The arrow shot forward like a streak of lightning, cutting through the air with a sharp, piercing whistle. Its glow flared brighter with each passing moment, an almost supernatural beacon that streaked toward its target with breathtaking speed. The tower, nearly triple the distance of the first hit by the Propelled Projectile, stood as a challenge no ordinary archer could dream of overcoming. Yet, this was no ordinary archer.
The Farkin watched, their dark armor gleaming under the fading light, their confidence unshaken. They bore silent pride, knowing this feat was a testament to their unmatched skills. Moments later, the distant tower quaked as the arrow struck with devastating precision. A thunderous crack rippled through the air, followed by the slow, inevitable collapse of stone. The tower crumbled into ruin, its once-mighty form reduced to rubble scattered across the landscape.
A wave of murmurs swept through the audience. Awe mixed with disbelief, but Naiella stood still, her posture unshaken and her expression stoic. She turned gracefully to the king and bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, the demonstration is complete."
The king's gaze lingered on the distant ruin, his face reflecting a rare expression of approval. "Impressive, as always, Naiella. You honor your station."
Naiella straightened, her heart swelling with pride. Yet, a flicker of smugness crossed her face as her eyes darted to Fredrick. A smirk tugged at her lips, but she quickly masked it, standing tall. "Nerd or not, your toy is somewhat useless for targets at further distances," she thought, her hand subtly adjusting her chest plate in triumph. She bowed again to her king, basking in his acknowledgment.
Henry, unbothered by the spectacle, adjusted his monocle with a calm detachment. "A touch more black powder," he muttered, making swift modifications to the Propelled Projectile. He straightened and addressed the group. "Are you all ready?" he called out to the onlookers, his voice sharp and businesslike.
This next launch was a challenge to conventional warfare itself. No trebuchet or catapult could hope to match the impossible distance about to be attempted by the Propelled Projectile. The third tower, standing even farther than the second, was a target designed to test limits. Henry carefully aligned the weapon, lit the fuse, and stepped back.
A metallic clang resonated as the massive black iron ball soared through the air, moving with astonishing velocity. The impact was eerily quiet at first, but the sound of shattering stone eventually reached the audience, delayed by the sheer distance. The third tower crumbled, its destruction even more decisive than the second.
The king and the Ten Farkin stood transfixed, their collective admiration palpable. All but one. Naiella's eyes widened in disbelief, her composure slipping. Her stomach churned as she stared at the distant ruin.
"What—how in the world did it reach further than mine?" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with reluctant awe. For the first time, the unflappable archer felt a pang of insecurity. The weapon, though lifeless, had just rivaled her unmatched skill.
Henry observed the destruction with a heavy sigh, his mind already racing ahead. Their creation was a marvel, but the thought of its future use cast a shadow over his satisfaction. Soon, these weapons would not just aim at stone towers but homes filled with lives.
Fredrick, oblivious to Henry's moment of introspection, spoke with fervor. "We currently have 250 operational models and could increase production to 300 in a matter of days."
The king turned to him, his voice resolute. "See that it is done with utmost haste. We move our forces in the coming days."
The council of Bright Ones exchanged uneasy glances, the reality of the king's words sinking in. The announcement, though shocking to them, was met with calm resolve by the nobles and the Farkin. They had long accepted the truth.
The war had begun.
—
The plan had been straightforward and clear to all. By the next morning, an army of 50,000 soldiers had gathered just outside the northern walls of Kelvin. Their immediate objective was Gold Ridge, a critical waypoint. From there, the army would split into two forces: one bound for Highwood, the other for Bliss Creek. Gold Ridge was only a few hours away for the full force, and from that point, the two divisions would take several days to reach their respective targets. They had agreed to reconvene at the midpoint of the Lyon Passage at a specific time, ready to consolidate their efforts.
—
Three Days Later
(09/12/726)
Fregran let out a long sigh. Up until now, he had asked little of his comrades. Once, long ago, he had made a selfish request, but that was when their group was smaller, their responsibilities fewer. Now, his demand was monumental, perhaps unreasonable—especially for those like Estelar, Ameria, and Mina.
"It's too late to second-guess," he thought, shaking his head. "No, it's far too late to turn back now."
From atop his horse, he scanned the ranks. The army of 25,000 marched with him, the Western Advance. Mina, a few paces ahead, shifted uncomfortably on her saddle. Okadio, walking beside her on foot, offered guidance on how to sit properly. Fregran found Okadio's inability to ride a horse somewhat puzzling.
"Maybe when he was younger and slimmer, he rode horses," Fregran mused. "That would explain how he knows so much about it."
His gaze drifted to Estelar and Ameria, both riding with a stoic seriousness etched across their faces. Unlike many other elves, the two cared deeply for lives beyond their own kin—human, dwarf, orc; it didn't matter.
"Attacking a town means there will be innocent casualties," Fregran thought grimly. "They're probably grappling with that truth. And they know the risks—if word of this reaches their homeland, exile is almost certain." He closed his eyes and released another heavy sigh.
The road eventually led the Western Advance to a stop just outside Hedgecreek, a bustling town-turned-border outpost. In better times, Hedgecreek had been a vital waypoint for travelers between Leotus and Minrow. But the road leading into Minrow was now barren and desolate, a consequence of the border closing.
The 25,000-strong force, temporarily dubbed the Western Advance, had a singular mission: to cross the border and seize the town just inside Minrow. Their success hinged on perfect synchronization with the Eastern Advance, tasked with a similar objective. Both armies needed to strike simultaneously, ensuring neither town could reinforce the other.
The night before the attack, on Eldras the 13th of Ilyara, the camp settled into an uneasy calm. Most soldiers were only slightly fatigued but understood the necessity of rest before the coming skirmish.
Fregran stretched his arms and yawned as he watched the sky. The sunset faded into hues of deep purple, and the camp began to glow faintly as torches were lit and planted into the ground.
He strolled toward the command tent, a spacious structure at the heart of the camp. Pushing aside the heavy curtain, Fregran stopped and smiled at the sight within. His comrades sat around a makeshift table, roaring with laughter as they played Haingur, an orc card game known for its chaotic rules and even more chaotic wagers.
For all his worries about their commitment to the mission, their smiles reassured him. It was the same energy, the same camaraderie, that had carried them through countless missions before.
"You started a Gur without me?" Fregran bellowed with mock outrage. "Move over and get ready to lose to the master!"
His laughter joined theirs as he claimed an empty seat, his worries momentarily forgotten.
(09/13/726)
An eagle soared high above the trees, its vast wings slicing through the cool morning air with graceful determination. Its powerful wingspan carried it higher, further, a majestic sight for any observer.
Then, in a fraction of a second, the shrill hiss of an arrow shattered the serenity. The projectile streaked upward with blistering speed, finding its mark with deadly precision. The eagle's body jerked mid-flight, its wings folding as it tumbled from the sky, lifeless.
Mina exhaled slowly, lowering her bow.
"Nice shot, Mina ," Okadio called out from a nearby thicket, his voice carrying both admiration and relief.
"Thank you," she replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes scanned the treetops above them. "I just hope the siege is going well for them."
She and a contingent of archers had been stationed in the dense forest, tasked with ensuring no messenger birds escaped westward. Every winged creature that dared venture overhead was a potential threat, and their orders were clear—shoot to kill.
The resistance in the town had been small but determined. Elves, armed with what little they could muster, had taken a stand against the invading force of 25,000 human soldiers. The town was no insignificant settlement; it had once been a bustling hub on a vital trade route. But the recent drought had drained its resources and its defenses.
Most of the skilled elven warriors had long since departed, seeking work elsewhere as mercenaries or border guards. Those who remained were either too old or too inexperienced to fend off the overwhelming human army. The border guards, the strongest of their kin, had already fallen to the advance.
For the humans, this wasn't a mission of conquest. Their orders were to pass through the region, capturing key locations and minimizing collateral damage where possible. Their king's speech had been firm: any soldier who took the life of an innocent would be no better than the elves they opposed. Yet, this mercy did not extend to those who picked up arms or cast spells.
Fregran slashed his blade through the air, cutting down an elf who lunged at him with a spear. His vision blurred slightly as sweat and blood mingled on his brow. The clash of steel around him seemed distant, muted, as his thoughts drowned out the battlefield.
"This is madness," he thought, gripping his sword tighter. "Why should these innocent lives pay the price for the actions of a few? They were living in peace until we brought war to their doorstep. But how could I also ignore the lives of those kidnapped by elves."
His chest tightened with frustration, his morals waging a relentless battle within him.
Before he could make sense of his turmoil, a dull thud broke through the noise—then another, and another. Weapons clattered to the ground as the remaining elves surrendered, stepping back with their hands raised. The fight was over.
The thinned ranks of elven defenders had been utterly overwhelmed by only 8,000 of the 25,000 human soldiers. They had fought valiantly, but the sheer numbers and discipline of their opponents had sealed their fate.
Fregran let out a heavy sigh, his bloodied sword lowering to his side.
"I'm glad I told everyone to hold back," he muttered under his breath. His gaze lingered on the crimson-streaked blade in his hand. "Even for me, this is too much."