"Everything's been smooth so far," Sal countered, glancing ahead at the orderly procession of soldiers.
"Sure," Bano said. "But it's only smooth until it's not."
Sal gave him a sideways look. "That logic makes sense to no one but you."
Mad reined in beside them, falling into step at the rear as the battalion advanced. Her eyes swept the hills and tree line with deliberate precision.
"Heads on a swivel," she said. "Miss nothing."
"I don't like it," Bano muttered. "Two regiments vanished last week. Just... gone." His eyes tracked the eastern horizon. "I think they're opening full-scale rifts."
Mad said nothing, but her jaw tensed. She'd come to the same conclusion. According to the Pact, full-scale rifts were only allowed between staging zones and unoccupied or neutral cities—not active combat routes like this one.
"If they're breaking the treaty," she said at last, "the Alliance will find out."
"How?" Bano asked. "They never leave survivors. Then they blame beast rifts. But there's no way a few packs of shadow beasts could wipe out a whole battalion."
Sal shook his head. "The rules are clear. Elves are allowed in the field, but no more than twelve at a time. Archmages aren't allowed at all—not as fighters, not even as support. And full-scale rifts are restricted to designated zones."
Bano scoffed. "Rules only matter if someone enforces them."
Mad's gaze swept the ridgeline again. "Keep your eyes open. If something breaks, I want to see it coming."
Hours later
Mad flanked the battalion, her team ranging ahead and to the sides. The pressure in the air hadn't eased—it had worsened. Every sound felt jagged. Every shadow stretched too far. Her instincts were screaming.
Then came the thunder of hooves—two riders, fast.
Bano and Sal. From opposite directions. Both galloping hard.
"What the hell—?" Mad muttered, spurring her horse to intercept.
Bano reached her first. "Allied group approaching from the east. It looks like Redfox Battalion, plus three platoons—healers, fire mages, archers."
"How many?" Mad asked.
"A few thousand."
Sal reined in seconds later. "Hammer and Strike Battalion coming in from the west."
Mad's stomach twisted. "Hammer and Strike? What the hell is going on?"
She didn't wait.
"Go back," she snapped. "Tell both groups to maintain a five-mile distance. No closer."
Then she turned and galloped for the command squad.
Hammer Battalion. Combat engineers, bowyers, rune-masters, smiths.
Strike Battalion. Heavy cavalry. Three thousand strong—impressive, but totally unsuited for the dense forest they were slogging through.
Mad pulled up beside the command unit. "Chief Scout reporting, Commander."
She didn't even glance at the Executive Officer.
"Allied troops closing in from both sides," she said. "Confirmed battalions include Redfox, Hammer, and Strike—over five thousand in total."
Commander Gera Strong's eyes narrowed like ice drawn into a blade. "Why are they so close to us? Our route was classified. No other units should even know about it."
"I ordered our scouts to hold them at a five-mile distance," Mad replied. "But—"
"No," Brea interrupted, the psi rune behind her ear glowing faintly. "I invited them. Together, we'll arrive at Stonehold with over seven thousand. An unprecedented force."
Mad turned to her sharply. "Commander, this is a mistake."
Brea glared, molten with self-righteousness, but Mad didn't blink.
"There is no safety in numbers—not here. Not in this terrain. More isn't better."
Gera's jaw tightened. "I agree. But the damage is done. I can't just run them off—not now that our route's been compromised."
She exhaled through her nose, cool and steady on the surface, but the fire behind her words was unmistakable.
"XO," she said coldly, "tell our 'allies' to maintain a five-mile gap. And 'invite' their commanders to a meeting. We'll iron this out before anyone moves another step."
Several small fires burned across the field. In the field, you rested and ate whenever the chance arose.
Mad sent three of her scouts to sweep the perimeter while she joined Bano and Sal near the cookfire.
"Grab a hot meal," she said, dipping a bowl into the nearly-warm mystery stew bubbling over the flames. "We'll relieve the perimeter in ten."
Bano and Sal exchanged a look. Hunger won out over caution, and they each took a bowl.
"Don't be such a baby," Mad teased, grinning as Bano wrinkled his nose at the stew.
"It smells like dog," he muttered.
Mad made a show of taking a big bite. "You ever eaten dog?"
"No."
"I have," Sal chimed in, filling his bowl and plopping down beside Mad. "Pretty good, actually."
Bano cracked a smile and reached for the ladle. "You made that shit up."
"Did I?" Sal wiggled his eyebrows—then, just as Bano took his first bite, barked loudly.
Bano gagged, sputtered, and spit stew onto the ground.
"Hey… don't waste that," Mad said, half-laughing, half-lamenting.
A few minutes later, the trio mounted up. As they prepared to ride, Bano froze, eyes narrowing toward the east.
"Didn't you say only the battalion commanders were joining us?"
Mad followed his gaze—and her jaw tightened.
Redfox Battalion had arrived.
She cursed under her breath.
Then turned and galloped hard toward the command tent.
As she pulled up, her eyes swept west—Hammer and Strike were closing in fast.
She dismounted just in time to hear Commander Gera Strong's voice, razor-sharp and rising.
"I told you to have them withdraw to a distance of five miles!"
Gera stood taut with fury, fists clenched, ice-blue eyes ablaze.
"It's fine, Commander," Brea replied smoothly. "In a few days, we'll arrive at Stonehold. With our numbers, we could challenge a Legion."
Smug didn't begin to describe her tone.
Behind her, the commanders of the arriving battalions began dismounting, heading toward the command tent.
Gera spotted Mad.
"Corporal," she barked, "stop the men from entering the camp. Order their units to pull back—immediately."
Brea stepped in, waving Mad off. "Delay that order. They're already here. Sending them away now would look bad—we haven't even spoken with them yet."
Mad didn't even acknowledge her.
She swung back into the saddle.
Gera's voice cut through the air like a drawn blade.
"Executive Officer Brea, you are relieved of command."
Silence fell.
Then Gera exhaled, slow and sharp.
And may the gods help me not beat the ever-loving hell out of you, she thought.
Mad intercepted the arriving commanders. Her voice was calm, clear, and immovable.
"Commander Gera Strong has ordered you to withdraw immediately. Do not dismount."
Protests rose—but she was already turning her horse and galloping back.
She rejoined Bano and Sal on the perimeter, a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
"Orders, Chief?" Bano asked.
"We scout deep ahead. Send our other teams east and west. Make sure the allied commanders actually pull back."
Sal laughed. "Together again."
Mad shook her head. "I keep trying to reassign you, but no one else will take you."
"Mad… that hurts. Deeply."
"I'll make it up to you when we rotate to the rear."
Bano scoffed. "Quit babying him—"
A sudden shift stopped them cold.
All three turned north.
The sky darkened from clear blue to inky, unnatural black.
A deafening sound—like fabric ripping in the heavens—tore through the air.
"RIFT!"
Power exploded outward, flattening men, horses, and trees. For one breathless instant, a hole tore across the sky—then began to expand, stretching across the horizon like a bleeding wound.
Mad hit the ground hard, her mouth filling with the metallic tang of blood. She spat and staggered upright, reaching instinctively for her panicked mount.
"HELP ME!"
Sal's voice tore through the chaos.
He was struggling to pull Bano free—his leg pinned beneath his dead horse.
Mad dropped the reins and dove in, muscles straining as she shoved against the weight of the massive corpse.
"Got him!" Sal gasped, crouching beside Bano. "Can you ride?"
"Leg's broke," Bano winced. "But I can ride."
"Shit." Mad exhaled sharply, reaching for the saddle—and froze.
A black arrow was embedded deep in the horse's throat.
She yanked it free. The fletching was unmistakable.
"Black Legion."
Sal paled. He mounted quickly, and Mad helped hoist Bano up behind him.
"Orders?"
Mad swung into her own saddle, blood running down her chin.
"Withdraw. I'll ride to command—"
A tide of beasts erupted through the full-scale rift—Grade Six and Seven monsters, driven by Black Legion beastmasters.
They came by the thousands.
And in their wake, chaos reigned.
Mad fought from horseback, blade flashing in tight, brutal arcs. She slashed, stabbed, steered—surviving the madness of a running battle.
"Stay close!" she shouted, barely heard over the screaming and thunder of hooves.
A Teragator lunged from the trees, its tail slamming into Sal's mount with bone-cracking force. The two-ton warhorse staggered but held. The beast's jaws snapped at Sal's legs—
Mad rammed it from the side, her blade burying deep into the back of its skull.
Then something hit her from behind—hard. Her head snapped sideways. Vision swimming, she barely registered the second beast until it clamped razor-sharp teeth around her knee.
She screamed as it yanked her from the saddle and flung her through the air.
"MAD!"
Sal turned his mount, eyes wide with horror.
But before he could reach her, a dark-furred monstrosity exploded from the underbrush and slammed into him—its jaws closing around Bano's arm. A sickening crunch followed. Bano screamed as his left hand disappeared in a spray of blood.
The beast reared back—
Then split in half from shoulder to hip as a massive greatsword tore through it.
"Keep going!"
The voice came like thunder.
Commander Gera Strong rode into the fray, helm down, her iron grip steady on her blade.
"I'll grab Yanu!"
Mad lay in the mud, unconscious and bleeding. Her left leg was gone below the knee.
Gera cursed and heaved her up with one arm, swinging both of them into the saddle. The weight barely slowed her.
Strong, indeed.
She pressed the command rune embedded on her shoulder.
"All troops—withdraw south to the ridge. We regroup there. Now."
Her armored war mount barreled through the chaos, trampling beasts underfoot as her sword carved a bloody path forward. Behind her, what remained of Raptor Battalion rallied, forming a desperate, organized retreat.
Bano fought with his good hand, gripping his sword while clinging to Sal with the other—his stump bleeding heavily down his friend's armor.
A smaller beast lunged from the brush, sinking its teeth into Sal's mount. Sal roared, hammering its skull with the butt of his sword until it released.
And then—daylight.
The smallest of gaps opened in the writhing line. Without hesitation, the survivors surged forward.
Less than a hundred horses broke through.
They galloped toward the ridge, hooves pounding, breath and blood in the air.
Commander Gera Strong looked left, then right.
No sign of Redfox, Hammer, or Strike Battalions.
They were alone.
Grimly, she spurred her mount faster.
"Hang in there!" Sal shouted over the wind. "Another mile or two—we'll make the ridge!"
Bano clung to him, pale, sweating, barely upright.
He glanced back.
The enemy was gaining.
Their allies were gone—faster, fresher, fleeing.
The beasts were closing—fast.
Sal's horse was wounded, exhausted, carrying double.
"Sal…"
Bano's voice was quiet. "You'll take care of Mad?"
Sal gritted his teeth. "We'll take care of her—brother."
Bano smiled weakly.
"You're my best friend."
Then, without warning—he released his grip and kicked free of the saddle.
In the aftermath of chaos—complete calm.
Commander Gera Strong had the wounded pulled to the rear while what remained of her battalion took up defensive positions, forming a broken circle around the ridge. Their numbers were a fraction of what they'd been.
Less than a hundred riders.
All that remained of the Raptor Battalion.
Mad sat against a rock wall, a field dressing wrapped tightly around the stump where her leg had been. Exhausted, bloodied, hollowed by grief, she gently stroked Sal's hair as he wept silently over Bano's death.
"How are you, Corporal?"
Gera approached with her visor lifted.
Mad didn't answer. Saying she was fine or ready to fight again felt like a lie spoken in another life. Instead, her gaze drifted out across the battlefield.
To the open rift.
"What are they waiting for, Commander?"
It was a question Gera had been asking herself. The tide of beasts had overwhelmed them—wave after wave, nearly annihilating four battalions in one relentless push.
But then, suddenly—they'd stopped.
Now they waited.
Thousands of monsters.
Hundreds of beastmasters.
The air hung still.
The scent of death clung to every breath.
Then came a sound.
Distant. Deliberate.
Thump.
A steady rhythm. Like the steps of some great primal beast.
Gera gripped her sword and pulled down her visor.
But it wasn't a beast.
It was a legion.
The Black Legion emerged at the far edge of the valley, marching in perfect lockstep. Grotesque. Too-perfect. Inhumanly disciplined. A horrific contrast to the chaos of the beasts they controlled.
They stopped a few hundred meters away.
At their center flew a banner: a black field with two crimson swords crossed like fangs.
"It's him…" Sal's voice was hoarse, eyes bloodshot but sharp.
"Tyrant Bex."
Ruthless. Brilliant. Peerless.
His black dragon armor was legend. His curved scimitar had ended kings, commanders, and heroes alike.
He had never been defeated in battle—or single combat.
A deep, mocking laugh echoed across the field.
"This is all that remains?"
"Weren't there four battalions a few minutes ago?"
Mad's fingers dug into the dirt.
"Stand me up."
Sal turned to her, startled. "Mad, rest. You—"
"Stand me up!"
Her voice shook—with pain, and something deeper.
Fury.
"I'm a fighter. I don't want to die on my back."
Sal hesitated—then nodded. "Okay, Mad."
He turned to Gera. "Help me."
Without a word, Gera hooked an arm under Mad's shoulders and lifted her.
Mad swayed, breathing hard—barely conscious.
But standing.
Another laugh.
Dark. Amused.
"You're barely a snack," Bex called. "Our beasts shall feast tonight!"
Mad's fingers clenched in Sal's sleeve.
She was shaking—but it wasn't fear.
It was memory.
Despair.
And something else.
A voice in her head.
"Aim Cane's Folly at the heart of despair..."
"Maybe... it'll turn out okay."
"Where's my quiver?" she asked suddenly.
Sal blinked. "Haven't seen it—"
"I have it," Gera said, retrieving it from the ridge where she'd dropped it during triage.
Mad took it, fingers trembling.
"One arrow left. How fitting."
She looked up. "Anyone have a bow?"
Sal crouched through the pile of salvaged gear.
"It's Bano's."
He held up a worn longbow. "Still tied to my saddle."
Mad nodded and took it.
Notched the arrow.
The arrow.
"Cane said…" she whispered,
"...'Aim Cane's Folly at the heart of despair… and maybe…'"
Her voice cracked. "'...maybe it'll turn out okay.'"
She pulled the string back—farther than her strength should have allowed—
And aimed for the darkest point in the legion's heart.
"For Bano."
She let go.
The arrow shot forward.
For the first meter, it was just one.
Then—two. Four. Eight. Sixteen.
A screech rang out—glass-sharp and sky-loud.
The arrows multiplied.
The sky blackened.
The Black Legion froze.
A shadow overtook the sun.
A storm of arrows reached its peak—
And then—
Fell.
Two hundred thousand became half a million.
Then one million.
Messages of vengeance.
Notes of fury.
The sky screamed.
"SHIELDS UP!" Bex roared.
But the first arrow struck true.
It pierced his magical barrier like silk.
Shattered his dragon-forged armor like ash.
And punched through his heart, erupting in light.
The rest followed.
The arrowstorm descended like divine judgment.
No screams.
No cries.
Just silence.
Beasts.
Beastmasters.
Legionnaires.
Pinned.
Crushed.
Gone.
The battlefield fell quiet.
Utterly quiet.
Mad felt the eyes of her comrades on her.
The turnaround had been too drastic.
Too impossible.
Too everything.
"What was that, Corporal?" Gera asked softly.
Some weight lifted from her voice.
More than that, they were still alive. She hadn't expected to have survivors at all.
Mad's breath shivered.
"That," she said,
"was Cane's Folly."
"A mythic arrow.
Crafted by a masked blacksmith.
And a young metallurgist.
A thousand-platinum promise."
"You paid a thousand plat for a single arrow?" Gera blinked.
Before Mad could answer—
Pop.
Then—
Pop-pop.
Then faster—pop-pop-pop.
The sound raced across the ridge.
Popcorn in a kettle.
Then—
Silence.
The Grade Six elemental core had expired.
The mythic-tier, air-activated replicator rune was spent.
All that remained:
A single arrow.
Fletched with a gryphon feather.
Shafted with a raptor's wingbone.
Tipped with starmetal.
Buried deep in the heart of despair.
Mad stared out over the field.
"No," she said softly.
"It was given to me."