Night settled uneasily over the forested foothills of the Lag’ranna Mountains, where both the Winters’ Army and Khao’khen’s host had made their temporary camps. The mountain’s looming presence cast a long, dark silhouette across the land. Its slopes rose quickly, a jagged wall of black rock and towering trees that seemed almost alive under the moonlight.

A temperate sprawl of towering oaks, weather-hardened sycamores, and ancient evergreens. The wind here was crisp, touched by the cool breath of high altitudes. Fallen leaves rustled underfoot. The scent of sap, moss, and damp bark filled the air.

It was beautiful.

It was silent.

And it was dangerous.

For the forest was too dense, too cramped, too unpredictable for either side to unleash the full power of their armies. Ten thousand infantry, four thousand mages, five thousand archers…none of them could maneuver freely. And the orcs, even twenty thousand strong, could not bring their full weight to bear…not with heavy rhakaddons unable to charge, not with wargs restricted by tight lines of trees.

To the far west, beyond the foothills and beyond the first defensive ridges, lay an ocean of rolling grasslands. Open. Wide. Breathtaking in their vast emptiness.

A perfect battlefield.

Both armies knew it.

But before they could reach that place…they had to pass through this forest.

And every shadow here had teeth.

*****

Khao’khen stood on a natural rise, a mound of stone jutting from the earth like the broken knuckle of a giant. From here, he could see the fires of his camp flickering through the trees…thousands of warriors sharpening blades, whispering war-songs, or sitting in disciplined stillness.

Behind them, the Lag’ranna Mountains loomed.

They were home.

They were shield.

They were weapon.

Torchlight danced upon Khao’khen’s stern face as he breathed in the cold night air.

Virkan of the Black Tree tribe emerged from the shadows at his left, barely disturbing the leaves beneath his feet. Behind him came two Verakhs…lean, muscular orcs known for their swift movements and keen senses. Their long black hair was tied back, their faces marked with ash streaks to break their outline in the dark.

“Chief,” Virkan rasped softly, “the mountains hide us well tonight. The pinkskins may not hear our movements.”

Khao’khen nodded once. “Good.”

Dhug’mur of the Rock Bear tribe approached from the right, steps heavy, earth crunching beneath him.

“The men grow restless,” the massive chieftain said. “They want battle. They want to finish what they started yesterday.”

“They will have battle,” Khao’khen replied, voice steady. “But not here. Not yet.”

Dhug’mur grunted but didn’t argue. “Your scouts gather?”

“Yes,” Khao’khen said. “The Black Trees and Verakhs will hunt tonight.”

At that, Virkan bowed slightly…a sign of rare pride.

The Verakh warriors behind him grinned.

This forest, this terrain…the Lag’ranna foothills…belonged to them.

In the distance, a deep rumble shook the earth.

The Rhakaddons of the Rumbling Clan.

Massive beasts shifting impatiently.

Dug’mhar appeared soon after, irritation etched into every line of his face.

“These trees mock me,” the chieftain spat. “This forest is an insult. My Rhakaddons cannot take three steps without colliding with roots or trees.”

“That is why they are not deployed,” Khao’khen answered calmly.

“They should be. They should flatten the trees themselves!”

“That would be heard for leagues,” Khao’khen said. “And it would reveal our positions. Patience, Dug’mhar.”

“Patience,” Dug’mhar growled, “is for the weak.”

“No,” Khao’khen corrected evenly. “Patience is for leaders.”

Dug’mhar fell silent, lips tightening…but he did not challenge the chieftain further.

The truth was simple: the Rumbling Clan was useless here. Machinery of war designed for open land, hemmed in by trees and rocky outcrops.

Khao’khen turned to Virkan and the Verakhs.

“You go first,” he ordered. “Probe the pinkskin lines. Test their responses. Learn their patterns.”

Virkan bowed once, deeply. “By dawn,” he whispered, “you will have answers.”

With a fluid motion, he and the Verakh scouts vanished into the trees.

They were born for this terrain.

*****

The Winters’ Army had settled into a temporary camp among the forested foothills…not ideal, but necessary. The soldiers worked by lantern-light and mage-light, their armor glinting as they hammered stakes into the ground, erected ward posts, and cleared fields of fire for archers.

Aliyah Winters stood near the edge of the camp, overlooking the dark forest with a wary gaze. Her cloak fluttered slightly in the cool wind, the silver fox-fur trimming catching faint glimmers of light.

Rhaegar Vance approached, bowing briefly.

“My lady, the last of the scouting parties has returned. No sign of immediate attack.”

Aliyah exhaled. “The orcs hide themselves well in this forest. Better than we do.”

Rhaegar frowned. “They know the mountains far better, I’d wager.”

“Exactly,” Aliyah murmured. “Which is why we must treat every shadow as an enemy.”

Sir Loric Avelle approached next, leaning on his staff but walking with purpose.

“My lady,” he said, “the wards are established but… the air feels wrong.”

“How so?”

“A tension,” Loric said. “Not magical. Natural. The way creatures behave right before a storm.”

Aliyah looked toward the west, where the shadow of the Lag’ranna Mountains loomed over the trees.

“A storm,” she repeated. “Let us hope we’re ready.”

Sir Ferin Luthen strode over, adjusting the feathers of his arrows.

“Countess,” he said, “I’ve placed archers on raised perches and built platforms on the sturdier trees. But visibility is… unsatisfying. These woods swallow sight.”

“They swallow sound too,” Helwain added as he approached. “My cavalry is useless here. The paths are narrow, uneven. We can’t maneuver.”

“You will maneuver soon enough,” Aliyah said calmly. “Just not tonight.”

Rhaegar stepped closer. “What are your orders for the night watch?”

Aliyah considered, then spoke clearly:

“Double the perimeter. Rotate archers every two hours. No one sleeps deeply. And prepare signals in case of a silent incursion.”

Rhaegar nodded sharply. “At once.”

“And Rhaegar,” Aliyah called as he turned to leave.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Tell the mages to keep their magic quiet. Ice flares, yes…but no grand displays. We do not want to reveal our real numbers.”

Rhaegar smiled faintly. “Cautious as ever.”

“And alive as ever,” Aliyah replied.

*****

Moonlight filtered weakly through the forest canopy.

The trees formed a jagged crown above the scurrying scouts of the Black Tree tribe and the Verakhs.

They moved fast, silent, deadly.

Their footsteps hardly disturbed the bed of fallen leaves.

Virkan raised a hand…his signal to halt.

Ahead, faint glimmers of blue light flickered between tree trunks.

“The pinkskins ward their perimeter,” whispered a Verakh, nostrils flaring. “I smell cold-frost magic. Sharp as winter.”

Virkan sniffed the air. “Old magic. The old and frail-looking one among the mages. He is dangerous.”

Slowly, methodically, the orcs moved closer, weaving between trees, stepping over roots.

A Verakh scout pointed upward.

“Archer platform,” he rasped. “Two pinkskins, bows drawn.”

Virkan grinned. “Good. The pinkskins are careful. Fearful.”

“Shall we test them?” another Verakh asked eagerly.

“Only lightly,” Virkan replied. “Do not expose yourselves. Strike, then vanish.”

The Verakhs moved like wolves, circling wide around the human archers.

Virkan raised three fingers.

Two.

One.

A pebble flew from the dark, striking a tree trunk near the human platform with a sharp crack.

The archers snapped alert.

“Movement!”

“Southwest!”

But before they could fully react, another Verakh darted into partial view…just long enough for the archers to spot a silhouette…and loose arrows.

Two shafts struck a tree. One barely skimmed the Verakh’s arm.

The Verakh slipped back into the shadows with a low snarl.

At that same moment, another Black Tree scout tested the ground near the human ward…

A sudden burst of pale-blue frost exploded upward.

A narrow pillar of ice shot from the soil, nearly impaling him.

He jumped back, breath misting in the cold air.

“Good,” Virkan whispered, eyes narrowing. “Their wards are sensitive. Magical, not mechanical.”

“Should we destroy them?” asked a Verakh.

“No. Not yet. We let them believe we fear the wards.”

Another Verakh scoffed. “They will be alert.”

“Let them,” Virkan said. “Alert soldiers sleep badly.”

He signaled for retreat.

They melted back into the forest.

Only one remained, a lone Black Tree scout who watched the human camp carefully, committing every detail to memory.

*****

The human archers were rattled.

One of them spat. “Damn shadows. The orcs are close. I could smell their breath.”

“Hold steady,” Ferin ordered. “They’re testing us.”

“If they test too much,” one archer murmured, “I’ll put an arrow through their skull.”

“Quiet,” Ferin snapped. “Report what you saw.”

“They’re not charging. Just probing. Small groups. Trying to make us reveal spells, light, numbers.”

Ferin frowned deeply. “Smart bastards.”

Another archer added, “Their steps were too soft. These orcs know the land better than we do.”

Ferin sighed, rubbing his brow.

“At least we gave them a frosty greeting.”

*****

Virkan and the Verakhs returned shortly before midnight, faces marked with sweat and forest dust.

Dhug’mur, Dug’mhar, and several leaders gathered behind Khao’khen as the scouts knelt.

“Report,” Khao’khen said simply.

Virkan bowed his head. “The pinkskins are disciplined. Their perimeter is strong. They have archers in trees, mages near the center, and rotating patrols.”

“Magic?” Dhug’mur asked.

“Aye,” Virkan replied. “Powerful ward magic. Frost. Old and dangerous.”

Khao’khen absorbed this silently.

“And their scouts?” Dug’mhar asked.

“Alert,” a Verakh answered. “Not skilled like ours, but cautious like prey sensing a predator.”

Khao’khen raised an eyebrow.

“Any weaknesses?” he asked.

Virkan nodded slowly. “Yes. Their southern flank dips into shallow ground. Marshy. Their wagons and supplies rest there.”

Dug’mhar grunted. “Then let me charge…”

“No,” Khao’khen interrupted. “The forest is still too tight.”

He turned toward the west, where distant grasslands glowed faintly white under moonlight.

“We move west tomorrow. Toward the open plains.”

Dhug’mur grinned. Virkan bowed.

Dug’mhar stiffened in excitement.

*****

Dawn crept slowly over the treetops, painting the forest in pale gold. Aliyah Winters stood at the ridge overlooking her camp as her commanders gathered.

“We shift west,” she said. “Toward the grasslands.”

Rhaegar smiled. “Finally.”

Helwain exhaled in relief.

Loric stroked his beard. “Wise. The orcs will not press us here. They wait for open ground.”

“Yes,” Aliyah agreed. “Which is why we must reach it first.”

Ferin nodded. “The archers can spread out better there.”

“And my cavalry can breathe again,” Helwain said proudly.

Aliyah turned to them all, voice steady and cold:

“We move at midday. Quietly. Efficiently. The orcs will follow.”

The commanders bowed.

A storm was coming.

Both sides knew it.

But tonight…there would be no battles.

Only movements.

And preparation.

*****

The forest was alive with sound that morning:

rustling leaves, crackling fires, distant bird calls, and the faint creak of wagons preparing to move.

Khao’khen watched from his vantage point as his warriors began discreet relocation.

Aliyah watched from hers as the Winters Army tightened ranks and readied the march.

Both armies stood only a few hundred meters apart…yet the trees kept them blind to each other’s full numbers.

To the west, the open plains awaited.

And as the sun rose behind the Lag’ranna Mountains, the light cast long shadows across the forest floor.

Shadows that hinted at the war to come.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep