The warhorns did not cry. They howled—a sound of ancient bone and rusted soul, echoing through the southern wind like a dying god's laughter.
Ashwan Raithe stood on the blackstone walls of Veil Fortress, eyes narrowed beneath the glowing sigil etched on his brow. From this high perch, the battlefield unfolded before him—not a plain, not a valley, but a funnel of doom, stretching from the southern ravine to the iron drawbridge of the last human stronghold.
And into that funnel marched the Outer Fangs.
"Five battalions of demons… minimum," said Commander Ruvana beside him, her one good eye scanning the formation below. "Behemoth units in the rear. Blood mist walkers on the left flank. Front line is disposable fodder, probably spirit-drained prisoners."
Ashwan didn't respond. His mind had already seen the future. Not in visions—he wasn't a seer. But in probability threads, war paths ignited by instinct and the Agniyan Flame coiling inside him.
There were only two outcomes:
Hold the walls for three days, lose half the fortress, burn the leyline gates to trap the enemy.
Or retreat, bait the enemy into overextension, collapse the southern funnel, and destroy three demon battalions without sacrificing the gates.
It wasn't even a choice.
"Sound the fallback drums," Ashwan said quietly.
Ruvana blinked. "Retreat? Already? They haven't even breached the lower fields—"
"They will," Ashwan replied. "Because that's exactly what they want us to defend."
He stepped away from the battlement, robe fluttering as embers rose from his boots. The Flame Sigil on his forehead pulsed faintly, as if agreeing with his decision. The fortress itself groaned—ancient spirits responding to his command.
Retreating was dishonorable in most traditions. But Ashwan was not trained in tradition. He was trained in results. And his role, though mocked by generals and ignored by legends, was never to win the battle.
It was to win the war.
---
Inside the Strategic Core Hall, beneath the great statue of the Fire Saint Veeran, Ashwan activated the battlefield table. Holographic flame-threads rose, forming a 3D map of the southern territories.
"Here," he pointed, tapping near the narrow gulch at the base of the funnel. "Collapse this ridge using the buried soulfire reserves. Trap them in a half-moon kill zone. Ruvana's aerial archers sweep in from the east tower. Reinforce the rear gate. If they flank, they'll waste their elites."
One of the younger captains—barely nineteen—stammered, "W-We're falling back from sacred ground? But the statues of the Nine Ancients are there—"
"They're statues," Ashwan said sharply. "Not soldiers."
The silence after that was heavy, but no one argued again.
He didn't need their trust. He needed their obedience.
---
As the soldiers fell back in coordinated waves, something stirred in the air—something heavier than steel, colder than ice.
A scream.
Not from any human. It was the cry of the Silver Maw, one of the Outer Fang generals. A serpent-bodied demon with fifty silver masks across its torso, each one opening to howl in chorus.
The sound alone shattered rocks near the gulch. A few of Ashwan's frontline troops collapsed, ears bleeding.
He stood his ground.
Then whispered a single word:
"Agniyai Vilangidhu." (O Flame, Reveal Thyself.)
From within his palm bloomed a soft orange fire. Not wild, not hot—but ancient. Measured. This was the fire that built temples, cooked offerings, and lit the pyres of kings. And from this ember, he summoned his weapon: a flaming Vel spear, shaped like a tongue of prayer itself.
His eyes gleamed sky-blue as he walked toward the gulch—not to attack, but to bait.
Because for the trap to work, someone had to stand at its center.
And Ashwan, as always, would guard the rear.
---