When Wolves March

The inn at Dustbridge reeked of wine and piss and the smoke of low fires.

It was the third such place Telmar had visited this week.

He sat alone at a crooked table, cloak drawn tight, a battered traveler's pack at his feet. His cup was half full, untouched, and he listened.

Two traders argued over grain tariffs near the door. A soldier snored by the hearth. A girl with sharp elbows and dyed blue hair served stew without meeting eyes.

Then he began.

"I heard it from a hunter two days past," Telmar said loudly to no one in particular. "Said the Harkoraal camps were falling apart. Half their smiths dead to fever. No food but horse meat. Arl Senjar trying to hold his people with speeches and smoke."

The traders near him paused.

"You sure?" one asked. "Didn't they just kill off those eastern bandits?"

Telmar gave a bitter laugh. "Killed them, sure. But used up half their steel and all their luck. The wolves're bleeding in their den. You ask me, that boy leader's about to crack."

He let the words hang. Didn't force them. Just fed them to the air.

By dusk, a traveling merchant had already carried the tale eastward, downriver.

The next night, a different voice repeated the same lie at a caravan campfire outside Tathar's Cross.

"They say Harkoraal's strong?" the man said, clutching a skin of watered wine. "My brother saw them last week. Lean men, limping horses. Looks like they were whipped out of the east, not marching in. No siege towers. No siege."

A young caravan guard snorted. "That Arl talks big."

"Talks, aye," the man said, "but I bet he's praying someone ends it for him quick. He's losing face with his own chiefs."

A few chuckled. Another nodded. And like oil in dry grass, the whispers caught flame.

By week's end, Telmar had scattered eight lies in six places.

Some said Harkoraal was starving. Others said Senjar had been wounded and was hiding it. A few insisted internal rebellion was breaking among his generals.

The beauty wasn't in the rumors.

It was in the pattern.

The same message dressed in different skins, weakness.

And weakness, Telmar knew, drew wolves faster than scent.

He met with a local thief named Renlin beneath a mill wheel near the town's eastern aqueduct.

"You'll see soldiers on the move within days," Renlin said, lighting a stub of pipe. "Commander Ivas, he's calling them ghosts, says the rebels are making empty noise. Baron Renault's on edge. Wants to make an example."

"Did Baron send any reinforcements to the town?"

"No reinforcements till now. But, I heard that he is raising quite a force."

Telmar pulled a single silver from his pouch and flipped it into the dust.

"Let them come," he said quietly.

"They'll ride out thinking they face sheep."

Renlin grinned through crooked teeth. "And run into wolves?"

Telmar smiled.

"No. Teeth."

The keep's upper room was quiet, set high above the noise of the forgeyards and the training pits below. Its shutters had been drawn to soften the morning sun, and the fire in the brazier hissed quietly with resin slicked wood.

Senjar sat alone in a carved chair of bone and iron.

The guards had been dismissed. No one else entered.

Then came a knock.

"Enter," Senjar said.

The door creaked, and Velyra stepped inside.

She walked without hurry, her staff tapping lightly on the stone. The flicker of firelight threw deep lines across her face, not the wrinkles of weakness, but of weight, a map of years lived and knowledge carried.

She bowed, not deeply, but with deliberate grace. "Arl."

Senjar gestured to the seat across from him. "You wished for a private word."

"I did."

She sat.

Silence stretched between them. Then she placed her staff gently across her knees.

"You said I carry a curse," Senjar said. "Speak plainly now. I have no patience for riddles."

Velyra nodded. "Then I'll begin with what I saw."

She looked at him, unblinking.

"I saw a field of smoke and ash, Arl Senjar. Not from fire. From mana. A battlefield not marked by blades, but by shattered stone and broken minds."

Senjar's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"I saw you," she went on, "standing amid it, alive but not untouched. The mana moved through you, cracked you open, made you… more. And less. The shape of your shadow changed."

He leaned forward slightly. "What does that mean?"

She folded her hands.

"It means you are not just a man who can use mana. You are a vessel. A well without stone walls. Most mages hold mana like a cup. You… are the storm that fills the sky."

"It's just form of magic nothing more."

"No Arl. You must have noticed, it matches exactly to same level of your opponent you are facing."

Senjar exhaled slowly.

"I've felt it," he murmured. "In battle. In fury. It bursts out. I don't shape it. I don't control it. It moves through me."

Velyra nodded. "That is not power. That is danger."

"Can it be trained?"

"Yes. And no." Her voice lowered. "If you train it poorly, it will burn you from within. If you do nothing, it may still wake… when you least want it."

"Then what do I do?"

"You must learn to anchor yourself. Not only in strength but in purpose. Magic that wild cannot be tamed by technique alone. You need grounding. Discipline of the soul."

Senjar stood and began to pace.

"Gavren can train me in control. But this… this is different."

Velyra watched him quietly. "He can train the fire. I can teach you where to place the hearth."

He turned toward her. "And the curse?"

She stood slowly, staff in hand once more. "The curse is not yours alone. It is woven into bloodlines long forgotten. I've read of it in stone, in dreams, in the way magic stirs in silence before a storm. Harkoraal's return... was not without cost."

"I said no riddles."

"Arl, you know of the Scorching March from the east led by your grandfather Arl Gaelic under Harkoraal banners."

"I know of that, he crushed the imperials in these borderlands and took control of these lands. They still fear Harkoraal because of that."

"Yes. But do you know why he did not went further, when he had the chance and power to crush the Empire for good."

"I still wonder, why did he return. After his death, Harkoraal became weak. Every tribe left our banner."

"Because of a prophecy, Arl. And you should hear it too."

"Prophecy... what's it about?"

"When the great Falcon will fall. That will be the time for dark forces to strike. He will emerge far from the west beyond this continent to devour everything."

"So this great Falcon is Empire?"

"It is."

"Let me tell you about another prophecy, Seer."

"When Wolves will march west. They will eat the wings of the Falcon." Senjar said while looking straight into her eyes.

Her eyes locked with his.

"You were not born to wield this power, Senjar. You were chosen to bear it. And what you do next may shape the fate of the East. And West."

She bowed again.

"I will remain here, in your service. If you seek more, you need only ask."

And with that, she was gone.

Senjar stood alone in the quiet chamber, his breath slow, the flames behind him flickering against stone.

Outside, the wind picked up just a little.

Night had fallen over Harkoraal, but the forge still burned, and the hall still glowed. Inside the keep, the war table had been cleared of its parchments. Only a single map remained, hand drawn by Telmar, its borders marked with subtle strokes of ash black ink.

Senjar stood over it, arms crossed.

Kaelric leaned beside him. Rell sat sharpening a dagger without looking up. Mara watched from near the hearth, arms folded, thoughtful.

"The rumor spreads," Telmar said, stepping forward. "I planted it in the inns, near the market gates of Tathar's Cross. 'Harkoraal grows desperate,' they say. 'Senjar fears his tribe will starve by winter. He will attack the town in a last gasp.'"

Senjar said nothing, but his gaze swept the map.

"We've given them a shape of fear," Telmar continued. "And an excuse to come out of their gates. If they ride to break us, they'll do it openly and without their walls."

Kaelric snorted. "Unless they send only a token force."

"They won't," Mara said quietly. "Not if the Viscount believes it earns him glory. Not if he thinks Senjar is young and reckless."

Senjar nodded slowly.

"We let them march," he said. "Then we crush them."

He turned to Telmar.

"How many riders can we keep hidden in the eastwood line?"

"Three hundred, if they move light and quiet. The forest's thick. Their scouts won't see them unless they sleep in the trees."

"And the main host?"

Kaelric answered, "A thousand spears, another two hundred archers. Give us a signal, and we'll encircle from two flanks."

Senjar stepped back from the map.

"This is not conquest. This is message."

"To the Empire?" Mara asked.

"No," Senjar said, voice low. "To the tribes. They must see that Harkoraal is not prey. That we are not shadows hiding in ruins. If we win this, it cannot be quiet."

"How many men are ready for battle, Kaelric?"

"Three thousands in total, my Arl."

"Make them four thousands. We will march with two thousand men to confront the viscount and after that we will take Tathar's Cross. The rest two thousand men will march beyond the town after the battle and will stay there in light. To cut off any early reinforcemets."

"Yes Arl, but who will lead them."

"Varrik, you are to lead the two thousand men beyond the town. No reckless action."

"As you wish, Arl." Varrik spoke.

"How many horses do we have?"

"We can use only eight hundred for war." Halvik answered.

"Then I want eight hundred horsemen equipped with spears and swords directly under my order."

"Then we draw blood in daylight," Rell said.

"And loudly," Kaelric added.

Senjar looked at each of them in turn.

"Rell, you will march with four hundred men through the eastwood lines in the forest. When they attack you in the forest you fall back. There Kaelric will lead remaining eight hundred men swords and arrows alike to crush the imperials. When they will try to get out of the forest, I will encircle them."

He turned to Telmar.

"You stay near the town. Watch their movement. If they march, light the pyres. One column. Nothing more."

"Understood," Telmar said.

Senjar drew in a breath, then let it out slow.

"There's one more thing," he said. "If they send a mage, I want Gavren in the field. And Kirel. And Aelynne. Let them see what Eastern magic looks like when it stands unbound."

"They'll be noticed," Kaelric said. "And feared."

"Good," Senjar said. "That's the point."

They parted in silence, each with their task. The war room emptied, but the fire still burned behind him.

Senjar remained.

He looked at the map one last time.