When Wolves March

The sky held its breath.

Clouds parted in a thin sweep above the wide Tivar plain, the last mist of morning burned off by the rise of a pale sun. Across the open field, the Governor's banners rose like a curtain of polished steel and imperial pride. A wall of men. Horses. Mages. Shields gleaming.

On Harkoraal's side of the field, the black wolf stood still.

Senjar walked alone up the rise no armor heavier than leather, no crown, no cloak of conquest only his blade and the wind at his back. His men had gathered already. Ten thousand strong. All tribes. All voices. Shoulder to shoulder, behind the new standards of black and crimson.

Behind them were trenches. Archers. Mages. Riders on high ground.

Before them was a force twice their size.

Senjar stood atop the mound, boots planted firm in the churned dirt, and raised a single hand.

Silence swept the line.

He did not shout.

He let the wind carry him.

"This is the plain they chose," he said, his voice even. "They bring twenty thousand men and twenty mages. They bring polished steel. Old oaths. Names carved into towers we've never seen."

He looked across the faces hard, weathered, young, scarred, some half-starved, some freshly armed.

"For them, this is just a province. One more stone in the Empire's crown."

He pointed westward, where their lands once were.

"For us, this is the world. For us this is the last stand. The fate of Iskorith and that of Harkoraal will be decided."

A pause.

"Our homes are gone. Our hills burned. The Morhaal ride behind us now. We cannot go back. We cannot kneel."

He stepped aside and turned toward the banner the black wolf on white, its mouth open, teeth bared.

"This sigil behind me isn't a crown. It's a warning."

He turned back to the army.

"So fight not for gold. Not for glory. Fight for what's left. For the fire that kept your children warm. For the soil that fed your mother. For the tribe that took you when others turned you away."

He let the silence build.

"Today, we carve a line in the earth. Either they cross it… or they bleed on it."

He drew his sword and raised it high, the light catching the blade in a flash of white fire.

"Let the wolf be fed!"

The roar that followed broke the still air. Not a cheer. A war cry. The promise of reckoning. Spears slammed into dirt. Shields rang.

And across the plain, the Empire's lines began to move.

The drums from the Imperial side began as low thunder.

A deep, measured boom. Then horns, drawn long, echoed across the valley like beasts announcing the hunt. Banners rippled as the first line of soldiers began to march forward a shield wall wide enough to drown the field, spears raised like a forest of judgment.

From the ridge above, Harkoraal's lines held firm.

Varrik barked orders from the central bulwark, his sword drawn, his voice carrying like a blade through fog.

Kaelric paced the eastern trench, eyes sharp beneath his helm, watching the approach with a predator's focus.

Senjar did not move from the high mound.

He watched.

Behind him, the mages stood ready. Aelynne and Rasa had already begun to draw their focus fingers moving through silent patterns of water and ice. Gavren stood still, arms crossed, waiting. Kirel paced like a caged flame.

At the front, the first line of Harkoraal spears planted their heels.

They did not chant.

They did not tremble.

They waited.

The first volley came from the Empire's archers a wave of black-feathered arrows that hissed through the air in tight formation.

Kaelric gave a sharp cry: "Shields!"

The front rows braced, wood and iron locking. The sound of impact was thunderous a rippling crash of wood and steel, but few screams. The line held.

Then came the charge.

Imperial heavy infantry surged forward with trained precision. Pikes lowered. Footmen closed ranks, the line advancing over flat ground with practiced brutality. Flanking cavalry rode with them, tight formation, lances poised.

Just as they reached the shallow rise before the trenches,

A blast of wind shattered the rhythm.

Corien's spell sent from far east behind the line, his magic hurled forward like a blade ripped across the flanking horsemen and sent a dozen into the dirt, mounts screaming.

Then the sky cracked.

Aelynne raised both arms.

A wall of rising mist exploded from the trench edge, hiding Harkoraal's front ranks in a veil of thick fog. Water shimmered on the air, heavy and cold. Confusion took the enemy for a moment.

Long enough.

Kaelric's voice tore through the fog.

"NOW!"

A row of archers rose from the mist and loosed not one volley, but three in succession. Arrows struck the Imperial front as they stumbled through the fog, impaling and disrupting their line.

But the Empire did not break.

They reformed, blindly at first, then with more purpose. Their front-line smashed into the trench lines and chaos ignited.

Screams. Steel. Blood.

On the western edge, a mage from the Governor's host stepped forward, robed in gold and red. His staff flared with flame and fire danced across the grass in a burning whip that struck into the Harkoraal line.

Kirel answered.

From his hand came a column of heat, flame for flame, a blast that turned the golden mage's attack into a spiral of smoke and dust. They clashed in magic, the grass around them blackening, fire battling fire.

"Senjar," Kaelric growled, appearing behind him, "we can't hold the center if they bring the rest of their mages forward. We need..."

"I know," Senjar said quietly.

He turned.

Behind him, his personal guard waited a thousand cavalry, mounted and armored. The last hammer of the wolf.

Senjar looked across the field, watching the line strain, the Imperial center pressing hard against the trenches.

He lowered his blade.

"Ready the riders," he said.

The horn blew once long and deep.

The Black Wolf rose.

Senjar's horse pawed the earth beneath him, sensing the storm. His cloak whipped behind him, black against black, the sigil stitched at its center now catching wind like a banner of its own.

He did not shout. He did not rally.

His sword gleamed as he raised it, a blade of folded steel engraved with Harkoraal runes.

One thousand riders stood in formation behind him. The air around them pulsed every mount tense, every rider fixed ahead.

Then Senjar whispered the words, not for volume, but for vow.

"Now they learn what it means to face the sons of the East."

He kicked forward.

The charge began like thunder breaking free from a stormcloud steady at first, then furious. Dust roared beneath hooves. The sound built as hundreds of spears angled forward, shields lowered, blades drawn.

From the ridge, Kaelric turned and bellowed to the trench line:

"Stand fast, the Wolf is loose!"

Down they came.

Across the plain, the Imperial flank composed of lighter infantry, archers, and supply riders scrambled to respond. The front ranks were still locked in battle at the trench line; they could not pivot in time.

Then came the impact.

Senjar's cavalry smashed into the exposed flank like a scythe through brittle wheat. Spears drove deep. Riders crashed past the first row, cutting through leather and flesh, trampling the panicked second line beneath hooves and steel.

Senjar led them straight into the heart.

He struck with precision not rage. His blade found gaps in plate, split chain, and cracked helm. He moved like a storm wrapped in flesh, mana flaring faintly along his arms and shoulders.

Gavren's lessons held.

But then the air shifted.

To the west, a second Imperial mage robed in deep blue, silver-threaded raised both hands skyward. Wind screamed. A line of fire erupted, circling the Harkoraal riders, trying to isolate them.

Kirel's voice roared from behind.

"Not today, little bird!"

A spiral of fire erupted from the ground behind the cavalry charge his flame meeting the enemy's in the air. For a moment, the sky looked as though it would split, two columns of mana clashing like gods above the field.

Rasa, from the rear, called water from the trenches, sending a crashing wave to douse the remaining fire path. Steam blanketed the field.

Senjar broke through.

He turned his horse hard to the east, cutting behind the Imperial middle line. His riders followed, carving a black arc through the enemy formation. The Governor's army began to bend — not break, not yet, but bend hard.

Then, over the ridgeline,

Rell appeared.

Three thousand fresh spears, marching fast, moving in double time.

The trap was closing.

Senjar raised his sword high, pointing toward the Imperial rear ranks.

"Now," he said. "Break them."

Behind him, the cavalry turned, wheeled like a hammer in flight, and struck again this time from the side.

The Imperial formation shattered.

They broke rank, scattered in pockets. Some tried to flee. Some tried to surrender. Many died.

And above them all, the banner of the Black Wolf flew unbroken.