The aftermath of battle had settled into a haunting quiet. The rebels had won the clash at the valley, but victory was never absolute—not when the Raven still lurked, waiting for the next opportunity to strike. The air carried an unspoken weight, an understanding between every soldier: the war was shifting.
Arkanis sat near the fire pit, the low embers reflecting against the edges of his sword as he methodically sharpened its blade. His fingers tightened around the worn hilt, eyes locked onto the steel with a distant focus. The relic pulsed faintly beneath his armor, neither demanding nor whispering. It waited—as he did.
Elara approached, settling beside him, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she said nothing, merely watching as he worked. Then, her voice broke the silence. "You're thinking about the next move."
Arkanis let out a slow breath. "I'm thinking about all the moves. His, ours, the ones I haven't planned for yet."
She traced the edge of her own dagger with her thumb, contemplative. "We can't afford to wait for him."
Zyre stepped into the circle, folding his arms across his chest. "You're right," he said, his tone firm but void of arrogance. "The Raven isn't just rebuilding his forces—he's shifting the entire battlefield to his advantage. If we let him maneuver unchallenged, we won't win the next fight."
Arkanis set down his sword, looking between them. "Then we strike where he doesn't expect."
A map was unfolded, the rough parchment detailing enemy positions. Zyre pointed toward a fortress nestled within the mountains—one of the council's strongest supply hubs. "This location. If we take it, we cripple his reinforcements and cut off their ability to resupply."
Elara leaned forward, considering. "It's a high-risk target."
Arkanis nodded, but his voice remained steady. "That's why it's perfect."
Night stretched across the land as the rebel forces moved with practiced silence, weaving through rocky terrain, their steps cautious but filled with intent. The mountain stronghold loomed ahead—a fortress built to withstand sieges, its stone walls thick, its towers sharp against the midnight sky.
Arkanis led the charge, his heart steady, his mind focused. He could feel the relic hum against his chest, sensing the tension in the air, the weight of destiny pressing forward.
Elara and Zyre took their positions on opposite flanks, coordinating the assault with precision.
Then—
The rebels struck.
Arrows cut through the darkness, finding sentries before they could sound the alarm. Then, the warriors surged forward, steel flashing, climbing through weak points in the defenses.
Arkanis moved through the chaos like a force of nature, his blade cutting down foes with calculated precision. He did not lose himself to fury—he controlled it, wielded it with intent.
Elara fought beside him, her twin daggers a blur of silver as she twisted between opponents, precise and untouchable.
Zyre directed the formations, ensuring that no soldier fell behind, that their assault remained coordinated even as the battle intensified.
Then—Arkanis felt it.
A presence.
A cold, familiar presence threading through the chaos.
The Raven had arrived.
Their eyes met across the stronghold.
The duel began.
Steel met steel, sparks bursting between them.
Arkanis fought not with raw power, but with refined mastery. He had learned.
But the Raven had learned too.
Every strike, every movement, tested the other, searching for weaknesses.
The relic pulsed.
Arkanis embraced it—not as an enemy, but as a part of himself.
Then—
A final, calculated strike.
The Raven hesitated.
And in that moment, the fortress fell.
The rebels had won the stronghold.
But the war had only just begun.