Tents rose like a forest of war. Hundreds of them—sprawled across the plains like a creeping beast.
At the heart of the camp stood two massive tents, each marked with the golden sigil of the Empire. Unlike the others, these were not canvas and rope—but lined with satin, trimmed in gold, and tall enough to house pride itself. Any who passed knew: these were the tents of commanders.
Inside one of them, Herald, the Supreme Commander of the operation, sat with his leg crossed, calmly flipping through the pages of a thick leather-bound book. The scent of incense filled the air—civilized, clean, almost at odds with the coming slaughter.
His peace was short-lived.
"Sir, all preparations are complete. The men await your word," said his aide, entering swiftly.
Herald closed the book with a soft snap. He stood, sword in hand, not a wrinkle in his coat. With practiced grace, he stepped outside—into the chaos of readiness.
Across from him stood the Snow Knight, armored in white steel, unmoving, a statue of death in the early morning haze.
Before them: fifteen thousand imperial soldiers, organized into rows so straight they seemed drawn by gods. Spears glinted. Banners fluttered. The wind tasted of war.
Herald cleared his throat. He didn't need a grand speech. His name carried weight. His presence was enough. But he gave them something simple—something sharp:
"May the gods stand with us, for we are no cowards."
It was enough. The men roared in answer, fists raised, blades drawn.
The army was split into four great battalions:
Herald commanded the First Battalion.
The Snow Knight led the Second.
Arman, took the Third.
Claire, with her agile strike force, led the Fourth.
Two thousand soldiers were left behind to defend the command tents and guard the vital supply lines.
Their targets were clear.
The campaign had begun.
The Urzak Tribe would fall first—cannibals, some whispered. Monsters in human skin. Herald hated filth like that.
The Drago Tribe came next, a band of beast-riders and berserkers.
Then the Thulda Tribe, famed for their hidden spears and poison-fangs.
The Karvak Tribe, wise enough to stay silent—was saved for last.
And so, the Empire moved.
Smoke curled from the sacred fire as drums echoed through the valley.
The scent of blood, earth, and sweat mixed in the wind.
From the highest peak near Karvak lands, Norgai watched the plains below burn with motion.
He had seen many things in his long life.
But never an army so big it swallowed the horizon.
A warhorn howled in the distance—one of their scouts had returned.
"CHIEEEEEF!" the scout bellowed, breathless, face caked in mud and blood.
"The Urzak are falling! The Empire has started its march!"
Gasps and curses filled the air. Elders clenched their teeth. Hunters gripped their axes.
"How many?" Norgai asked, voice sharp as a honed fang.
"Like stars in the sky. Thousands.Maybe more. All wearing steel and banners of gold."
Silence. Then a heavy thud—an old hunter had slammed his club into the ground.
"Hraaagh! Let them come! I'll take ten 'fore they take me!"
But Norgai raised a hand.
"Calm down. This ain't rage time. This is thinkin' time."
Around the sacred fire, he gathered his warriors.
The oldest. The meanest. The hungriest for survival.
The tribal banner waved above them—a wolf's jaw split by a lightning bolt.
The clan was ready. But unity? Still fragile.
One of the younger warriors snarled, "We should march now! While they busy with Urzak!"
Another spat, "Urzak fools brought this on themselves. We stay. We watch. We strike when stars favor us."
Norgai let them argue for a while. That was the way of their people.
Only fools silence wild dogs too early. Let them growl before they bite.
Then, he stood.
Eyes like mountain storms. Voice deep, rough, and final.
"Urzak fall first. Then Drago. Then Thulda. Then… us."
"We are the last fire they plan to stamp out."
He looked to the east, where the moonlight gleamed on steel helmets far away.
"Empire's march has begun. And we must choose. Wait and burn... or strike and carve."
Then he gave the order.
"Send word to the remaining tribes—if they still got ears."
"Tell them this: Norgai will fight. With or without their pride."
The drums roared again.
Axes were sharpened.
Horses were fed blood-root and thunder leaves.
Children were sent into the caves.
The old ones picked up spears one last time.
And by the fire, Norgai whispered to himself:
"Let the Empire come. The plains ain't dead yet."
The earth trembled under marching boots. Three thousand strong, the First Battalion—steel-clad and banner-bound—marched beneath the crimson standard of the Empire.
At the front rode Commander Herald, cloaked in crimson armor, sword resting across his saddle, eyes cold as dawn steel. Clean, polished armor gleamed in the rising sun. Behind him followed formation after formation, their shields glinting like mirrored flame.
Ahead, sprawled like a nest of wolves, stood the Urzak tribe, nested atop Bloodfang Hill. Spikes lined the perimeter. Skulls of men and beasts crowned their barricades. Smoke rose from the charred pits of sacrifice.
Herald halted his horse.
"So this is what savages call a fortress…" he muttered, nose wrinkling at the sight of drying flesh banners and bone charms.
The second-in-command approached.
"Orders, sir?"
Herald drew his sword—an elegant thing, silver-edged and humming with enchantment.
"Burn it to ash."
The first volley began.
Dozens of ballistae unleashed their fury. Flaming bolts the size of trees crashed into the spiked wall, shattering wood and bone. The Urzak howled in response—not in fear, but fury.
"GRAAAAAAGH!" The chieftain of Urzak, Gorvak One-Eye, emerged from the gate with a hammer the size of a man. Naked with war paint and wolf fangs, he raised his bloodied weapon and bellowed:
"COME THEN, EMPIRE DOGS! WE GOT TEETH TOO!"
Behind him, a sea of half-mad warriors, their bodies painted in gore, surged forward.
Steel met savagery.
The clash was thunder.
The air filled with screams and smoke.
Imperial soldiers fought in tight ranks, shields locked, blades precise. The Urzak came in waves—biting, slashing, biting again even when their arms were cut.
Herald rode through their flank like a wraith, cutting down barbarians with calm grace. Each strike was clean, each movement controlled.
"Discipline over chaos," he whispered, skewering a shrieking berserker through the throat.
By dusk, the hill bled. Fires rose from the Urzak camp. Half their warriors lay dead. The rest retreated into their final redoubt—the Cave of Howls, where the Urzak stored their dead and their gods.
Herald stood at the mouth of the cave, now ringed by archers.
He raised his sword high.
"No mercy.We take no war prisoners. Finish them."
The cave lit up with firebombs. Screams echoed deep into the stone. The gods of Urzak would not rise again.