When Wolves March

The forest here was thick, it was dense enough to choke a horse.

Senjar was crouched on one knee, his fingers were pressed to the pine needle covered in ground. Damp. Just enough moisture to mask footfalls, but not enough to stop flame.

He rose and turned to the men gathered behind him. Six hundred Harkorall stood in crouched rows, half hidden between the trees. They wore no banners. Their shields were darkened with ash. Arrows were notched but held low.

Every face was silent.

Senjar raised a hand, palm open.

A scout stepped forward, breathless.

"They're close. Two miles from here. Their formation is tight. Eight hundred in strength. And mages in front."

"Mages, you say?"

"Yes, Arl."

"How many?" Senjar asked.

"Two I could see. Fire-casters. Red cloaks."

Senjar said nothing for a moment.

Then he looked at the scout and hand gestured him to leave , and he walked to the shallow ridge above the trail they had chosen for the trap. From here, the enemy would be funneled into a narrow path between sloping ground. For their welcome, they had prepared logs that were hung high in the trees, and ropes tied around them and coiled.

Below, they had scattered flint soaked brush. In the undergrowth, flasks of pitch waited in the hands of crouching men.

Senjar spoke in a low voice, but clear.

"No one moves until the first mage is marked."

Archers gave the faintest nods.

"First arrows go to them. Second volley targets the center. Third..."

He pointed toward the ropes coiled on the trees. "Cut the sky down."

The nearest men gripped their knives tighter.

Senjar stepped closer to the thickest line, where three dozen warriors waited in crouch. These were his charge team. No horses. No horns. Just blades and shields and rage.

He looked over them once. Then drew the wolf-marked sword. It shone dull in the shadow.

"We kill fast. We make noise. And we burn this forest to remind them Harkorall still bites."

The first sounds of marching came soon after.

Boots on stone. Armor clinking.

Morhaal banners didn't rise above the trees. But their voices did. Orders were barked. The stomp of command. The rustle of power moving forward without fear.

Senjar crouched low and whispered to his archer captain, a man with two fingers missing named Toren.

"Wait for my hand, Toren."

Toren gave a nod and raised two fingers.

The moment stretched.

Then the first mage appeared.

Red cloak. Armored plates with staff in their hands. Flames danced at top of his staff like tame snakes. Behind him, warriors in steel and leather, two ranks deep, flanked both sides.

Senjar raised his hand.

Held it.

When they were in range.

He lowered it.

The first volley of arrows flew straight to the mage.

Six arrows whistled.

Two struck armor. One missed.

Three found the mark. One deep into the mage's throat.

The fire at his hand exploded as he fell, catching the soldier beside him in the face. Screams erupted.

Then the second volley came, this time not for precision, but for chaos.

Arrows rained into the Morhaal center. Shields were raised, men shouted, order frayed.

Senjar shouted, "Fire it!"

Pitch was thrown.

Torches struck.

The brush ignited instantly, flames climbing the trees like they were hungry.

Smoke rose from everywhere.

"Cut the ropes!"

The ropes snapped.

Logs fell from both sides of the slope, crashing into the line. Bones cracked. The Morhaal front was thrown into shouts, panic, and fire.

Senjar didn't wait.

He lifted his sword high and roared.

"For Harkoraal!"

The men behind him shouted "For Harkoraal, For Arl."

Then he charged straight to the enemy.

The Harkorall came behind him like wolves loosed from a cage.

Senjar's boots struck stone, then mud, then bodies.

Steel clanged to his left. A man screamed to his right. Then he was inside the Morhaal line.

He didn't swing wildly. His blade moved fast and low. He was a renowned swordman in Harkoraal tribe. First strike to the thigh. Second across the throat. A man fell gurgling, another slipped in the blood. Senjar stepped over both and drove his shoulder into a shield. The Morhaal solider behind it stumbled, then died with steel through his chest.

Behind him, the charge line hit.

Harkorall shields slammed. Swords flashed. Men roared.

But the Morhaal weren't children. Even burned, even blinded, they fought with determination. Soon they succeeded in gaining control of the second rank, and began to push back.

To the left, Senjar heard a shout. He turned just in time to see it:

The left flank of Harkoraal was breaking.

A cluster of Morhaal had punched through the edge, swinging wide. Three Harkorall fell. The rest staggered back. The trap's edge was opening.

Senjar didn't hesitate.

He surged toward the breach, faster than a man should move. His feet pounded the dirt, but never stumbled. His muscles burned, but the heat in his chest was not pain. It was magic. Not words, not spells. Just a pulse of old blood and focus.

He just manipulated the magic into his body.

He slammed into the Morhaal flank like a falling tree.

The first man went down with his arm twisted backward. The second fell with a crushed throat. Senjar didn't stop. He spun, ducked, slammed his sword flat against a helmet, then thrust forward through a ribcage.

Blood was flowing like fountain on the field.

The line held.

Just barely.

Senjar stood in the center of it, blood dripping down his jaw, eyes lit with a fire that was not flame.

And Rell saw it all.

He had been near the edge, holding back a taller warrior, one of the few still wearing full Morhaal plate. Rell had blocked two strikes, barely. He'd stepped back, then again. He had seen the flank bend and had feared.

Then he saw Senjar.

Not leading from behind.

Not shouting orders from safety.

But breaking skulls where the line was weakest.

Rell stared as Senjar pulled his blade free from the chest of a man twice his size. The wolf mark on the sword was now red and slick. Smoke curled around him. And when he turned, his eyes burned like a beast too angry to die.

And Rell shouted,

"For the Arl!"

Others picked it up.

"For the Arl!"

The cry spread faster than fire.

Morhaal eyes widened. For the first time since the trap had sprung, they hesitated.

Senjar heard the chant. He didn't smile. He turned toward the deeper ranks of the Morhaal force. In the far back, above the shifting wall of blades, he saw him:

A figure in chain and black leather. No helmet. A scar across the mouth. Watching the young Arl.

A commander.

Senjar didn't wait for permission.

He lowered his blade and ran straight for him.

The path to the commander opened, and then vanished in flame.

The fire came in a sudden, blocking the way, roaring from between two Morhaal spearmen. A second mage. Cloaked in red, he was also holding staff.

He made the first move.

The blaze swept out like a whip.

Senjar dove to the side, rolled low across dirt and ash. The fire scorched over him, caught his cloak, turned the edge of his hair to smoke. He hit the ground hard, coughing, eyes stinging.

The mage stepped forward, staff crackling. A second firebolt began to rise.

Senjar moved. Fast.

Not with magic, but with the heat in his blood.

He sprinted, sword low, ducking under another stream of fire. It grazed his side, blistering skin through mail. Pain flashed bright behind his eyes, but he kept going.

The mage snarled, raising the staff once more.

Then his head snapped back.

An arrow buried deep into his forehead.

He crumpled.

Toren stood atop a broken tree stump fifty paces away, bow still drawn. His face was stone.

Senjar didn't slow. He stepped over the mage's twitching corpse and drove straight into the Morhaal second line.

Steel clanged. Two men tried to block him. He cut through one at the knee, elbowed the other in the throat, then slammed his shoulder through the gap.

There, just ahead.

The commander.

Scarred mouth. Cold eyes. Still standing, watching Senjar come like he'd expected it.

The commander drew a long sword and stepped forward.

The field burned behind them.

Everything narrowed to the space between their blades.

The battlefield seemed to fall quiet around them.

Flames snapped in the trees. Arrows were still hissed. Men were shouting. But in that space, between two killers, nothing moved but only breath.

The Morhaal commander stood tall, sword loose in his hand, feet planted like stone. His face was lean, hard cut, the scar across his mouth twitching slightly when he spoke.

"So you're the cub who slipped the fire."

Senjar said nothing. His sword was low, ready.

"I didn't expect this from you," the commander continued. "You are natural at this, I will give you that."

"I have also heard the rumours, they say you are one of the great warriors of Harkoraal even at such a young age." he continued. " But, the question is are you any different from others or not

Senjar stepped closer. "You'll learn the difference."

The man smiled. It was not kind.

"I've killed three Arls before you. One of them begged. One tried to run. One made me sweat."

"You'll get blood," Senjar said. "And that will be yours."

The commander laughed once, it was short and dry. Then his stance shifted.

There was no chant. No light. No swirl of elements.

But the ground cracked faintly under his heel. Dust lifted from the bark. His body tensed, tightened. Magic filled him, not fire, not ice, just force. Raw and controlled magic.

Senjar matched it.

He focused, eyes narrowing, his breathing slowing. That heat in his chest rose. Not spellwork. Just pressure. Pulse. Purpose.

His limbs sharpened. His blade grew lighter.

Then they moved.

The first clash was a blur. Sword to sword, shoulder to shoulder. Both struck at once. Steel scraped across chainmail. Sparks flew.

The commander stepped left, swung wide. Senjar ducked, stabbed low. The blade caught ribs, it skidded on bone.

The commander hissed, but twisted away fast. He punched Senjar in the jaw, an iron heavy blow backed by magic. Senjar staggered, spat blood.

Then answered with a slash that nearly took the man's arm off.

They circled once, panting, eyes locked.

"You fight like him, like Drogmar" the commander said.

Senjar steadied his blade.

"I will bury you like him too."

The commander's blade trembled in its last offense. Senjar sidestepped, pressing magic into his arms, memory of his father's strength, the wolf sigil's weight. The world slowed.

Senjar feinted left and swung his wolf marked blade in a high arc. Steel caught flesh. A sickening cut, it was deep and final.

The commander's eyes widened in response. He staggered, chest heaving. The forest paused too, embers drifting downward, as if time itself acknowledged.

"Damn you…" the commander gasped, one hand clutching his wounded side, the other raising his sword in futile defiance.

Senjar didn't waste breath. With a final push of magical strength, he drove the sword through the man's heart. A red bloom spread, sharp and hot against dark steel.

The commander's blade clattered to the ground. He fell back, spine curved, eyes locked on Senjar until the end.

Still breathing hard, Senjar withdrew the sword, stepped back, and dropped to one knee in the ash-covered clearing. His chest burned. One hand pressed to the wound in his side, he could feel the sharp burn of sweat and blood.

He closed his eyes.

The battle around him continued, but from here it was distant. Distant but alive, arrows were flying, men were shouting, and shields were raised. The ambush was successful.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at the fallen commander. A man of purpose, like him, now gone.

Rell appeared behind him, sword elevated, watching. His jaw tight. Hardened.

Senjar nodded once at him. Rell lowered his blade, respect shining in his eyes.

Senjar steadied himself and rose to his feet. He sheathed the wolf‑marked sword. Pain screamed in his ribs, but he ignored it.

"Take his head and send it to Vargan, he should know that the wolves live, Harkoraal lives.

After sometime the battle was over, all of the Morhaali soldiers were dead none escaped.

Harkoraal were shouting, cheering in celebration.

Sejar raised his hand for silence.

The Harkorall froze.

He scanned their faces, bloodied, ash, smudged, but alive.

"Enough," he said. Low, steady.

Everyone stopped.

Senjar turned toward the dying fire. Smoke curled above the forest. The ground was soaked red.

He looked at Rell, who stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You are a warlord, and" Rell said. "You are Arl."

Every single solider, presented their bend their knees, and acknowledged Senjar as the true Arl of Harkoraal.