Kaviroth first saw the smoke a week ago. Thin black wisps curling against the winter sky, too deliberate to be the work of wandering traders or careless hunters. He had ignored the first plume. The second, he had watched with unease. By the third, he had sharpened his sword with something more than routine.

Now, as the wind howled through the pine-shrouded slopes of Varrowfen, he crouched by the frozen river with his spear in hand, gutting the elk he had just felled. Blood steamed in the cold, staining the snow as he worked. His mount, a seven-foot-tall rava named Teshka, shifted impatiently nearby, her taloned feet crunching in the ice.

Another plume of smoke rose in the distance.

Kaviroth exhaled, breath misting in the air.

He had abandoned the Daraeni three years ago—no, that wasn't quite right. The Daraeni had abandoned him. Branded him. Cast him out. He was a ghost of the past, a warrior without a tribe, a man whose name was only spoken in curses and warnings. If war was coming, it was not his war.

Still, he watched the smoke long after he should have turned away.

The fire in the hearth crackled, throwing restless shadows against the log walls. Kaviroth sat on a crude wooden stool, his knife sliding over the whetstone in slow, deliberate strokes. The firelight traced over the circular brand burned into his chest—a mark of exile, the final curse of the Daraeni shamans.

Teshka rested outside, her head tucked beneath her wing, but sleep never found Kaviroth that night. The smoke signals had disturbed his thoughts, pulling at old instincts that had never truly left him. A warrior does not stop being a warrior simply because he has no one to fight for.

There was a sudden banging on the door that pulled Kaviroth from his thoughts with a start. He lowered the whetstone and gripped his knife. No one came here. No one even knew he was here. No one except—

He pulled the door open.

Tarrick stood on the threshold, wrapped in a thick cloak of wolf pelts, his breath heavy in the frigid air. His rava, a dark-feathered brute, waited behind him, its yellow eyes gleaming in the firelight. Snow clung to the soldier's boots, and his face was lined with exhaustion.

"General," Tarrick grunted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

Kaviroth sighed, slipping the knife into his belt. He shut the door and leaned against it, folding his arms. "I am no man's General. You shouldn't be here."

Tarrick pulled off his gloves, rubbing his hands over the fire. "I know." He turned, his expression grim. "I wouldn't have come unless it was urgent."

Kaviroth said nothing. He could already guess what this was about.

"I assume you've seen the signals?" Tarrick asked.

Kaviroth nodded.

"The Chieftain won't admit it, but he is shaken," Tarrick continued, lowering his voice. "The southern tribes have stopped sending scouts. We think they've already fallen. If we don't act soon, the Iron Horde will—"

"The Iron Horde?" Kaviroth's gaze sharpened.

Tarrick met his eyes. "Yes."

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the distant cry of an owl beyond the cabin walls.

Kaviroth turned away, raking a hand through his dark, unbound hair. He had always known something like this would happen. The Daraeni had spent decades warring amongst themselves, growing weaker while their true enemy sharpened their axes beyond the mountains. The Iron Horde would not come to conquer. They would come to erase.

Kaviroth's fingers brushed the brand on his chest.

"I can't help," he said.

Tarrick's jaw tightened. "You can. You're the only chance we've got at uniting the tribes."

Kaviroth scoffed. "If I ride back, what do you think will happen? They'll send an arrow through me before I set foot inside their walls."

"Not if you can save them. I think the Chief will listen to us. He's desperate."

Kaviroth let out a low, humorless laugh. "You think like a child, Tarrick."

Tarrick's expression darkened. "And you think like a man who has nothing to lose."

"Because it's the truth." Another silence stretched between them, heavier this time.

"If you do nothing, Tavini and your mother will die. Jeneya will die. There won't be a Daraeni left to hate you."

Kaviroth stared into the fire. He could still see it—the endless horizon of the past, filled with blood and steel. His father had fought against the Iron Horde before, when the tribe was united. He knew their intentions.

Two days. That was all it would take to reach the outskirts of the northern Daraeni lands.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the ghost of an old grip—the weight of a sword, the pull of a bowstring.

After a long moment, he exhaled. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't, but it's okay. I'm sure isolation doesn't strengthen one's mind too much."

Kaviroth grunted at the excuse, for that's all it was. He was a fool to think the coming war wasn't his. Perhaps his mind had gotten weak.

"I rode hard to get here, so my rava will need to rest." Tarrick began to undress and unfurl his pack. "Mind if I take the floor tonight?"

Dawn broke over the Varrowfen wilds, painting the snow-covered pines in hues of pink and gold. Kaviroth, clad in his worn leather armor, stood before his cabin, the rising sun glinting off the polished surface of his longsword. Three years of isolation had done little to dull his warrior's edge. His movements were fluid and precise as he secured his weapons, the muscle memory of countless battles ingrained into his body.

Teshka ruffled her feathers beside him, shifting her long legs restlessly. She could sense his unease. Kaviroth placed a steadying hand on her neck, murmuring low words in the old Daraeni tongue. She rested her head on his chest, careful not to touch his brand—as if she knew it was a source of shame for her master.

Beside him, Tarrick saddled his mount, the large, flightless bird snorting and stamping his clawed feet impatiently. His thick plumage, a mottled brown and grey, provided excellent camouflage in the dappled light of the forest. Kaviroth had named his mount after a fallen comrade from his war days. The Daraeni usually didn't give their mounts names, but Teshka was more than just a means of transport—she was a needed companion in his years of solitude.

He swung onto Teshka's back, the familiar feel of the saddle settling him. The bird let out a deep, rumbling coo. He gave Tarrick a curt nod, and with a powerful thrust of his legs, they were off, plunging into the dense undergrowth. The forest canopy closed overhead, shrouding them in a world of shadows and whispering pines.

The narrow trails were treacherous, slick with ice and hidden by drifts of snow. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth, the silence broken only by the rhythmic thudding of the rava's feet and the occasional cry of a hawk circling overhead. Kaviroth rode with an edge of suspicion, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. He knew the Horde's scouts could be anywhere, their eyes and ears ever keen.

As they rode, Tarrick filled him in on the details. The Horde's leader was a fearsome warlord known only as the 'Iron Khan', who was said to be invincible, his ambition as boundless as the red wastes from which he came.

Kaviroth listened in silence. He knew the Daraeni warriors were skilled, but they were no match for the might of the Iron Horde. Their only hope lay in uniting the tribes, in presenting a unified front against the invaders. But that was easier said than done. The Daraeni were fiercely independent, their loyalties divided amongst various chieftains and factions. Convincing them to set aside their differences and fight together would be a monumental task.

As night fell, they made camp in a sheltered hollow, the wind howling through the pines above. Kaviroth built a small fire, keeping it low to avoid drawing attention. The rava huddled together for warmth, their feathers ruffling in the bitter cold.

"The tribes are more divided than ever," Tarrick said, warming his hands by the flames. "The Chieftain still holds the northern valley, but the outer settlements..." He shook his head. "They follow their own leaders now. Different than before."

Kaviroth stared into the fire. "Tell me about them."

"There's Ara of the Pine Clan to the east. She's young, but her warriors are fierce. Then there's old Lorvan in the western ridges—he never forgave the Chief for refusing to aid him during the summer raids." Tarrick paused. "The Stone Circle follows Dari now. He's gathered quite a following among the younger warriors."

"And the shamans?"

"High Shaman Nereth still leads them, but there are whispers of discord. Some favor more... aggressive uses of blood magic."

Kaviroth's jaw tightened. He had seen what blood magic could do—both its power and its price. "The Horde won't be defeated by magic alone."

"No," Tarrick agreed, "but combined with steel..." He let the thought hang.

"I'm not disagreeing with the idea, but who knows how the shamans will be in actual battle," Kaviroth said, retrieving a stick to draw in the snow. "The Horde will come through the passes here and here." He marked two spots. "The terrain naturally funnels armies through these points. If we can unite the tribes, position archers on these ridges, cavalry in the valleys..."

"The shamans could raise barriers of ice and stone," Tarrick suggested.

Kaviroth nodded. "That'd be useful, until they couldn't hold it any more. We need Ara's archers, Lorvan's cavalry, Dari's infantry—and yes, Nereth's shamans. But first, we need them to listen."

"They will if they knew what was coming. The Iron Horde doesn't just conquer, they—"

"—destroy," Kaviroth finished. "They salt the earth and poison the wells. They take our children and raise them as their own. Each tribe has its pride, its strengths. We don't need them to love each other. We just need them to fight together."

They talked long into the night, planning strategies, discussing tribal politics, weighing the use of magic against traditional warfare. When they finally slept, the fire had burned to embers, and the snow had covered their battle plans.

On the second day, the terrain began to change. The men had pushed the rava to their limits. The dense forest gave way and the land sloped downward into the valley where the northern Daraeni made their home.

Kaviroth pulled Teshka to a halt. The air smelled of spiced oils and woodsmoke, the scent of home—and yet, not home.

Tarrick studied him. "We don't have to go through the villages. We can take the back trails."

Kaviroth exhaled. "What would it matter? The moment they see me, they'll know." He tapped his chest where the brand marked him. "I may be riding to save them, but they will still see me as an outcast."

"We'll make them listen." Tarrick frowned as he observed the valley below. "We don't really have any other choice."

Kaviroth looked out across the valley as well. Smoke curled from the village fires, innocent, unaware. The villages would soon turn to ashes beneath the Iron Horde's boots if he couldn't convince them.

Kaviroth grunted, shaking his head. Thoughts like that were useless in the grand scope of things.

"They took my memories, you know," Kaviroth began hesitantly. Tarrick nodded, but didn't make eye contact. Kaviroth paused before continuing. "Do you know the reason for my exile?"

Tarrick tightened his grip on his reins. "Nobody is allowed to speak on it. We have a blood oath to the High Shaman. If we talk, we'll be exiled as well." The man stared at the frozen ground for a breath, "I'm sure you had your reasons for doing what you did. Perhaps when we meet with the Chieftain we can figure something out."

Kaviroth gave a solemn nod. He had already figured he'd get such an answer, but he had to try anyway. He clicked his tongue, urging Teshka forward. They rode down the ridge, the wind sharp at their backs.

{word count: 2,058}