Vice Commander Ulric Stone rode southeast toward the Elven borders, the earth trembling beneath the boots and hooves of eighty thousand men. Forty thousand footmen anchored the sprawling host, flanked by twenty thousand heavy horse and an equal number of arbalists. Behind them groaned a lumbering train of supply wagons choked with rations, spell-scrolls, and heavy catapults. Why Stone was dragging siege engines weapons meant to shatter castle walls into an open-field battle was a question his officers wisely kept to themselves.
They were a day out, only a few kilometers from the border line.
A bandit king three decades past, Ulric had traded his crown of terror in the Northern Lands for a place in Percival Kent's vanguardbut only after the younger Kent had beaten it out of him in a duel. Kent hadn't just spared him; he'd recognized a brilliant, brutal tactical mind. Ulric rose rapidly to become the Lord Commander's right hand.
He still carried his massive, two-handed halberd, a weapon he used to channel surging white mana to break shield walls single-handedly. But these days, he rarely needed to swing it. Ulric won his battles before the steel ever clashed.
"Ser Ulric!" A breathless scout spurred his mount alongside the Commander's warhorse. "An eagle from the castle, sir!"
"Report."
"The Lord Commander was ambushed at the river by a massive goblin horde! A rookie rode Lord Kent's personal horse back to the stronghold. They need immediate reinforcements."
Ulric's grip tightened on his reins. For a long, agonizing stretch of the march, he stared blankly ahead. The cold math of war began turning in his head. Unarmored. Ambushed. A river crossing. The odds of survival were terrifyingly slim. He had miscalculated—he'd assumed the missing border caravans were just raiders. He should have ridden with Kent.
He clung to a sliver of relief, knowing the castle mages would have already sent a relief force. But would they make it? As he weighed the grim variables, a sudden thought struck him: Matilda Armstrong is patrolling the northern fringes. Kent would have sent an eagle to her, too. He had to.
The tension slowly drained from Ulric's shoulders. The scarred, familiar smirk returned to his face. He wheeled his horse around to face his panicked lieutenants.
"Hold your fear!" Ulric's voice boomed, carrying easily over the marching columns. "The Lord Commander will hold the line. I have bled beside Percival Kent for thirty years, and I know the man. He will find a way out of the mud. He has twelve rookies with him,six of whom I trained myself. They are fighters, and they will keep him breathing!"
The absolute certainty in his roar washed over the ranks. Backs straightened. Grips tightened on pikes. If the Vice Commander wasn't worried, Kent would survive the night.
When they finally made camp near the border, Ulric bypassed the mess tents and strode directly to his command pavilion, scooping up a handful of jagged gravel along the way.
Inside the dim canvas walls, he scattered the stones across his tactical map, dividing them into two opposing forces. The identity of the enemy general remained a mystery; he didn't know if he'd be facing the Woodlands or the Highlands the two bitter, distinct domains of the Elven race.
He spent the night running mock battles with the pebbles. Twenty-nine simulations. He won thirteen. Tied fourteen. Lost two.
Both losses stemmed from a direct frontal charge. Elven ballistas were lethal enough, but the real nightmare was the Elven Scorpion:a siege engine that spat twin armor-piercing bolts. Scorpions ruled the mid-range, perfectly engineered to slaughter charging cavalry and shred an infantry line's momentum.
As the first golden rays of morning pierced the tent fabric the exact moment the sun broke over Kent's shattered bridge miles away Ulric stepped out into the crisp air.
His smirk remained. He knew exactly how he was going to win.