The war camp was restless. Every rebel felt the weight of the previous battle pressing down on their shoulders, a reminder that their enemy had not been truly defeated—only stalled. The Raven had retreated into the mist, his forces withdrawing in calculated silence, but no one mistook that for surrender. He was preparing. They all knew it. And when he returned, it would be with renewed fury.
Arkanis stood alone at the edge of the camp, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The relic pulsed against his chest, not in warning this time, but in quiet understanding—as if it, too, could sense the impending storm. He had wielded its power without succumbing to it, had fought the Raven without losing himself. But the battle had tested him. He had come dangerously close to falling into the depths of the relic's power, and that realization sent a chill through his bones.
Elara approached, her movements slow, deliberate. She had barely rested since the clash at the valley ridge, spending every waking moment tending to the wounded, reinforcing barricades, ensuring no one faltered under the weight of what was to come. Yet, when she looked at Arkanis, she knew that his burden was different from theirs. He carried something heavier.
"You saw it in his eyes, didn't you?" she murmured, standing beside him.
Arkanis nodded, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. "He's preparing."
Elara exhaled, following his gaze to the distant hills where the Raven had vanished. "So are we," she reminded him. "And we cannot afford to break before the war is truly over."
Footsteps approached. Zyre joined them, his presence as crisp and calculated as ever. He carried fresh reports from the scouts, his expression sharp with urgency. "He won't wait long," Zyre stated, spreading the parchments across a makeshift table nearby. "He's regrouping—and not just reinforcing numbers. He's shifting tactics."
Arkanis leaned over the reports, tracing the enemy movements with focused intensity. The Raven's forces had begun expanding their reach beyond the valley, fortifying roads, cutting off potential escape routes. He wasn't simply preparing to attack—he was ensuring the rebels had nowhere left to run.
"He's building a cage," Arkanis muttered. "He wants to trap us."
Elara frowned, her mind already working through the consequences. "Then we strike first."
Zyre studied her before nodding. "We cannot afford hesitation. If he's creating choke points, we'll need to dismantle them before his grip tightens." He tapped the map, marking areas where the enemy had begun fortifying their hold. "Here. We send a strike team to disable their supply chains before they can complete their encirclement."
Arkanis straightened. "I'll lead it."
Elara shot him a look, but she didn't object. They all knew this fight would only escalate. Sitting back and waiting would mean certain defeat.
As preparations began, the camp roared to life again—not in fear, but in defiance. Weapons were sharpened, armor repaired, messages sent to scattered allies. The rebels had faced impossible odds before, and they would again. But this time, they would not let their enemy dictate the terms of war.
Night fell, stretching shadows across the camp as Arkanis and his chosen team moved toward the outskirts. Elara watched them depart, her fingers clenching unconsciously around the strap of her dagger belt. She wanted to believe in their success. She had to.
Zyre stood beside her, watching just as intently. "They'll make it back," he said, though his tone lacked certainty.
Elara nodded, but her heart whispered otherwise.
Deep in the forest, Arkanis moved like a phantom, his warriors at his side. They followed the path carefully, weaving through the trees and the underbrush, their footsteps nearly silent against the earth. The enemy would be stationed ahead, fortifying positions meant to suffocate the rebellion before it could fight back.
They would not let that happen.
The first sight of enemy movement came swiftly—patrols along the road, guards stationed near wagons filled with supplies meant for the Raven's troops. The rebels took their positions, hiding among the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment.
Arkanis felt the relic thrumming against his chest, its pulse eager, hungry. But he did not yield to it.
He gave the signal.
The first arrow cut through the night, striking its mark with lethal precision. A second followed, then a third. The guards barely had time to react before the rebels were upon them, swords drawn, slashing through their ranks like whispers of death.
It was fast. Precise. Ruthless.
By the time the last body hit the ground, silence reigned. The rebels worked quickly to destroy supply crates, overturn wagons, disable transport routes. Every strike was a calculated wound against the Raven's strategy, a piece of the noose torn away before it could tighten.
Then, a sound.
Arkanis turned, his grip tightening on his blade.
More soldiers were coming.
The rebels had done their work—but the fight wasn't over yet.