The Mist Valley Defensive Line. One Day Before the Assault – Night.
Mist Valley was a jagged, two-kilometer-long fissure wedged between two sheer limestone cliffs rising fifty meters high. It was a natural bottleneck, a narrow throat crafted by the earth itself. Anyone harboring ill intent toward Northreach was forced to traverse this treacherous path, or risk their lives on a detour through the merciless, frozen peaks of the surrounding mountains.
At the northern end of the valley, House Sudrath's meager force had established a makeshift camp. No great bonfires blazed here; only small embers hidden behind mounds of earth to keep their position invisible to enemy scouts. The night air crept in, a frigid predator that froze the dew upon the leaves.
The Command Tent.
Inside the dimly lit tent, Duke Lucian sat cross-legged, rhythmically whetting his greatsword.
Scrape... scrape... scrape...
The sound of stone against steel was a steady pulse in the silence, creating a harmony that was as soothing as it was terrifying. In another corner, Sir Riven sat in brooding silence, coating his battle-axe in thick oil to prevent the mountain mist from rusting the blade.
"Father," Riven said softly. He didn't look up; his eyes were fixed on the lethal sheen of his axe. "If tomorrow... if I don't make it back... make sure Raphael and Raveena are taken through the secret passage beneath the castle immediately."
Lucian's hand faltered. He looked at his eldest son—at the man whose shoulders had grown broader than he remembered.
"Don't speak such nonsense, Riven. You are the field commander. If you fall, who will lead those madmen out there?"
"I'm just being a realist, Father," Riven replied with a wry smile, wiping excess oil from the haft. "The enemy has three thousand five hundred men. We have ninety. No matter how brilliant Rianor's strategy is, I'm still the one who has to hold the line against the first wave. I just want to know... that Mother is safe."
Lucian set aside his sword and whetting stone. He stood, crossed the small space, and gripped Riven's shoulder with a strength that only a veteran possessed.
"We are all coming home, son. Every one of us will return to that hearth one day. But tomorrow..." Lucian looked deep into Riven's eyes, "...tomorrow, we make sure they are the ones who never see home again."
The Logistics Vault (A Small Cliffside Cave).
"Careful! Don't shake it, Rumi!" Rianor hissed.
Lady Rumina was carefully funneling a dense, black powder into small clay jars. Her hands were shaking violently, stray grains of the powder spilling onto the wooden table.
"Rianor, if this thing goes off now, we're going to be a giant firework, aren't we?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Yes. So try not to sneeze," Rianor replied, his own brow slick with cold sweat.
They were assembling a medieval version of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). The clay jars were packed with coarse black powder mixed with iron nails and jagged metal scraps. It was crude, but it would be more than enough to tear through horse bellies and soldiers' shins.
"I'm scared," Rumina whispered suddenly, her eyes brimming with tears. "I miss my art studio. I miss ordering spicy street food on my phone. I don't want to die here as some makeshift bomb-maker."
Rianor let out a long, heavy breath. He set down his wooden scoop and pulled his sister—whose face was smeared with charcoal dust—into a brief, firm embrace.
"I know, Rumi. I'm scared to death too. Look, my hands won't stop shaking," Rianor admitted, showing her his trembling palms. "But look on the bright side. If this works, you'll be the first woman in this world to create 'Explosion Magic' without using a single drop of mana. You'll be a legend."
Rumina let out a wet laugh through her sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of a grimy hand. "A bomb-making legend? What a hell of a fate."
"Focus. The fuse has to be cut to exactly ten seconds. Any longer and the enemy will have time to kick it away."
The Medical Tent.
Duchess Aurelia was busy folding linen strips freshly plucked from boiling water. Beside her, little Raveena and Raphael helped roll the bandages neatly.
"Mother..." Raphael asked in a small, innocent voice. "Why do those bad people want to kill us?"
Aurelia paused. She smoothed her son's hair with a gentle touch.
"Because they're afraid, sweetheart. Evil people are actually the biggest cowards. They're afraid we'll grow stronger than them. So, they try to break us before we get too big."
"I want to fight too!" the ten-year-old boy exclaimed, brandishing a wooden toy sword. "I want to be like Riven!"
"Your job here is much more important," Aurelia said, her tone firm but tender. "You are the guardians of the Medical Tent. If any of your brothers' soldiers are hurt, give them water. Comfort them. That is the duty of true nobility—to strengthen the hearts of the people when the storm comes."
The Cliffside Watchpost.
Sir Roland and Lady Rhea sat on the edge of the precipice, their legs dangling over the dark abyss. The whistling mountain wind whipped at their faces, carrying the scent of pine and moisture.
Roland gripped his bow, but his joints felt stiff.
"Rhea... I really can't do this. I can't hit a stationary target from five paces. What good am I tomorrow?"
Rhea, who was checking the knots on a boulder-trap, glanced over. "You don't need to shoot anyone, Roland. You are 'The Voice'."
"What do you mean?"
"Rianor needs someone to give precise signals. When to blow Jar A, when to drop Rock B. Your voice is loud and clear. You're our Spotter. You'll be our eyes from up here."
Rhea pointed down at the path below, which was now nothing more than a faint black line in the dark.
"Tomorrow, that place becomes hell. I'll be down there with Riven. I need you here, Roland. I need you to scream if anyone tries to take my back."
Roland nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. The feeling of uselessness began to ebb, replaced by a new, heavy responsibility. "Right. I'll be the loudest alarm this world has ever heard."
Dawn Breaks.
A thick, frigid mist descended upon the valley, masking the world beyond five meters. It was the perfect shroud for a bloody ambush.
DUM... DUM... DUM...
The thrum of war drums echoed from the distance—low, ominous, and unrelenting. The ground vibrated beneath their boots, a sign that thousands of lives were on the move. Three thousand five hundred pairs of feet and hundreds of hooves were marching toward the gates of death.
At the front line—a barricade of timber and wagons overturned across the narrow path—Sir Riven stood tall. Behind him, the thirty village recruits of "The Red Lions" gripped their spears with palms slick with cold sweat. Beside them, Garrick's fifty mercenaries wore predatory grins, their fingers dancing on the hilts of their weapons.
Duke Lucian appeared on his warhorse, his steel helm adorned with a wolf's crest. He gave no long, tedious speech. He simply raised his greatsword toward the ashen sky.
"Remember one thing!" Lucian's voice thundered, sent adrenaline surging through every man present. "Behind you are your mothers and your siblings! Behind you is your home!"
"DO NOT YIELD A SINGLE INCH!"
"HOO-AHH!" the men roared in unison, their voices shattering the mist.
From behind the white veil ahead, dark shadows began to emerge. Banners bearing the Iron Boar crest whipped in the wind. The vanguard of House Valerius came into view—hundreds of heavy infantry with massive shields, forming a wall of cold steel.
Rianor, concealed behind the brush atop the cliff, held a small red flag. He looked at Roland on the opposite ridge. Roland gave a sharp, resolute nod.
Rianor turned to Rumina, who held a lit torch near the primary fuse.
"Wait..." Rianor whispered to himself. "Let them get a little deeper..."
The enemy drew closer. One hundred meters. Fifty meters.
The enemy captain shrieked with arrogant glee, "Smash that heap of junk! Slay them all!"
The Valerius forces broke into a charge, their war cries deafening. They stepped directly into the Kill Zone.
Rianor dropped the flag.
"NOW!" Roland screamed from the opposite cliff, his voice cutting through the cacophony.
Rumina touched the torch to the fuse.
Sssssssttttt...
The spark raced along the ground, snaking toward the buried jars.
Welcome to Mist Valley. Welcome to the hell designed by children from the future.