Chapter 203: ARRIVAL
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Torshavn still bore its scars.
As Riven Sudrath’s convoy rolled through the city’s southern gates, the first sight to greet them was the cracks running along the stone walls—remnants of a monster tide from three months ago that had yet to be fully repaired. In some places, new stones had been stacked haphazardly, their mortar still damp with morning dew. Yet, beneath it all, the city’s foundation remained unyielding. The watchtowers stood tall, and the Sudrath Wolf banners fluttered at their peaks, never once lowered.
Count Eddard Torsen was already waiting at the main gate.
The man, in his forties, wore light armor beneath a grey wool cloak. His face still held lines of exhaustion—three months was not enough to erase the trauma of losing half his city—but his eyes burned with something inextinguishable. Resolve.
Riven stepped down from his command tank, his boots crunching on Torshavn soil still smeared with lingering snow. He looked at Count Eddard and nodded.
"The city still stands," he said.
Count Eddard returned the nod. "We will not let it fall again, Lord Riven." His voice was raspy but firm. "Your forces have arrived just in time. Our scouts report the royal army has begun moving from the south. They may arrive within days."
Riven turned toward the south. From this vantage point, only low, greening hills were visible—a sign that winter was losing its grip. But behind those hills, he knew, tens of thousands of troops were marching closer.
"We will greet them," Riven said. "But not here. Not inside the city."
Count Eddard frowned. "My lord?"
Riven turned back, watching the tanks still filing into the city. "Torshavn has suffered enough. I won’t have the battle fought in the streets you’ve just begun to mend. We will face them outside the walls. In the Southern Valley."
"That is open terrain, my lord. The royal army has the advantage in numbers—"
"I am aware." Riven cut him off, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. "But we have tanks. They have horses and swords. Open terrain is precisely what we need."
Count Eddard remained silent for a moment before nodding slowly. "I place the defense of this city in your hands, Lord Riven."
Riven didn’t reply. He simply patted Eddard’s shoulder—a brief gesture that carried more weight than words—and walked back to his tank.
Hundreds of kilometers to the southwest, Rianor Sudrath’s convoy entered the gates of Oakhaven.
Unlike Torshavn, Oakhaven showed no signs of destruction. This small town was a hub for merchants and adventurers—bustling, vibrant, and colorful. But that was exactly the problem. Oakhaven lacked sturdy defensive walls. There were no stone ramparts to withstand an assault. There was only a two-meter-high wooden fence, more suited for keeping out bandits than a heavy cavalry charge.
Rianor stood beside his command vehicle, crystal tablet in hand. The screen displayed a topographical map of Oakhaven and its surroundings. His eyes moved rapidly, calculating, analyzing.
"Open terrain," he muttered. "No natural cover. Alistair’s cavalry could breach from three different directions."
Elara sat in her wheelchair inside the vehicle, the window rolled down. She watched her husband. "But you already have a plan."
Rianor turned. "Always."
Viscount Alden Oak—the young ruler of Oakhaven—approached with hurried steps. Not yet thirty, his face was clean-shaven, but his posture was upright and his eyes wary. He wore a leather jacket emblazoned with the Oakhaven crest—a towering oak tree.
"Lord Rianor." Alden bowed respectfully. "We have received word of your arrival. The Highgarden forces—"
"I know." Rianor interrupted, but this time with a more patient tone. "They move fast. Cavalry. Alistair won’t attack head-on. He’ll flank us, looking for a gap, then strike from a direction we least expect."
Alden swallowed hard. "Then... what must we do?"
Rianor looked at the town behind Alden—wooden houses with red roofs, a marketplace beginning to bustle, citizens walking about with shopping baskets. They didn’t yet know that a storm was imminent.
"Evacuate the citizens," Rianor said. "Not out of the region—that’s too dangerous. Move them behind the northern hills. There are natural caves large enough to house everyone. Khulafa and his team have already mapped them out."
Alden knit his brows. "Khulafa?"
"A member of the Ghost Squad. They’ve been here for three days, monitoring enemy movements and scouting evacuation sites." Rianor looked Alden directly in the eye. "I need you to organize the evacuation. No panic. No rushing. But it must be finished before sunset tomorrow."
Alden nodded, despite the doubt in his eyes. "And after that?"
Rianor turned, looking at the tanks still arriving. "After that, we turn this town into a fortress."
Night fell over Oakhaven.
Oil lamps along the main street flickered to life, casting long shadows between the wooden houses. Citizens began moving north—not screaming in panic, but walking in a somber silence, carrying whatever they could manage. Alden led the evacuation calmly, aided by the town elders and several Nightshade Sentinels.
Inside the command tent pitched in the town square, Rianor sat at a folding table surrounded by maps and crystal tablets. Elara was beside him, her own tablet on her lap, occasionally pointing to something on the screen.
"Alistair will arrive in two days," Elara said. "If my calculations are correct, he will choose the eastern route—passing through that small forest. The terrain is more concealed, perfect for cavalry movement that wishes to remain undetected."
Rianor nodded. "But he doesn’t know we’ve planted mana sensors all along that path. The moment he enters, we’ll know."
"And then?"
Rianor pointed to a spot on the map. "We deploy the Mana Lasers here, here, and here. Three points. Enough to create a kill zone without wasting energy. Once his cavalry is inside, we activate them. They’ll be trapped between the forest and the cliffs."
Elara studied the map. "And if he circles around through another path?"
"He won’t." Rianor leaned back. "Because of all available routes, only the eastern one appears the safest. He will choose it. I know how he thinks."
Elara looked at her husband. There was something in Rianor’s eyes she rarely saw—not arrogance, but a conviction born of deep analysis. Rianor wasn’t guessing. He had already solved the equation.
"Are you certain?"
Rianor turned to look at her. "I’m certain because I’ve studied every battle he’s ever won. Alistair always chooses the path that seems safe but is actually lethal—for his enemies. This time, I will be the one making that path lethal for him."
Outside the tent, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed. An infantryman appeared at the entrance, saluting.
"Lord Rianor. The makeshift fortifications around the town are complete. Wooden barricades and tank positions have been set according to instructions."
Rianor nodded. "Good. Let the troops rest. Tomorrow, we begin simulation drills."
The soldier bowed and departed.
Elara rolled her wheelchair closer to Rianor. "Are you going to sleep soon?"
"Not yet."
"Rianor."
"Later."
Elara sighed but didn’t protest. She simply reached for her husband’s hand and held it. Rianor didn’t pull away. For a while, they just sat in silence, listening to the wind whistling through the tents.
In the distance, the faint sound of tanks still maneuvering echoed. But inside the tent, there was a silence shared only by two people who understood each other without the need for words.
The next day, in Torshavn, Riven stood atop a small hill outside the city walls. Below him, three hundred tanks were lined up in a neat formation—Wolf-Tusks in front, Titan MK-1s in the rear. Infantry trained on the left flank, moving in formations they had memorized by heart. In the sky, two Sky-Hunters flew low, conducting routine patrols.
Thorne stood beside Riven. "The royal army is expected to arrive the day after tomorrow. Our scouts spotted dust on the southern horizon."
Riven nodded. "Prepare the welcome."
Thorne almost smiled. "The cannons?"
"The cannons." Riven stared southward. "I want them to hear our voice before they ever see our faces."
In Oakhaven, Rianor stood before his line of tanks. Four hundred units—more than Riven’s—were arrayed in a looser formation, adapted for the open terrain. Infantry practiced on the right flank, moving swiftly between trees in a guerrilla warfare simulation.
Elara was inside the command tent, monitoring data from the mana sensors placed along the eastern route. Her eyes moved fast, calculating, analyzing. On her tablet screen, green dots indicated their own positions. A red dot had yet to appear.
Not yet.
Rianor walked into the tent, his face expressionless but his eyes alight. "Any movement?"
"Not yet." Elara looked up at him. "But they’re coming. I can feel it."
Rianor sat down beside her.
They both stared at the tablet screen. Outside, the sounds of training still echoed. Tanks maneuvered. Infantry ran. Sky-Hunters flew low.
The war hadn’t started yet. But everyone was ready.
In Torshavn, Count Eddard stood on the watchtower, staring south. In the distance, dust began to rise—faint, almost imperceptible, but enough to make his heart beat faster.
"They are coming," he whispered.
In Oakhaven, Alden Oak stood at the entrance of the evacuation caves, looking back at the now-empty town. The wooden houses, the empty marketplace, the silent streets. Everything was waiting.
Inside the command tent, Rianor and Elara still sat side by side, staring at the same screen.
The red dot had yet to appear.
But they knew. Very soon.
The war was about to begin.