The flames still burned in the remains of the enemy camp when Aldric and his men returned, covered in ash and dried blood. No one spoke along the way. Not because of exhaustion, but because of the tension that clung to them like a second skin. They had struck with precision… but the retaliation wouldn't be far behind.
"We managed to destroy two wagons and an entire tent," Charles reported upon entering the war room, tossing a stolen sack onto the table. "But the horn blew too fast. Someone was ready."
Aldric nodded in silence. He didn't need to say it out loud—this hadn't been a coincidence. The enemy had begun to anticipate their moves.
Pierre entered with a bloodied bandage still wrapped around his forehead and a tense expression on his face.
"We've got trouble. A scouting group just returned from the northern hill. They saw movement. Lots of men. Too many for a simple patrol."
Aldric stepped toward the map and traced the edge with a finger.
"From which direction?"
"Northwest. They're using different banners. Black, with a silver raven."
Charles looked up, pale.
"The Black Raven…?"
Aldric narrowed his eyes.
"You know him?"
Charles hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"They call him General Brannoc. The Duke doesn't use him for sieges—he sends him to exterminate. We've never seen him this far north."
Pierre let out a bitter laugh.
"Well, now he's knocking on our door."
Aldric stood still for a few moments. A new player had entered the board—and not just any player. If the Duke had sent Brannoc, it meant the provocations had worked… but it also meant there was no more room for mistakes.
"What kind of commander is he?" Aldric asked finally.
"Ruthless. Cold. He doesn't take prisoners. He uses the darkness like you do… but with far more cruelty," Charles replied.
Aldric nodded, eyes still fixed on the map.
"Then we have to strike before he finishes setting up."
Pierre stared at him in disbelief.
"Attack the Black Raven? Now?"
"Yes," Aldric said firmly. "Before he sets up his surveillance. Before his war engines are in place. We only get one chance."
Charles said nothing, but his face showed quiet acceptance: there was no turning back. Only forward.
That night, the fortress fell into silence.
And at dawn, like a flash of lightning, Aldric rode out with a small group. Forty men. All volunteers. All knowing they might not return.
They marched through the fog, deep into enemy territory—where it was said Brannoc had already set up his command post.
The first signs of the enemy appeared near a clearing: animal corpses hanging from trees, strange symbols painted on bark, and a stench that didn't belong to the forest.
Aldric dismounted and raised a clenched fist. Total silence.
They advanced on foot. Every step was a promise of death. Every shadow, a potential ambush.
Then they saw it.
A makeshift structure of wood and black canvas. Guards in dark armor. They didn't speak. They simply watched. At the top, flapping in the wind, was the raven banner.
"There it is," Charles whispered.
Aldric crouched behind a rock, studying the scene. A frontal assault was suicide. But if they could burn the maps, steal his plans, kill the second-in-command...
A scream shattered the silence.
One of their men, caught in a trap hidden under the leaves, fell to the ground with a spike through his leg.
The alarm exploded instantly.
"Aldric! They saw us!"
"Retreat! Now!" he shouted as Brannoc's war horns began to sound.
From the main tent, a figure stepped out.
Cloaked in black, face hidden behind an ornate helm, General Brannoc raised one hand… and his men surged forward like a wave of steel.
Aldric fought to carve a path, sword in hand. But there were too many. And Brannoc didn't move. He just watched from above, like a raven waiting for its wounded prey.
One by one, Aldric's men managed to escape into the forest. But when they reached a clearing, the horror struck.
"Five are missing!" Pierre shouted, panting.
Aldric was covered in mud and blood. He looked back at the smoke rising behind them.
"He captured them. He'll use them."
"Torture?" Charles asked grimly.
Aldric shook his head.
"Worse. He'll hang them in front of our gates."
Silence fell. No one answered. They all knew what it meant: terror, provocation… and a psychological war that had only just begun.
Charles clenched his jaw.
"He's sending us a message."
"Yes," Aldric said, his voice cold and sharp. "And now we'll send one back."
His gaze hardened. The real battle hadn't started yet. But soon—very soon—Brannoc would learn he had underestimated the wrong man.
Aldric and his men returned to the fortress as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of red. There were no cheers, no celebration. Only the sound of dragging footsteps and the heavy wooden gates closing behind them.
Up in the watchtower, the sentinels lit their torches while tension spread like an invisible plague. Everyone knew something had changed. The enemy was no longer just a shadow beyond the forest... but a real, tangible, brutal presence.
Aldric climbed to the top of the wall. From there, he could see the open field, dimly lit by the moon. And then he saw them.
Five bodies, hanging from distant trees.
Naked. Mutilated. One of them had a sign around his neck, written in large, jagged Latin letters. Charles read it aloud through clenched teeth:
"Ravens feast on traitors first."
Aldric said nothing.
A cold wind blew in from the north.
Pierre approached.
"What do we do now?"
Aldric lowered his gaze.
"We send a message back. Not with words. With fire."
Silence.
And then, a command—barely a whisper, but laced with burning fury:
"Ready the scouts. Tonight, we hunt shadows."
The fortress did not sleep that night.
Men moved like ghosts through the corridors, sharpening blades, whispering to one another, eyes darting toward the gates as if they expected the enemy to materialize at any moment. Fear hung heavy in the air—but so did something else.
Rage.
Aldric stood over the war table, tracing lines across the map with a blackened finger. His cloak still reeked of smoke. His knuckles were scraped raw. Around him, Charles, Pierre, and two other commanders watched in silence.
"They want to break us," Aldric said finally. "Not just with steel. With fear. They want our men to hesitate before stepping outside these walls."
"They won't," said Charles. "Not after tonight."
Aldric gave a faint nod.
"We'll strike a different outpost. Smaller. One of their supply lines. No direct attack. No noise. We get in, burn everything, and vanish before they even know what happened."
Pierre frowned. "Won't Brannoc expect that?"
"Exactly. That's why we'll hit two places," Aldric said, eyes gleaming. "One to draw them out. The other to bleed them."
Charles's expression hardened. "A feint and a slaughter."
Aldric didn't smile, but something dangerous flickered in his gaze.
"Let them think they've caught us. Let them come running… and then we'll show them what happens when the hunted learns to bite."
He turned to the scouts assembled near the door—lean, sharp-eyed men dressed in dark cloaks.
"You leave at first light. No armor. No banners. Only speed and silence."
They saluted and vanished into the corridor like shadows.
Outside, the bodies still swung in the wind.
But by dawn… there would be others hanging from trees.