This isn't going to plan.

  Things rarely did when the revolutionaries were involved, but Jeremiah shared some of the blame this time. Trusting Ulbert to handle the preparations without oversight had been a mistake.

  The gigantic green fireball extending up into the sky would act as a beacon to call all the nearby rebel forces to them, and while ordinarily, Jeremiah wouldn't have minded and might have even planned to use the chance to kill more, he was currently in a very unenviable position.

  Half of his men were in various states of injury, saved from a fiery death only thanks to his meticulous planning for every possibility. The other half were busy fending off the increasingly heated assault from a group of teenage rebels.

  That sounded ridiculous even to his ears, but Jeremiah wouldn't deny what his eyes were showing him. Led by a paladin who looked barely old enough to grow hair and certainly not old enough to have a beard, several more surprisingly young warriors were pushing his own men back.

  The air was thick with smoke as the roaring green flames devoured tree after tree. Jeremiah's eyes swept over the battlefield, taking in the state of things: many of his men were wounded, and the few standing were struggling, their formation barely holding against the relentless assault. It wasn't how he imagined things would go, but he could still salvage it.

  Tossing a satchel with healing potions onto the ground beside his fallen soldiers, he barked a curt command. "Share these among yourselves and reorganize. I'll buy you time."

  With a swift motion, he drew his rapier and began channeling his usual suit of battle enhancements. His focus settled on the young paladin who had just knocked Thomas off balance and was raising his blade for the killing blow. Jeremiah surged forward, intercepting the strike with a ringing clash of steel. He twisted his wrist, forcing his opponent back a step, and planted himself between the boy and his wounded subordinate.

  "Not today, child," Jeremiah growled, his voice low and edged with cold amusement. It never failed to draw a reaction, and he’d need all his tricks if he wanted to get out of the Darkwood before reinforcements arrived.

  His opponent's eyes narrowed in recognition, but there was no hint of fear in his gaze, only a grim determination. He grunted in acknowledgment, his stance shifting fluidly as he raised his sword again. "You must be the adjutant," the boy said steadily, even as the forest burned around them. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to meet."

  We really have a mole of some kind. It shouldn't be possible for the rebels to have insight this precise in our ranks.

  "Then, by all means," Jeremiah replied, setting the matter aside for the moment, "let's not disappoint."

  The young paladin charged, his sword glowing with holy fervor as he launched into a series of rapid strikes. Jeremiah met him blow for blow, deflecting each attack with precise movements, his rapier darting like a serpent. Sparks flew as their blades clashed, faster and faster, until it was clear that this wouldn't end in a single engagement.

  The boy fought with skill and speed beyond his years, his strength and resolve seemingly inexhaustible. Even as Jeremiah pressed his advantage, exploiting openings and testing the boy's defenses, the attacks kept coming, his strikes growing fiercer with each passing moment.

  An Expert. Jeremiah had suspected as much from the start, given his ability to withstand an alchemical fireball, but experiencing the boy's power firsthand was a different matter. The young paladin moved with a fluid grace that could only have come from rigorous training, and there was an untamed energy in his strikes—a burning intensity that made up for his lack of experience.

  Still, Jeremiah's years of battle-hardened skill gave him the upper hand. He maneuvered the kid around the battlefield, keeping him on the back foot, his rapier flashing to deliver shallow cuts through the gaps he deliberately opened, testing the boy's limits.

  Yet, it wasn't enough. Every time he tried to [Penetrate] the boy's armor—something he was known for and that had granted him victory over significantly more experienced foes—his blade skittered over the plate, forcing him to aim at the few gaps and considerably reducing his effectiveness.

  For every strike Jeremiah delivered, the kid seemed to draw on some hidden reserve of strength, refusing to yield ground. Around them, the loyalist soldiers were falling back under the renewed onslaught of the young rebels. The gap between Jeremiah and his men was widening, and he could see the desperation grow on their faces, given the absence of further ground to retreat. The clearing that was supposed to be a death trap for the rebels would become their resting place if nothing changed.

  If this continued, even if he managed to cut the boy down, it would be a hollow victory. The losses would be too significant, and he would have no supporters left to speak of when he returned to Pepperhof. That wasn't something he could afford if he wanted to keep his position, much less climb through the ranks.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Jeremiah made a decision, one he knew would rankle, but he wasn't about to lose everything here. "Ulbert!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Clear us a path!"

  For a moment, he saw the hesitation in Ulbert's eyes—a flicker of doubt, perhaps, or disapproval at what was essentially an order to retreat before a bunch of greenhorns. But the man obeyed, weaving his hands through the air in a rapid motion. More explosions tore through the clearing the next instant, growing like malevolent flowers. Flames surged and spread, devouring everything in their path. Several rebels cried out as they were caught in the blast, their figures swallowed by the raging inferno.

  The kid's head snapped toward the screams, and Jeremiah seized the moment, casting [Blossoming Strike] and lunging forward with a thrust aimed at the boy's neck. But the young paladin twisted away at the last moment, quicker than expected. Once again, Jeremiah's rapier screeched over the pauldron, leaving not even a scratch behind.

  That it managed to deflect his most lethal skill, which he had personally developed over the years and proved capable of penetrating even a Whiteguard’s enchanted plate, confirmed that this kid was not just a talented commander. Jeremiah would have to ensure his presence was brought to the brass's attention, as he was likely to have a connection with the Hero.

  Despite the close shave, the young paladin didn't retaliate; instead, he hurled himself toward his men, desperately trying to pull them from the flames' hungry grasp.

  Jeremiah didn't waste time. With a swift gesture, he signaled his men to follow, slashing through a wall of fire to carve a path out of the clearing. The heat bit at his skin, and the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh stung his nostrils, but he pushed forward, his rapier cutting through the smoke. Little more than half his men stumbled after him, some limping, others dragging themselves along, their mounts either lost or too injured to keep up. Jeremiah didn't look back.

  Soon enough, they burst out of the burning forest and into the open night air, and for once, Jeremiah thanked the Darkwood for being such a densely magical forest—it would take a long time before even the alchemical fire could spread, if the guardian didn't extinguish it first.

  His lungs filled with the cool breeze, even as his mind raced. The retreat had cost them dearly in terms of pride and money, as such valuable horses wouldn't be replaceable on the battlefield, and it would be a while before he could muster another raid of this size. But as he regrouped with the remnants of his men, his thoughts returned to what he had come here to confirm, and he found peace in the certainty that he had gotten what he came for.

  The rebels were here, hiding within the Darkwood.

  His suspicions were confirmed, and that knowledge alone was worth a humiliating retreat.

  As Jeremiah led his men away, he glanced back occasionally, noting that the flames hadn't spread as quickly as he had initially feared. The magical nature of the Darkwood was slowing the fire's progress, containing the blaze enough that it hadn't yet gotten out of control.

  Now, a good mile away from the fire, Jeremiah started looking for signs of the rest of his company. They had been stationed beyond the tree line, tasked with maintaining the perimeter in case things went awry, and he needed someone to slow down pursuers, but he was afraid they might have been ambushed since they weren't where they were supposed to be and the night had already gone to shit.

  Fortunately, he found them only a few hundred feet from where he had left them, gathered in a circle around the road. The sounds of scuffling and muffled cries reached Jeremiah's ears before he got close enough to see what was causing them: a small merchant caravan, perhaps a dozen people with four carts laden with the last cargo they could muster before the northern regions of Hetnia descended into chaos. His men surrounded the merchants, prodding them with the blunt ends of their spears, overturning crates, and tearing at their possessions.

  The merchants' faces lit up with a brief flicker of hope when they spotted Jeremiah walking in, his officer's insignia glinting on his chest. Several rushed forward, their voices raised in desperate entreaties.

  "Sir! Please, your men—"

  "—they're out of control! This is robbery!"

  "Have mercy, sir! We're loyal to King Vasily! We've done nothing wrong!"

  Their pleas tumbled over one another, frantic and breathless. For a moment, Jeremiah simply stared with a cold, detached gaze. He heard the desperate appeals as little more than noise. His mind was already racing ahead to Pepperhof, to the preparations that needed to be made now that the rebels' position had been all but confirmed. He doubted he’d convince the generals to march the army toward the forest and find a more favorable place to fight, but he might prod the Count into defending the town’s eastern flank better. Setting up artillery properly took time, and he had earned at least a few hours.

  Like so much else in this region, the caravan was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  "Enough," he said, cutting through the clamor. "Finish them off."

  The merchants fell silent as their hope collapsed into horror. Jeremiah didn't look away from the leader as the realization set in. The man staggered back a step, his eyes wide and mouth trembling as if to speak, but no words came out.

  Jeremiah's hand was already moving. With a single thrust, his rapier pierced through his chest, skewering him in one clean motion. The merchant's eyes went glassy as his body crumpled, and Jeremiah pulled the blade free, flicking blood from its edge before sliding it back into its sheath.

  His men sprang into action, unhesitatingly following their leader's command. The merchants screamed and scrambled, but there was nowhere to run. Within moments, the soldiers closed in, their blades doing their grim work.

  Jeremiah strode to the nearest cart, giving its contents a cursory inspection. There was nothing particularly valuable—cloth, some dried meats, a few barrels of grain—but it was better than nothing. He gestured toward the supplies, his voice sharp. "Load up what we can carry and burn the rest. We need to move."

  His men obeyed without question, hurrying to secure whatever they could salvage. Jeremiah took a moment to choose his new mount and ran a soothing hand down the horse's neck. It was a decent animal, not as sturdy as those lost in the skirmish, but it'd do the job.

  At least he could still cut his losses in a night of setbacks and miscalculations.

  As the last of the merchants' possessions went up in flames, he climbed back into the saddle and took stock of his men. Many were weary, injured, and fewer in number than when they had first set out, but the majority were still alive and capable. That would have to be enough for now.

  "Form up!" Jeremiah ordered, his voice carrying over the crackle of the burning carts. "We're heading back to Pepperhof. No more distractions."

  The soldiers gathered quickly, knowing better than to defy him. Jeremiah took one last glance back at the smoke rising above the treetops, a faint sneer curling his lips.

  This had been a setback but nothing more. He had what he needed. As for the caravan… well, there were always casualties in war.

  With a nudge of his heels, Jeremiah urged his horse into motion, leading his men back down the dark road toward Pepperhof.