The stolen wagons rumbled into Ashen just before dusk, their wheels grinding against the dirt roads as exhausted villagers rushed forward to meet them.
At first, there was silence—a moment of stunned disbelief. Then came the cheers.
The villagers gathered around, eyes wide as they saw the weapons, the sacks of grain, the crates of supplies. They had won more than just a battle. They had secured the means to keep fighting.
Ethan climbed off the wagon, every muscle in his body aching. He barely had time to take a breath before Lyra appeared at his side, her expression unreadable.
"We need to talk," she said.
He followed her to the side of one of the buildings, away from the celebrating villagers.
"We bought ourselves time," she said, arms crossed, "but you know what this means."
Ethan nodded. "Varkos won't let this slide. He'll send more than just a few patrols next time."
Lyra's eyes darkened. "Exactly. We need to be ready."
Ethan exhaled, rubbing his temple. "We've been fighting like survivors. We need to start fighting like an army."
She studied him for a moment. "You sound like someone who's done this before."
Ethan hesitated. The truth was, he hadn't. He had no military training, no experience leading soldiers into battle. But something inside him—the instincts that had kicked in since arriving in Avalon—was guiding him.
"I just know what needs to be done," he said.
Lyra didn't push further. She only nodded.
"Then let's do it."
Far from Ashen, in the towering halls of Blackthorn Keep, Lord Varkos read the scout's report with a quiet, simmering fury.
The candlelight flickered, casting deep shadows across his angular face. His dark crimson cloak pooled at his feet as he clenched his fist, crumpling the parchment in his grasp.
"So," he murmured, voice like a blade's edge. "The farmers think themselves warriors."
His advisor, a thin man with hollow cheeks named Osric, stood a few steps away, hands folded. "They are led by an outsider, my lord. A man named Ethan."
Varkos's lip curled. "A nobody."
Osric hesitated. "A nobody who has managed to best our forces twice."
The warlord's eyes flickered with cold amusement. "Then he is a fool. Because now, he has my full attention."
He turned toward the massive iron doors at the end of the hall. With a wave of his hand, they creaked open.
Beyond them, rows of elite soldiers stood at attention, clad in blackened steel, their weapons gleaming under the torchlight.
"The time for games is over," Varkos said. "Burn Ashen to the ground."
Ethan awoke to the sound of pounding hooves.
He was on his feet in an instant, sword in hand, before his mind had fully registered where he was.
A rider burst into the village square, barely stopping before tumbling off his horse. His clothes were torn, his face drenched in sweat.
"They're coming!" he gasped. "An army—Varkos is sending an army!"
The celebration from earlier vanished. Fear spread through the villagers like wildfire.
Ethan felt his stomach twist. He had known retaliation would come. But an **army**?
"How long do we have?" Lyra demanded.
The scout swallowed hard. "A day. Maybe less. They're marching from Blackthorn Keep. Hundreds of them."
The crowd erupted in fearful murmurs. Mothers clutched their children. Men exchanged uneasy glances.
Ethan stepped forward, raising his voice. "Listen to me! We knew this was coming. We've trained for this. We don't run. We fight."
"But how?" someone shouted. "They outnumber us ten to one!"
Ethan met their gazes, his expression firm. "Numbers don't win battles. Strategy does."
Lyra stepped up beside him. "We make them pay for every step they take."
Slowly, the fear in the villagers' eyes was replaced with determination. They weren't just farmers anymore. They were warriors.
And they were ready.
Preparations began immediately.
Ethan and Lyra mapped out the village's defenses, turning Ashen into a battlefield before the enemy even arrived.
Spiked barricades were set up along the roads, forcing the enemy into narrow chokepoints. Rooftops became sniper positions for archers. Hidden trenches were dug, covered with false ground, designed to swallow charging soldiers whole.
Ethan stood on the outskirts of the village, sword in hand, scanning the distant horizon.
The sun was setting. By this time tomorrow, Ashen would be drenched in blood.
Lyra approached, her bow slung over her shoulder. "You should rest."
Ethan shook his head. "No time."
She sighed. "You can't fight if you're dead on your feet."
He smirked. "I'll rest when we win."
Lyra studied him for a moment, then shook her head with a small smile. "You really believe we can win this, don't you?"
Ethan turned his gaze back to the horizon, where the first fires of the approaching army flickered in the night.
"They think they're coming to crush us," he said quietly. "But they don't know what we've become."
Lyra followed his gaze, her fingers tightening around her bow.
For better or worse, tomorrow would change everything.
And Ethan intended to make sure Avalon never forgot the name Ashen.