How did Dakor’s men know our path? Their scouts must have tracked us, lurking unseen in the shadows of Siros Vale.
My heart pounded as I waded into the slaughter. “Form up! Shield wall!” Barkwood’s voice roared over the chaos. He dismounted with his comrades, joining the desperate line forming against the onslaught. Arrows hissed from the forest—zhing, zhing—cutting men down before we could fully raise our shields. Screams followed each deadly rain, and even as we braced, more fell, their blood soaking the earth.

We locked shields, a fragile barrier against the tide. Dakor’s men emerged from the trees, a flood of snarling figures charging the clearing. Their blades crashed against ours, steel clanging in a desperate bid to break our wall. Their numbers pressed us back, and under the strain, our formation buckled, crumbling like dry earth.
Blades flashed, spraying red with every strike. I dove into the fray, my sword a blur of practiced precision, cutting through foes with grim efficiency. Despite the ambush, our forces fought with discipline, countering the savagery of Dakor’s men. But our numbers dwindled. They swallowed us, relentless, willing to sacrifice their own to grind us to dust.

Amid the chaos, I spotted a barbaric champion. His prowess urging his men forward. He was a beast, carving through our ranks with a glaive, his movements swift but reckless. I drove my sword through an enemy’s throat, yanking it free as the body fell, clearing my view of the champion. His eyes locked on mine, noting my deed. With a guttural roar, he charged.
I met him, sword and spear in hand. His glaive was deadly, wielded with speed but fueled by fury. Our blades clashed in a rhythmic dance, steel ringing. He was a vortex of aggression, striking without pause, his precision masked by adrenaline. I stayed methodical, calculating, waiting for his rashness to betray him.

The fight drew eyes from both sides, a spectacle of skill. He landed a blow, his pommel cracking against my side. Pain flared, grounding me in the moment. He lunged again; I sidestepped, ducking under his next swing. Casting aside my spear, I thrust my rapier. His gauntlet shot up, blocking the strike, locking my blade. I twisted, but he held firm, our struggle a test of wills.
In a heartbeat, I spun free, sweeping my foot under his. His heavy frame crashed to the ground with a thunderous thud. Before he could rise, I drove my sword through his heart. His eyes widened in terror, then dimmed forever. His men faltered at the sight, their spirit breaking, while ours rallied, emboldened.

A conch’s blare split the air. From the scrub, hundreds of cavalry burst forth, bearing Kedrone’s banners. Our allies—at last. They swept into the vale, and together we crushed Dakor’s forces, leaving no room for escape. The battle was ours.
I drifted from the rejoicing soldiers, my mind replaying the fight. Barkwood’s strategy was clear now: he’d used us as bait, luring Dakor’s men into a trap with the allied cavalry. A reckless, sacrificial gambit, but it worked. Mortal folly often reaps the greatest rewards.
“Soldier!” A voice jolted me from my thoughts. I turned to see Barkwood, his face lit with a warm smile. “You fought well.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, starting to turn away, but his next words froze me.
“I knew it—Captain Dorack!” His voice boomed with amusement, his eyes gleaming. “Captain Dorack!” he proclaimed again, like a man reunited with a legend.

My disguise was shattered. Soldiers—some celebrating, others finishing off the wounded—gathered, drawn by the name. Those who knew the tales of Dorack and those curious for glory closed in. From the allied ranks, a familiar figure galloped forward—Pedrel, my former first lieutenant.
“My lord!” he cried, dismounting from his stallion. He embraced me without restraint, joy and sorrow in his eyes. He saw the broken man I’d become, consumed by vengeance.
“I almost had him today, Pedrel,” I said, voice low. “Before your men arrived, I was close. You scared him off.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, bowing. “I was protecting the greater number.”
“I know,” I replied, forcing a hollow smile. “It just means I’ll get him next time.”
“Come home, Dorack,” Pedrel urged. “Kedrone needs you. Your family needs you. We’ve searched for you since Amlyxone fell.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Where Dakor goes, I follow.”
Barkwood stepped forward. “I fought beside you at the Broken Siege of Kedrone, at Goor’s valley, and at Amlyxone’s gates.”
“You’re a strong man then.” I clapped his shoulder. “Forgive me—my memories fade these days.”
“Isn’t it enough?” Pedrel cut in, voice heavy. “We all grieve for what happened. I failed you, and I’m sorry. But this obsession—it’s consuming you.”
“Vengeance is what I need,” I said simply.
“This path is cruel, my lord,” Barkwood said. “Lonely. Come back to us.”
“I know it’s lonely,” I replied, chuckling bitterly. “Who’d be fool enough to walk it with me?”
“If Karmadin hears I let you go again, he’ll have my head,” Pedrel said, bowing as if in apology. But I knew him too well—his eyes betrayed a fleeting thought of forcing me back.
“Pedrel,” I said, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t. Even weary, I could cut through a dozen men before you bound me.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, kowtowing. “I meant no evil.”
“I know why you thought it,” I said. “For your head, give Jeron this.” I handed him my bloodied axe, Iceclaw.
He hesitated, knowing my bond to the weapon. “Iceclaw?”
“May your paths be guided by the gods,” Barkwood said, his voice solemn.
“And yours, my friends,” I replied, masking the ache of loss—of family, of comrades, of myself. “I have a cause to fulfill, a chase to follow, a head to claim.”

I turned from them, mounting a stray horse. Behind me, their voices rose, a chorus of awe and farewell: “Commander Dorack, soldier of fortune, man of Kedrone Wall, conqueror of Amlyxone, valiant of White Valley!” The hails echoed as I rode into the dust, Dakor’s shadow my only guide.