The hard march through the forest reminded Gareth of old times. Of course, back then, he had merely needed to cross a hundred miles of open fields, not the Darkwood. However, he was much stronger now, and the orcs knew the best paths. Indeed, it had taken them only a couple of days to traverse the entire forest with five Corps, despite it being known to take at least a week for a regular army.

  Some of it could be attributed to the Revolutionary Army's better equipment and training than Hetnia’s regular forces, but mostly, it was thanks to the Guardian's intervention.

  She hadn’t shown her face, but Gareth knew she was behind their unnatural speed. Even Elder Wei, cranky old orc that she was, seemed surprised they had made it so quickly.

  Gareth led the five army corps out of the northeastern reaches in a neat column, his horse’s hooves crunching over fallen leaves and tangled roots. The forest had swallowed them for days, its ancient canopy making it hard to see anything beyond, but now, as the trees thinned, the horizon opened before them. The distant gleam of the sea shimmered like a promise, along with the sight of Hetnia’s eastern prairie.

  Soon enough, they left the forest’s passages behind and got on the road that would lead them to Volten. The horses certainly seemed to appreciate the smoother gait, though they were bred for any environment.

  The further they marched, the more unmistakable the signs of conflict became. They passed through charred hovels, scorched fields, and remnants of the many villages that had once dotted the eastern landscape. Broken carts lay in the dirt, their wheels shattered and blackened by flame. Gareth’s gaze swept over the deserted road, taking in the remains of stone hearths and empty wells. The air was clean, telling him it had been some time, and there were no bodies—only silence.

  Lady Amelia’s reports had mentioned the destruction of all settlements that didn’t immediately bend to the royal army in passing, but seeing it firsthand left a bitter taste in his mouth. She had called the east a “theater of desperation,” with fires sweeping through towns as local forces clashed with the rebel armies. The sight of the devastation matched her words too well. Yet Gareth pushed forward, knowing that slowing down here would only spook his men. Their real task lay ahead.

  When Volten’s walls finally came into view, it was like beholding the spine of a sleeping giant. The city was the third largest in Hetnia, and its walls reflected that—massive, ancient, and formidable. The stone ramparts rose high above the flatlands, layered with wards that shimmered visibly even in daylight. Their activation could only mean that the soldiers assembled by Lady Amelia had managed to put it under siege.

  Volten was a trade city where ships that crossed the Green Sea unloaded their goods, and caravans carried those goods to Hassel and beyond. They would not impose the wards upon their citizenry—people who lived and breathed trade—unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Once they got close enough to pick out the details, Gareth saw that, as expected, the siege was well underway. Across the fields, where crops once grew, war engines dotted the landscape like iron-toothed beasts, their hulking forms aimed squarely at Volten’s walls. The air shook with the thunder of magical cannons, each shot slamming into the shimmering wards with bursts of multicolored light. The protective barriers held, but each impact sent ripples across the surface like stones skipping across a pond, requiring mana to stabilize. Smoke drifted above the city, mingling with the salt tang of the sea, and the distant cries of soldiers carried on the wind.

  That is significantly beyond what I expected to find. I knew they had managed to conquer a few crucial towns, which obviously means they managed to get their hands on cannons and the like, but this doesn’t look like a ragtag force. If anything, I’d say they managed to build up supply lines of some sort, but I know for a fact only the bare minimum is coming from the south. Last I heard, they were still working to purify the southeastern coast from the Void’s taint.

  Gareth shook his head and urged his horse forward, taking the lead. While he had learned to appreciate Elder Wei, he didn’t think the local rebels would react well to an approaching horde of orcs, or at least what looked like one.

  The encampment sprawled across the fields as a vast assemblage of tents, newly made banners, forges, and cooking fires. It seemed to Gareth that what had once been a messy group of desperate fighters, formed during Lady Amelia’s earliest days here, had somehow become a disciplined force. There were proper supply depots, structured divisions given the distinct colors each side of the encampment sported, and even a decent armory. Gareth’s ascent to Mastery meant he could pick out the smallest details from miles away.

  He had expected the situation to improve since the last reports trickled in, carried by Amelia’s shadow informants, but the scale of their preparation still took him aback. This was no mere band of insurgents—it was barely lesser than the main revolutionary army. Gareth expected to find a few things that couldn’t be remediated by a competent commander, like the lack of mages, but it seemed he wouldn’t need to waste much time organizing the army. Why, he might be able to take over the siege operations and continue as if he had always been here!

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Well, Lady Amelia’s reports make it clear that the local General, Oz, is competent and probably responsible for organizing underground resistance to the local nobility for decades, so he might not appreciate me taking over. I hope I won’t have to remove him. If he’s responsible for all of this, he’d be an asset to the revolution as a whole.

  As Gareth’s Corps approached, a group of scouts broke away from the outskirts of the camp, galloping across the open ground. They hailed the arriving soldiers with raised hands and shouted greetings, swiftly closing the distance. Gareth watched them come, his brow furrowing in curiosity. These men didn’t seem particularly alarmed by the appearance of a small army at their back, suggesting they had known exactly when to expect him.

  Before he could call out a greeting, a shadow peeled away from the foremost scout. The darkness coiled and took shape, forming into a fat, childlike elemental—a familiar emissary of Amelia’s will.

  “General Doomspear, welcome to the eastern front,” it intoned, its eyes like pools of black flame. “General Oz invites you to the command post while your men make camp.” The words echoed unnaturally before the elemental dispersed in a wisp of smoke, leaving Gareth and the scouts facing one another in the aftermath.

  Gareth took a breath, steadying the flood of thoughts racing through his mind. He was not one for excessive theatrics, but Amelia had always had a flair for the dramatic. Even so, he felt a prick of anticipation at the prospect of meeting this Oz in person.

  Turning back to his officers and Elder Wei, Gareth issued a series of orders. “Set up camp here,” he said, “Make sure the men are rested and ready for tomorrow. I don’t have a timeline at the moment, but I expect we’ll move out within twenty-four hours if nothing changes.” The men saluted and began relaying his commands, directing the soldiers to a patch of open ground where they could set up their tents and supply wagons while the old orc simply grunted in acknowledgment.

  Gareth glanced once more at the city in the distance, then toward the camp that had sprung up to challenge it. With a firm grip on the reins, he nudged his horse forward and made for the command post, eager to see how ready they truly were to break the city’s wards.

  The camp bustled with activity as he rode through. Soldiers scurried about, unloading supplies, mending equipment, and tending to the wounded while officers barked orders. The energy was palpable, the kind that only came before a major offensive. As Gareth drew closer to the command post—a broad, fortified tent set at the heart of the encampment—another shadow materialized, emerging from the base of a nearby standard like a serpent from its burrow.

  This one was different from the first: taller and leaner, its dark shape solid like dark steel. It glided up to him and dipped its head in a mimicry of a bow. “General Doomspear,” it murmured, “your arrival is appreciated. Enter and meet the commanders.”

  Gareth dismounted and handed the reins to a nearby attendant before stepping inside the tent, followed by the elemental. Maps cluttered the large central table, weighted down with daggers and goblets. Three people awaited him.

  The first was unmistakably General Oz. He wore his years in the deep lines of his face and the iron grey of his hair, but his eyes burned with intelligence. His left hand rested on the pommel of a well-worn sword while his right gestured Gareth closer with a pleased smile.

  Beside him stood a dour young man, his black hair cropped short and his expression set in a near-permanent scowl. A patch covered his left eye, and a thin scar curved down from his cheekbone to his jaw, evidence of an old wound that had not healed cleanly. It was probably cursed or inflicted by the Void if it hadn’t been healed. He regarded Gareth with open calculation.

  It was the third figure that truly caught Gareth’s attention, however. She was an elf—tall and elegant, with fine features and hair as pale as moonlight. Even standing still, she seemed to exude an ethereal grace. The sheer amount of mana flowing through her aura marked her as a pureblood, the kind of elf rarely seen in Haylich, much less in a backwater like Hetnia. Gareth’s surprise must have shown on his face, for the elf rolled her eyes—a motion she somehow performed with an air of elegance.

  “Yes, yes, I’m not some woodland half-breed,” even her voice carried a smooth, lilting cadence. “Before you ask, I’m here because my dear cousins decided it would be better for the clan to kidnap me and sell me into slavery. I spent a long time being passed around local lords. Even now that I’ve been freed, I won’t return until I have dealt with everyone who partook in my flesh.” Her eyes gleamed with a cold fury. “Consider it a personal vendetta.”

  For a moment, Gareth could only stare. He had faced all manner of people in his years of service—soldiers, mages, even spirits—but he hadn’t expected to find a pureblood elf pledging herself to the Revolution, much less one bent on vengeance against nobles as a whole. The few he had met were usually so ethereal to appear above mortal concerns.

  “I see,” he said, recovering his composure. “Well met, then.” He dipped his head in a respectful nod before turning his attention back to the others.

  The young man spoke second. “Commander Sparrow,” he said curtly, his voice low and gravelly. “I lead the scouts, and I’ve been monitoring Volten’s defenses for months now.” His voice was rough, born from long nights in the field. “Our assets are ready to take the next step whenever you are.”

  Gareth nodded in acknowledgment before turning to the older man. “General Oz,” the old soldier rumbled. “I’ve been in charge here since Lady Amelia’s departure.” His gaze was steady, appraising Gareth with a hint of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “And you are General Doomspear, the Liberator of Stonebridge.” He extended his hand toward a vacant chair. “Come, sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Gareth moved to take the offered seat, glancing at the shadow elemental at the edge of the table. It met his gaze with a disturbingly human-like nod, its expression unreadable, and spoke in its unsettling voice. “The Mistress has allowed us spirits to have a much greater presence here in the east,” it said, the words like whispers from a cold draft. “We ensure that her delegates are always well-informed and that her enemies are dealt with swiftly.”

  The revelation left Gareth with a knot of unease, though he kept his features impassive.

  General Oz leaned forward, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’ve arrived at an opportune time,” he said. “We’re finalizing our plans to take Volten. The wards have held for now, but they’re weakening, and our scouts report growing unrest within the city. We need a decisive strike, and with your arrival, we finally have the strength to make it happen.”

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