The next three days passed in a blur of relentless preparation. The village of Ashen had been a quiet farming settlement, but under Ethan's leadership, it transformed into a fortress of resistance.
Barricades were reinforced. Traps were set along the roads leading to the village—pits covered with leaves, tripwires rigged with spikes, and false trails designed to lead enemies into ambush zones.
The villagers trained from dawn until dusk. Ethan taught them what he could—basic swordplay, how to move silently, where to strike to incapacitate an opponent. Lyra led the archers, drilling them until they could shoot with deadly precision even in the dark.
But even with all their preparations, one fact remained: Lord Varkos's soldiers would be coming. And when they did, Ashen would be outnumbered.
Ethan knew that if they wanted to survive, they had to strike first.
On the third night, Ethan gathered a small group in Lyra's home—a simple wooden house that now served as their war room. A roughly drawn map of the region lay on the table, marked with charcoal.
"We can't wait for them to come to us," Ethan said, his voice firm. "If we let them march in and surround us, we're dead. We need to hit them first."
Joren, still bandaged but recovering, leaned forward. "What do you have in mind?"
Ethan pointed at a stretch of forest near the main road leading to Ashen. "Scouts reported that a supply caravan is coming through here tomorrow at dawn. Food, weapons, armor—everything we need."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "You want to ambush it."
Ethan nodded. "It's our best chance. If we can take the supplies, we cripple Varkos's forces before they even reach us. Plus, we arm ourselves with better weapons."
Joren grinned. "I like it."
Marella, the village healer, frowned. "And if it goes wrong?"
Ethan met her gaze. "Then we'll be fighting a losing battle with nothing but farming tools."
The room fell silent. They all knew the risks. But they also knew that doing nothing meant certain death.
Lyra was the first to speak. "Then we make sure it doesn't go wrong."
Ethan nodded. "We move at first light."
Dawn painted the sky in hues of orange and violet as Ethan and his team crouched in the underbrush along the main road.
Lyra was perched in a tree, her bow at the ready. Joren and a few other villagers waited behind fallen logs, gripping their stolen weapons tightly. Ethan himself hid near the center of the road, sword drawn, waiting for the signal.
The rumble of wagon wheels broke the morning silence. The supply caravan came into view—four wagons, each pulled by sturdy horses, flanked by a dozen armed soldiers.
More than we expected, Ethan thought grimly.
He raised a hand, signaling the others to hold. Timing was everything.
The first wagon rolled past Ethan's position. Then the second. Then the third.
He gave the signal.
An arrow whistled through the air, striking the lead soldier in the throat. He collapsed without a sound.
Chaos erupted.
Joren and the others sprang from cover, hurling rocks and spears at the guards before charging in with makeshift weapons. Ethan leapt onto the road, slashing his sword at the nearest soldier, catching him off guard.
The fight was brutal and fast.
Lyra's arrows rained down from above, picking off soldiers before they could react. Joren swung a heavy axe, cleaving through the arm of a guard who tried to reach for his sword.
Ethan ducked under a blade, rolling forward before driving his own sword into an enemy's gut. The man crumpled, eyes wide in shock.
Within minutes, it was over. The last remaining soldier tried to flee, but Lyra's arrow caught him in the back before he could disappear into the trees.
Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the labored breathing of the villagers.
Ethan wiped sweat from his brow, scanning the area. "Check the wagons. Take everything we can use."
Joren grinned as he pried open a crate. "Jackpot."
Inside were swords, bows, shields—enough to arm half the village. Another wagon was filled with sacks of grain and dried meat.
Ethan exhaled in relief. They had done it.
But as he turned to check the last wagon, something caught his eye. A soldier, barely alive, reaching for a horn on his belt.
Ethan lunged—but he was too late.
The horn's blast echoed through the trees.
A warning.
A signal.
Ethan's stomach dropped. Reinforcements were coming.
"Move! Now!" Ethan shouted.
The villagers scrambled, grabbing as much as they could before hauling themselves onto the stolen wagons. Lyra grabbed the reins of the lead horse, snapping them hard. The animals neighed and surged forward.
Ethan jumped onto the wagon just as the distant sound of galloping hooves reached his ears.
They were being chased.
Lyra steered the wagons off the main road, cutting through the trees, but their pursuers were relentless. Arrows whizzed past them, some striking the sides of the wagons.
"We won't outrun them forever!" Joren yelled.
Ethan scanned the surroundings. They needed an edge. Something to turn the tide.
Then he saw it.
A narrow pass ahead, flanked by unstable cliffs.
"Through there!" he pointed. "Lyra, once we're through, shoot the support beams on that rock overhang!"
She nodded, understanding instantly.
The wagons thundered through the pass, the sound of pursuing soldiers growing louder behind them.
Lyra twisted in her seat, raising her bow. She aimed. Fired.
The arrow struck true.
With a deafening crack, the rock overhang collapsed, sending a landslide of boulders crashing down behind them.
The pursuing soldiers barely had time to react before they were swallowed by the avalanche of stone and dust.
Silence followed.
Ethan's chest rose and fell as he looked back at the devastation. The path was completely blocked. They had escaped.
Lyra lowered her bow, exhaling sharply. "That was too close."
Ethan smiled. "But we won."
Joren let out a breathless laugh. "Damn right we did."
The villagers cheered, the tension breaking. For the first time in weeks, they had struck a blow against Lord Varkos—and won.
But Ethan knew this was only the beginning.
Varkos would not take this lightly.
War was coming.
And this time, there would be no turning back.