When Wolves March

The road to Tathar's Cross was quiet.

No wind. No birds. Just the slow rhythm of hooves on hard-packed dirt and the groan of leather saddles.

Senjar rode at the front, cloak pulled tight. Around him, two thousand Harkoraal soldiers moved in measured silence ranks of spearmen, shield bearers, and riders armed with short bows and spears. There were no drums, no chants. Only the weight of what followed behind the echoes of the forest battle still thick in the air.

Ash clung to the trees like old snow. Smoke still rose from the eastern woods, curling above the treetops where Kaelric's ambush had turned the Viscount's pride into red ruin.

Senjar said nothing. Neither did Kaelric, who rode on his left. Nor Rell, who remained blood splattered and cold eyed on the right.

Senjar had ordered the rest be left where they fell, a warning carved into earth and ash.

In the front Viscount's head was on top of the spear.

Ahead, the towers of Tathar's Cross began to rise in the morning haze — copper rooftops gleaming faintly in the distance.

"Still no movement from the walls," Kaelric said.

"Not even a scout," Rell added.

Senjar's jaw tensed. "Varrik's men?"

A rider galloped up from the rear.

"Commander Varrik reports the road from the west is secured, Arl. No wagons or columns made it past the gorge. The Baron's reinforcements are stalled. The town stands alone."

Senjar nodded once.

"Then let's greet them before they remember how to fight."

He spurred his horse, and the army followed not in haste, but with the cold finality of a closing gate.

Tathar's Cross loomed above them, its walls still and unmoving.

Senjar gave the signal, and the Harkoraal host spread out across the plain a full semicircle of steel and black banners that reached from the river's bend to the southern bluff. It wasn't a charge. It was a closing hand.

Siege lines were drawn. Fires lit. Spears planted in rows like teeth in the earth.

Senjar stood atop a low rise before the front ranks. He said nothing, simply watching the wall.

Atop the battlements, a handful of soldiers lingered behind crenellations their helms silvered with morning frost, their posture stiff. No arrows loosed. No horns sounded.

The gates stayed shut.

Kaelric rode up beside him. "They're waiting for ghosts, not men."

Rell shifted in the saddle. "We bring both."

Senjar raised a fist.

All around, preparations began. Rams rolled forward. Arrows were passed down lines. A slow drumbeat sounded from the left flank not to rally, but to weigh down the air.

Still the walls did not answer.

Then the gate groaned.

It cracked open just enough for a single rider to emerge, followed by two more men on foot unarmed, cloaks held high, palms bare.

Senjar lowered his fist.

"Let them come," he said.

The envoy stopped before the hill. Dust clung to his boots, and sweat beaded on his brow. He removed his helm a young officer, barely into his beard.

He bowed deeply. "Arl Senjar of Harkoraal."

Senjar nodded.

"I speak as the captain of Tathar's Cross. The garrison will not fight."

No one in the Harkoraal line moved. Even the horses seemed to hold breath.

"We ask for mercy," the young man said. "The people within are not soldiers. The Viscount led the army. He did not return. The town has no command."

Senjar's voice was low. "You ask me to take a city without blood."

"Yes, Arl."

"Then offer something in place of blood."

The young man knelt in the dirt. "We offer obedience. Total and sworn."

A hush swept the line.

Senjar dismounted and stepped forward until he stood before the envoy.

"Swear it before your people," Senjar said. "On the gates. On your knees."

The man nodded, stood, and turned.

Senjar's voice followed him, "If one arrow flies, I burn the city."

The sun had risen high when the gates of Tathar's Cross creaked open fully. No horns blew. No banners waved. Only wind carried through the arch, rattling the iron fittings like bones in a hollow drum.

Senjar stood still before it.

The young officer had returned to the wall moments before, as ordered. Now he stood atop the battlements, visible to both sides. His sword lay at his feet.

"I, Radan Tol, Captain of the Garrison of Tathar's Cross," he said, voice clear but tight, "swear before the gods and the people to serve Arl Senjar of Harkoraal. Let none of this town stand against him."

His words were loud and firm.

They echoed across the stone, over the dirt, and through the ranks of Harkoraal spears. The gates had not held. Not to rams. Not to blades. But to the certainty of defeat.

Senjar mounted his horse.

He did not smile.

"Kaelric," he said, "take two hundred. Secure the keep. No blood, unless blood greets you."

Kaelric nodded once and rode off, hand in the air. Two hundred peeled from the line and entered the city at a measured pace. No one cheered. The townsfolk gathered only in doorways and alleys, faces tight with fear, children clutched close, shutters half-closed.

Senjar waited until Harkoraal's banner flew from the inner tower the black wolf above the silver flame then turned to his army.

"We march through the gate," he said. "No looting. No cruelty. You are Harkoraal. They must see us as order, not chaos."

The column began to move.

Senjar led it through the city's main road, past the market square and shuttered shops. The horses' hooves echoed on cobblestone. Black banners hung between spears.

At the city's center, beneath the square where public hangings had once been held, Senjar stopped.

A group of elders and guildmasters stood waiting, heads bowed.

One of them a bearded baker with flour on his hands stepped forward. "We have bread, Arl," he said. "For your men. And names of those who once served the Viscount's tax office. If you wish them punished."

Senjar looked at him.

"I want them questioned. Then returned to their homes."

The man looked up, startled.

"We are not here to avenge our fear," Senjar said.

"We are here to replace yours."

Then he turned toward the square, where stone steps rose toward the old governor's hall.

He climbed them slowly, the black cloak dragging behind, and stood where Viscount Drevhal once issued commands.

He raised a single hand.

"Hear me," Senjar said, voice carrying across the hushed square. "Tathar's Cross is no longer a border post of the Empire. It belongs to Harkoraal."

Murmurs swept through the gathered crowd.

"This place will not be burned. It will be fed. Its people will not be chained. They will serve. But no swords shall rise here again against the black wolf."

He paused.

"You have lived beneath the Empire's shadow," Senjar said. "Now you will live beneath Harkoraal's law. You will be safe. But not free to betray."

No one answered. But no one fled either.

Behind him, Kaelric returned and gave a nod. The keep was secure.

Senjar turned toward the door of the hall.

"Bring Mara," he said quietly to Rell. "And Garrin. It is time to build a seat here."

As the gates shut behind them once more, it was not to keep enemies out.

It was to mark a city held.