The scout’s shout shifted in tone.

  “Wait! Those aren't savages! Those are Vaghanian horses!”

  Kaelen squinted through the gray drizzle. Emerging from the mist, fleeing ahead of the tribal army, was a small, ragged group of cavalry. Their horses were foaming, stumbling, their eyes rolling in panic.

  The banner they carried was torn, mud-splattered, but the sigil was unmistakable: Twin Golden Spears crossed against a jagged range of white mountains.

  It was the remnants of his father's force.

  “Hold fire!” Kaelen roared. “Open the lane! Remove the caltrops!”

  The riders limped into the narrow pass. Kaelen counted them as they passed. One, two… ten… nineteen.

  His father had ridden out with a full Century—one hundred of the Barony’s finest Men-at-Arms, heavy cavalry meant to shatter any raiding party.

  Nineteen had returned.

  At the head of the column rode a man as broad as a castle gate, though now he sat hunched over his saddle pommel. Ser Hareth Vane, Kaelen’s uncle. His plate armor was dented inward at the chest as if a giant had punched him, and his helmet was gone, revealing a scalp matted with dried blood.

  Beside him rode two younger men—Kaelen’s cousins, Jory and Tormund. They were Steel Ranks, their auras usually bright with youthful arrogance. Now, they were dim, shaking with terror.

  Kaelen stepped forward, splashing through the muck. Hareth pulled his horse to a halt and practically fell from the saddle.

  “Uncle,” Kaelen said, reaching out to steady the big man.

  Hareth looked up. His eyes were glazed, struggling to focus. The Bronze Battle Force that usually radiated from him was shattered, flickering like a dying candle.

  “Kaelen?” Hareth rasped. “Where is… where is the Steward? Where is the Baron?”

  “Father is dead, Uncle. Erik is dead.” Kaelen’s voice was flat. He couldn't afford to weep now. “I am the Baron.”

  Hareth blinked, the reality crashing down on him. He let out a ragged breath that sounded like a sob.

  “Dead… all dead. The clans… it wasn't a raiding party, boy. It was a migration.”

  Kaelen’s blood ran cold.

  “A migration?”

  “The Stone-Eaters, the Red-Walkers, the Iron-Teeth… even the elusive Cloud-Stalkers,” Hareth listed, his voice growing frantic. “They have joined. We charged the vanguard thinking it was five hundred. Kaelen… there are tens of thousands of them. The mountains are vomiting them out.”

  A blue window flickered into life over the survivors.

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  [Unit: Vane Household Guard (Remnants)]

  Count: 19 Men

  Condition: Critical

  Leader: Ser Hareth Vane (Injured: Broken Ribs, Concussion, Aura Instability)

  “They are right behind us,” Tormund rasped from his horse, his voice high with panic. “They chased us through the treeline. Maybe ten minutes out. We have to run, Kaelen! Open the gates, we have to hide behind the walls!”

  “No,” Kaelen said.

  The refusal hung in the air.

  Ser Hareth straightened, wincing. “Boy, do not play at command. We have nineteen men and a handful of peasant levies. We retreat to the keep.”

  “If we retreat to the keep, they will starve us out in a week,” Kaelen said, his eyes scanning the stats of the survivors. “Or they will scale the walls with numbers we cannot match. The Gullet is the only place numbers don't matter.”

  “You are a scholar, not a soldier!” Hareth barked, though the effort made him cough blood. “I commanded the heavy horse at the Battle of the Silver Ford. I know when a battle is lost! We retreat!”

  The soldiers around them—Miller, the levies, the servants—looked between the battered veteran and the young, unproven Lord. The [Authority] meter in Kaelen's vision trembled. If he lost them now, everything was over.

  Kaelen stepped closer to his uncle, lowering his voice so the men wouldn't hear the disrespect.

  “You commanded the heavy horse that just lost eighty men, Uncle. I have prepared the ground. Look.”

  He pointed to the “mud” of the road. “That isn't just mud. It's a kill zone. And those cliffs are rigged with fire.”

  Hareth looked at the road, then up at the cliffs where Pip and the others were hidden. He saw the oil pots. He saw the piles of shale. The veteran's eyes narrowed.

  “They are blood-mad,” Hareth warned, his voice lower. “The vanguard is led by Karg. He has mastered the Granite Skin technique. Arrows bounce off him. Swords shatter on him.”

  “Then we won't use swords,” Kaelen replied.

  He turned to the survivors. “Jory, Tormund, take the horses to the rear! Get the wounded water. Uncle, can you hold a line?”

  Hareth looked at his nephew, really looked at him, for the first time. He nodded slowly.

  “Aye. For a few swings, at least.”

  “Good. Take the center. Stiffen the backs of these levies. They need to see a Knight of Vaghania standing with them.”

  As Hareth limped toward the line, shouting orders to Miller to close the gaps, Kaelen felt a vibration in the soles of his boots.

  Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

  It wasn't thunder. It was feet. Hundreds of them.

  The mist at the far end of the pass swirled. A horn blew—a deep, guttural sound made from the horn of a High-Mountain Aurochs.

  [Enemy Force Detected]

  Unit: Tribal Vanguard

  Distance: 400 paces

  They emerged from the fog like a nightmare. Men clad in furs and boiled leather, their skin painted with ochre and ash. They didn't march in neat rows like the Royal Armies; they flowed like a landslide, screaming war cries that echoed off the canyon walls.

  Kaelen stood behind the shield wall, his hand raised. He watched the blue distance marker count down.

  300 paces.

  200 paces.

  “Steady!” Ser Hareth’s voice boomed, regaining some of its old power. A faint bronze shimmer coated his armor. “Shields lock! Do not give them an inch!”

  100 paces.

  The tribesmen hit the “mud.”

  It wasn't dramatic at first. The front runners simply slowed, their feet sinking deep into the liquefied soil Kaelen had identified. But the men behind them didn't stop. They slammed into the backs of their comrades, pushing them face-first into the muck.

  The charge lost its momentum instantly, turning into a crushing, chaotic pile-up.

  “Now!” Kaelen dropped his hand.

  High above, Pip and the boys shoved the shale.

  Tons of loose, sharp rock cascaded down the cliff face. It didn't just fall; it scoured the pass. The sound was deafening—the crack of stone on bone, the screams of surprised rage.

  “Archers!” Kaelen signaled.

  Three arrows, wrapped in oil-soaked rags and lit with flint, arced through the gray sky. They landed in the clay pots shattered among the rocks.

  Whoosh.

  The Gullet didn't just catch fire; it roared. The trapped oil, unable to flow away in the thick mud, created a wall of flame that separated the tribal vanguard from their main force.

  Kaelen watched the numbers scroll by in his vision, a waterfall of data.

  [Enemy Casualties: High]

  [Panic: Initiated]

  [Experience Gained: +450]

  “Hold the line!” Kaelen ordered, drawing his own sword as a few singed, desperate tribesmen stumbled through the fire toward them.

  “For the Twin Spears! For the Gray Bastion!”