one again?

“Captain Gryneed marched out with hundreds,” Airden announced, wiping ale from his beard. “His scouts found an enclave deep in the wilderness. They’ll hit it from the front and cut off the rear, leaving those bastards no escape.” His voice carried a grim confidence as he leaned closer. “We’re winning this war. Soon, we’ll have enough bandit heads to call it a day.”
“What about us? What do we do now?” a soldier asked, voice edged with impatience.
“That’s the rub,” Airden sighed. “No telling when we’ll move out. My blade hungers for blood, but we’re stuck until Gryneed returns. His fate will shape ours, mark my words.” No one doubted Airden; his tidings were rarely wrong. For me, this was grim news. How could I reach Dakor if we were tethered to this camp?

I stayed silent, the fire’s embers mirroring the torment burning in my chest. Then another soldier’s words hooked me. “I pray I never face that madman Dakor,” he muttered, dread cloaking him.
“Why’s that?” Conte, another soldier, pressed.
“That man fights like a demon. I saw him at White Valley, and other times too. Only one man ever bested him in a duel—at the Vicious Game.”
“Dorack Dun, the tribesman,” Conte said, his voice heavy. I swallowed hard, my past suddenly the topic of camp chatter. Pride stirred—my legend still echoed in Kedrone—but Airden’s next words cut deeper.
“A legend favored by the gods, wasting his purpose,” he said, frowning. The jab stung. Purpose? I had that in spades.
“I pray I never cross him,” the first soldier added, fear thick in his voice.
“I pray I do,” I muttered. All eyes snapped to me, surprise flickering across their faces.
“You’ve had dealings with him?” Conte asked, leaning in.
I hesitated under their probing stares, then shrugged. “Just a soldier chasing glory through a worthy kill.”
“Suicidal ambition,” Conte roared, laughing.
“Idle men dream,” Airden said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “But mark me, this stalemate’s ending soon. Another captain’s marching toward us, a day away. We won’t wait for Gryneed.”

Of our group, only Airden and I relished this news. The prospect of leaving this camp, of spilling blood again, sparked hope. I needed combat. I needed vengeance. If fate offered another chance, I’d seize it. Staring into the fire, I let its hunger mirror my own, resolved to end this torment.

¶¶¶

Our predictions bore fruit sooner than expected. Before dusk, warrant officers barked orders to fall in line. Captain Barkwood had resolved to march us out for an assault. Whispers among the men spoke of scouts returning with tidings, though the officers kept us in the dark.

“We’re too few,” Conte fretted. “The new captain hasn’t arrived.”
“Barkwood plans to meet them in the field,” Airden replied.
We marched at the conch’s blare, hundreds of infantry trailing a sparse cavalry. Our numbers were thin, horses scarce, and ammunition low. Our hope rested on linking with the incoming allies. Barkwood’s plan was bold: cross Siros Vale, rendezvous with the reinforcements, then strike Dolfe Mountain, where Dakor’s forces hid.

The midday sun scorched our skin, glinting off our armor as we trekked. Dust clung to our boots, exhaustion weighing each step. A hot breeze offered no relief, only the stench of sweat and earth. Siros Vale’s trees dulled the sun’s bite, but our allies were nowhere in sight. Unease crept in, strange thoughts swirling. Leaves fell like autumn, odd for the season. I glanced up—nothing but swaying branches and fractured sunlight. Perhaps autumn was sneaking in.
We halted, boots grinding into dirt and snapping twigs. The trees shivered, more leaves dropping. A breeze, surely.

Then a whistle cut the air, ending in a dull thunk. A scream erupted beside me. I turned to see an arrow jutting from a soldier’s throat, blood spraying as he collapsed. More cries rang out, each marking a fallen man. From the trees, shadows descended.
“Ambush!” I roared. “Ambush!”