Six days after the three battles, the Empire's armies finally converged.
What had begun as five separate invasion forces had now become one massive, unified host.
A rolling tide of steel and banners.
Nearly two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers.
Infantry.
Cavalry.
Mages.
Engineers.
Supply wagons.
Siege crews.
The largest army the continent had seen in generations.
Not since the earliest Great Wars had so many troops marched under one command.
And they were all moving toward one destination.
Solmere.
The pace was brutal.
The generals knew they had committed to this campaign too quickly.
Supply lines were stretched thin.
Rations were limited.
Many wagons were carrying only enough food for a few weeks.
If Solmere did not fall within the month, the Empire would face a logistical crisis.
Yet strangely, the urgency had the opposite effect on morale.
Rather than creating fear, it inspired confidence.
The common soldiers saw the haste as proof.
The high command would not push this hard unless victory was assured.
The great threat was gone.
Jax Darquebane was dead.
The rebel armies had been pushed back.
And now the Empire's full might was descending on the heart of the rebellion.
To many soldiers, this campaign felt less like a gamble and more like destiny.
Ironically, much of their speed was made possible by Jax himself.
The roads leading to Solmere had been commissioned under his direction more than a year earlier.
Stone-paved arteries that connected allied territories and accelerated trade.
They had transformed the economy.
Now they were being used to bring an invading army to his doorstep.
Jax would have appreciated the irony.
If anyone else had been foolish enough to point it out, they might have found themselves cleaning latrines.
By midday, the army emerged into a wide plain several miles from Solmere.
The terrain was deceptively peaceful.
Rolling grasslands.
A shimmering lake off to one side.
Clusters of trees forming the beginning of a forest.
Scattered boulders dotting the landscape.
And beyond it all, in the distance, the city of Solmere.
Its towers and walls stood calm and silent beneath the sun.
No smoke.
No visible troop formations.
No frantic preparations.
Just a city waiting.
Twenty mounted scouts rode ahead.
Their orders were simple.
Inspect the field.
Search the forest and shoreline.
Identify traps, ambushes, and hidden forces.
Kill any witnesses.
The scouts spread out in pairs and trios.
Some circled the lake.
Others swept through the grasslands.
One group approached a large boulder.
And there, stretched across the sun-warmed stone, was a man.
Sleeping.
He was shirtless.
Bronzed skin gleamed in the afternoon light.
His physique looked almost absurd.
Broad shoulders.
Powerful arms.
A torso sculpted like a heroic statue.
His abdominal muscles looked so perfectly defined that one scout muttered there had to be more than eight.
The man appeared deeply asleep.
One arm draped over his face.
Completely unconcerned.
The lead scout rode closer.
He was a veteran, and a deeply prejudiced man who considered anyone living near Solmere to be an enemy sympathizer.
He drew his sword.
"Looks like you picked the wrong day to nap."
Several scouts dismounted and spread around the boulder.
One used a tele-stone to report.
"We found one civilian. No signs of enemy forces."
The reply came quickly.
"Eliminate him and continue."
The lead scout smirked.
With almost mocking gentleness, he prodded the sleeper with the flat of his blade.
The man shifted slightly and rolled to his side.
Still asleep.
The scout poked him again.
Another annoyed movement.
No sign of alarm.
No sign of awareness.
One of the soldiers frowned.
"Is he drunk?"
Another laughed.
"He sleeps like my brother after harvest season."
The lead scout's patience wore thin.
He raised his sword high.
"I'll wake him."
The blade came down.
CLANG!
Steel struck stone.
The sleeping man had rolled over at the last possible instant.
The sword missed him by barely an inch.
The scout blinked.
Just luck.
He lifted his weapon again.
And struck.
Missed.
Again.
Missed.
Again.
Missed.
Each blow crashed harmlessly into rock as the man shifted in his sleep with the lazy movements of someone trying to find a more comfortable position.
The surrounding scouts began exchanging uneasy glances.
After the eighth miss, the sleeping man finally stirred.
He rubbed his eyes.
Yawned.
Then sat up and looked around at the armed soldiers encircling him.
His expression was one of mild annoyance.
"Whoa."
He blinked.
"What's going on?"
He stretched his shoulders as if waking from a perfectly ordinary nap.
"Why are you guys waking me up? My wives never let me nap."
No one answered.
The lead scout's face twisted in rage.
"Kill him."
The scouts attacked.
Some charged from horseback.
Others rushed on foot.
The shirtless man scrambled to his feet in apparent confusion.
He stumbled backward.
One attacker swung.
The man bent awkwardly at the waist, and the sword sliced through the arm of another scout.
A second lunged.
The stranger sidestepped clumsily, bumping two soldiers into each other.
A horse reared.
Its rider was thrown.
Another scout thrust with a spear, only to impale his own ally when the man ducked at exactly the wrong—or right—moment.
The stranger looked perpetually off-balance.
Always reacting half a second too late.
Always moving as if by accident.
And yet no attack touched him.
The fight descended into total chaos.
Scouts collided.
Horses panicked.
Weapons struck friend and always just missed their foe.
The shirtless man stumbled, ducked, twisted, and flailed his way through the melee with maddening incompetence.
To the surviving scouts, it was like trying to kill a drunken ghost.
Minutes later, the field fell silent.
Twenty scouts lay dead.
Some trampled.
Some dismembered.
Most slain by one another.
The only man left standing was the one who had been napping.
He stretched his neck.
"That escalated quickly."
The man crouched beside the first scout and picked up the tele-stone.
Using the soldier's voice with uncanny precision, he said:
"Threat neutralized. All clear. Proceed."
A crackling response came.
"Affirmative. All clear."
The tele-stone dimmed.
The shirtless man—Jax Darquebane—smiled.
"Perfect."
He stepped onto the boulder and looked toward Solmere.
The city shimmered in the distance.
From where he stood, he could just make out the roofline of his estate.
The house.
The pool.
The place where six extraordinary women were waiting for a future life with him.
His wives.
His family.
The reason he had fought.
The reason he had built.
The reason he was willing to take a stand against the largest army in generations.
Jax exhaled slowly.
"It's time to go to work."
Far behind him, the thunder of marching boots and rolling wagons grew louder.
Two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers were coming.
And Jax Darquebane was exactly where he wanted to be.