Rooke Hale yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wondering—for the hundredth time—if he had made the worst decision of his life by joining the army.

He had come from a tiny village in the southern part of the kingdom, the kind of place where nothing ever changed and people grew old doing the same chores every day. He hadn’t wanted that life. So when the army recruiters came knocking on their doors two years ago, he signed up without hesitation.

The first year had been good, honestly. He went through training, learned how to march, how to hold a spear without stabbing his own foot, and was assigned to patrol towns near the border. Most of the job involved scaring away beasts that wandered too close. Nothing difficult. Nothing bloody. The pay was steady, and he could send coin home to his parents. Life had finally felt like it was moving forward.

But then, right as his first year ended, everything turned upside down.

The civil war erupted out of nowhere, or so it had felt like to him. Orders came down from the higher-ups, and because most of them were nobles supporting the third prince, Thalric, every soldier under them was pulled into the war effort.

Thalric was the first to launch attacks… and he was ruthless. Painfully ruthless. Rooke found himself dragged from one fort to another, helping seize them, killing more men in months than he had imagined killing in his whole life. He adapted—he always adapted—but many of the friends he made along the way didn’t survive.

The frontlines became a nightmare after that. His old squad was sent toward Eden City, where Prince Thalric or King Thalric as he now called himself was trying to break through the first Prince Eldric’s territory and push toward the capital. Rooke was certain most of them wouldn’t live long.

He considered himself lucky. Instead of being thrown into that meat grinder, he’d been assigned to guard Fort Bulwark, to hold the place and stay on standby in case the main force needed reinforcements. It wasn’t glorious, but it was safer.

Or so he hoped.

But even if Rooke had been spared the frontlines, guarding a fort wasn’t exactly a good job either. It was safer, yes, but after the way King Thalric had raided towns, seized forts, and locked up anyone who resisted, the local population was furious.

And every soldier inside Bulwark was treated like a criminal.

Just three days ago, they had caught a group of teenagers trying to slip poison into the meal pots. Teenagers. Barely grown. The rage in their eyes had been worse than the poison itself.

But punishing them harshly would only make things worse—alienate the people even more—so the commanders had only jailed them. Unlike what he expected, there hadn’t been any beatings, public humiliation, just confinement.

Still, Rooke had a bad feeling. If things continued like this, poison would be the least of their worries. They might get their throats cut in their sleep by someone grieving a burned farm or a dead father.

War was turning into hell.

Rooke almost preferred being sent to the frontlines at that point, better to die in battle than be stabbed by some starving farmer while half-asleep. This wasn’t the life he had imagined when he’d joined. He had wanted steady work, a steady wage, maybe a little adventure. Not this… misery.

He yawned again and stretched out his stiff arms, watching the sun slowly sink. Next to him, his partner, Brannor had already nodded off, slumped against the wall. They had been standing here an entire day. Their shift wouldn’t end until the sun completely disappeared.

Rooke glanced toward the horizon, silently begging the sun to hurry up and fall already.

Then he froze.

Something—something—had caught his eye.

At first he squinted, thinking it was fatigue messing with his vision. Then he rubbed his eyes. Hard.

But the shape was still there.

And now his heart thundered in his chest.

He spun toward his partner and shook him. “Oi, wake up, wake fucking up!!”

Brannor didn’t stir.

Rooke slapped him across the cheek.

That did it. Brannor jerked awake with a curse, right as Rooke stammered. “Get up. Someone’s… something’s coming.”

His partner snapped towards him instantly, glaring. “What the fuck is your problem? I was finally dreaming of getting out of this hellhole and you drag me back into—”

“Look,” Rooke hissed, pointing toward the horizon.

The words died in his partner’s throat as he turned.

In seconds, all the color drained from the man’s face.

Out there—rising over the orange glow of the setting sun—was a mass of figures. A large group. Dozens at least. Riding beasts that thundered across the ground with a steady, unified rhythm. Their pace wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a patrol.

It was a march to war.

And even from this distance, the riders looked huge. Too big to be ordinary soldiers. Too steady to be simple cavalry. As the silhouettes grew closer, Rooke felt his legs tremble. Brannor’s breath hitched beside him and he was… frozen on spot.

Rooke forced himself to swallow the fear. Someone had to move.

“I’m going to ring the bell,” he muttered. “Get the gates locked. Wake the archers. And shake that Mage Zarica off her sleep before she gets all of us killed.”

The man nodded shakily.

Rooke sprinted down the wall, shouting as he ran. A few soldiers were still slumped against the stone, dozing off after a long shift.

“GET UP! ENEMIES! ENEMIES ARE COMING!” He kicked one man’s boot. “Up! NOW! MOVE, YOU BASTARDS!”

Confused faces blinked awake, some cursing, some scrambling to grab weapons. But Rooke didn’t stop. He kept running until he reached the large brass bell near the central watchtower.

Without a second of hesitation, he seized the rope and pulled.

CLANG!

The sound blasted through the fort like a shockwave. It stung his ears, but he didn’t care. He rang it again.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

He could feel the vibrations in his bones. He could almost hear the distant beasts’ hooves thundering closer between each ring.

He didn’t stop until a sharp voice cut through the noise.

Rooke turned to his left, heart still racing.

Mage Zarica stood there disheveled, half-awake, and already scowling with Brannor standing next to her. She swooshed her robe to the side and her glare—it sent a shiver down his spine.

She was the Mage assigned to lead the fort, but Rooke didn’t like her. No one did.

She was too haughty, too proud, and too eager to remind everyone that she was a “proper Mage of King Thalric.” Even now, she looked down at him with that familiar irritated glare.

“What the heck is going on?” she snapped groggily. “That bell should only be rung in emergencies.”

“It is an emergency,” Rooke fired back. “Didn’t you hear? We’re getting attacked—”

“Attacked?” She scoffed, already sounding annoyed. “Don’t make things up.”

She brushed past him and took a slow, lazy step toward the wall, clearly intending to prove him wrong.

But the moment her eyes found the horizon, she froze.

Not just froze—she went pale.

Rooke followed her gaze and felt his stomach drop. The riders were nearly at the gates now. Massive beasts. Massive men. And shouts were rising across the walls as more soldiers jolted awake to the reality of what was happening.

“They’re… the barbarians…” she breathed. “So the rumors were true. Duke Arzan really sided with them…”

Rooke swallowed. “Are they strong?”

She shot him a glare, probably more offended by his tone than the actual question, but answered anyway.

“Yes. But they wouldn’t dare do anything once I show them who leads this fort. King Thalric drove the barbarians from their homes. They fear him.”

Rooke seriously doubted anyone out there feared anything right now, but he kept quiet.

Mage Zarica straightened her back, lifted her chin, and marched forward just as the barbarians reached the front of the fort.

She raised a hand, projecting her voice with a forced confidence.

“Barbarians! You have made a mistake coming here today! Understand this, this fort belongs to King Thalric, and I, Mage Zarica, am the one protecting it!”

A sphere of flame formed in her palm, swelling with heat and intensity. She opened her mouth to continue her proclamation—

—but Rooke never heard the rest.

Because one of the barbarians casually reached behind his back, pulled out a heavy axe, and hurled it straight at her.

It happened so fast that even her eyes barely had time to widen.

The axe cleaved into her skull with a sickening, final crack.

Blood sprayed across the stone. Her body crumpled before the flame in her hand even flickered out.

Rooke stared—wide-eyed, frozen—knowing he would never forget that moment for as long as he lived. And decided just then that if he survived the day, he was going to leave the army behind.

***

Ragnar had never felt bad about war or killing before.

It was the way of the Lombards—the way of life. You kill or you get killed. That was what he had been taught since childhood, and nothing in this fort changed that philosophy. If anything, he felt a flicker of excitement. These were the same people who had once pushed his tribe out of their homeland, the same soldiers who forced them into banditry for years until they met Lord Arzan.

He should have felt satisfaction cutting them down.

But even he had to admit, the state of this fort was pathetic.

Too weak. Too slow. Too soft.

He almost felt bad watching the soldiers get smacked around by his men. They didn’t even need to kill anyone to subdue them. These soldiers fought like they only knew how to hold a sword, not swing it. Ragnar had expected a small fort to fall quickly—maybe a few hours at most—but as he looked around at the fleeing soldiers and the splintered gate he had smashed apart in minutes with his Enforcer strength, he wondered if he should’ve gone with his father to raid the bigger forts instead.

Maybe a part of why it had been so easy was because he had killed the Mage leading the place in one throw.

He hadn’t meant to.

Truly.

He believed if he hadn’t shut her up, she would’ve stood there flapping her mouth for a while, and Ragnar didn’t have the patience or interest to waste his energy listening to her. The axe had left his hand intending to injure her, not cleave her head off.

But fate had decided otherwise.

And Ragnar didn’t question fate. He took everything it gave him with open hands.

Even easy victories like this.

All around him, his men were pushing back the soldiers on the walls while others flooded deeper into Bulwark. Without a ward, the place was ripe for taking, especially now that the Mage in charge was dead. Though, Ragnar doubted it would have mattered even if she had been alive. His new strength, his elemental grasp, the technique he had honed… they were enough to crush any Second-Circle Mage standing alone.

For the first time in his life, he felt like he was standing close to their level. Close to being someone who could challenge them head-on.

But as he stood watching his men sweep through the fort, a glint of steel flashed in the corner of his eye. Instinct kicked in, and he dipped his head just as a sword slashed through the air where his neck had been. He stepped back, boots scraping against the stone as the soldier charged at him again.

Ragnar moved aside easily.

The man’s strikes came fast—fast for a normal soldier at least—but Ragnar simply watched, letting each blow pass him harmlessly. What caught his interest wasn’t the clumsy swordsmanship, but the look in the man’s eyes. Trembling. Terrified. Yet he still refused to run.

A foolish kind of bravery… but bravery nonetheless.

It wasn’t worth killing him.

So Ragnar kept dodging. And dodging. And dodging, until the soldier’s breathing turned ragged and his arms trembled from fatigue. Ragnar sidestepped the last desperate swing, planted his foot, and kicked the man squarely in the chest. He slammed into the wall and dropped to the ground, his sword clattering free.

Ragnar bent down and picked it up as the soldier scrambled for a dagger.

Ragnar shook his head.

“You shouldn’t bother,” he said simply. “You know you’ve lost.”

The soldier froze, chest heaving, before rasping, “She was useless. I’m not.”

Ragnar snorted. “She was useless. But you’re still useless right now.” He pointed the sword casually—not a threat, just a fact. “I’m putting every soldier in a jail. Do you want to rot there for weeks until this war is over?”

The soldier stared up at him, confusion and fear tangled together. “You… aren’t going to kill me?”

Ragnar rested the man’s dropped sword against his shoulder. “My father told me to kill every enemy,” he said bluntly. “But times have changed. I serve a man now who says not to kill when I can help it.” His eyes narrowed, a small spark of excitement flickering there. “And he gave me another task. One I intend to fulfill.”

The man swallowed. “What task?”

Ragnar tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

“Rooke,” the man answered after a moment.

“Good.” Ragnar crouched slightly, meeting his eyes. “Listen well, Rooke. I want you to run. Go to the nearest forts. Tell them Ragnar, son of Yafgar, is coming.” His grin widened, sharp and feral. “Tell them I’m coming with my men to take back every fort Thalric stole… and then we’re going to kill the prince himself. Do you understand?”

Rooke didn’t speak at first. A mess of emotions flickered through his eyes—fear, disbelief, maybe even relief—before he finally nodded. “I… I do.”

“Then don’t sit there like a stunned goat.” Ragnar jabbed the sword toward the gate. “Run.”

That was all it took. Rooke scrambled up, never taking his eyes off Ragnar until he was a safe distance away, and then he bolted, sprinting down the stairway, through the shattered gates, and out into the plains beyond.

Ragnar watched him go for a few seconds, arms crossed, letting the wind carry the man’s frantic footsteps away. Then he turned back toward the fort.

The fighting was already over. Bodies lay unconscious or disarmed, and his warriors stood victorious.

Ragnar lifted the sword above his head and roared, “My men! Bulwark is ours, but this is only the beginning!” He could feel the energy gather, the anticipation crackling. “We Lombards have sat idle too long. Now it’s time to show Prince Thalric what we can do!”

A thunder of cheers erupted from the walls and the courtyard below, and Ragnar grinned—wide, proud, and hungry for more.

***

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