Chapter 16 – The Fires Across the Greywatch
Dawn broke cold and sullen across the northern marshlands, the pale sun struggling behind a veil of low, colorless clouds. The Greywatch River—once a sluggish boundary between wilds and empire—had become a swollen artery of war. Smoke rose from charred willow groves and collapsed watchposts. The far bank, long untroubled by the taxmen or soldiers of the Wesidian Empire, now bore scars of siegecraft and banners stitched hastily in the night.
Lorien stood at the water's edge atop a battered rise of gravel, his cloak weighed with river mist. Behind him, the sounds of camp slowly stirred—grinding mills, sparring blades, the murmured routines of men who had crossed over and lived. The landing had cost blood. But it had held.
To the west, Lady Sera of Thornvale paced along the newly raised embankment, her boots caked with ash. She barked a few orders to the pioneers still shoring up earthworks with timber and canvas. Though no grand city stood here, the bastards and freeborn of Lorien's army carved footholds into hostile mud, one trench at a time.
"The soil's poor for palisades," she called to Lorien. "We'll have to double the depth of the outer ditch, maybe reinforce with stone if we can find any."
"We'll make do," Lorien said, eyes never leaving the horizon.
South of the river lay familiar territory—settled, charted, surveyed by imperial hand. But northward, it was different. Not lawless, no. But untamed. A vast sprawl of cold forests, fenlands, high ridges. The lands of broken holds, dead vassals, and enemy hosts long thought scattered.
Lorien had seen the Emberborn's reports. And Vale's own briefings had confirmed them. What had begun as scattered raiding bands had since crystallized. Enemy banners had appeared—black ink on weather-bleached cloth, no clear sigil but something ritualistic, something foreign. Not all were remnants of the old rebellion. Something new had begun to rise.
"Word from Burnedge," Vale said, stepping up beside him. She moved like smoke—silent, efficient, hard to track. "Scouts saw a gathering six leagues northeast. Likely a warband, two hundred strong, maybe more."
"We can't afford to leave them behind us," Lorien muttered.
"We've begun enfilading patrols. Lady Sera's suggestion. If they try to sweep around our flank, we'll have advance warning."
He nodded. "Tell her good work."
Serin Vale didn't smile, but she inclined her head—a soldier's salute, quiet and earned.
A gust of wind pulled the mist toward the treetops. In the distance, the enemy held still, watching.
---
Three days passed. In that time, the camp across Greywatch grew teeth—outer berms, supply caches, lookouts posted every third mile. Lady Sera oversaw the defense works, while Marshal Kael handled the arrivals: militia groups from Severmarch, hardened axemen from High Barrow, and a full auxiliary banner from the eastern marches—3,200 strong, lean and sun-burnished.
"They march well," Kael told Lorien, eyeing the newcomers from a rise. "But they're not trained to our doctrine. We'll need at least a week to drill them properly."
"You have three days."
Kael frowned but nodded. "Then they'll march like hellhounds."
Lorien stood in the command pavilion that night, surrounded by maps carved from leather and wood. Each pinned marker, each coded line, told a story—of advances made, or opportunities lost. The Emberborn had struck further north, confirming the presence of supply caches buried in old temple ruins and shrines. One of their scouts—Torren, lean, quiet, half-mad—had returned with a charred scrap of enemy parchment: it bore no readable text, only symbols. Vale had traced it by candlelight and noted how closely it resembled the seal of a long-dead noble house, one thought extinguished in the Ember Wars.
"They're not just gathering," Vale said. "They're rebuilding."
"And someone's leading them," Lorien replied.
That night, the camp quieted under snow. Just a light dusting—enough to hush steel and soften bootsteps. Lorien walked among the tents, hearing stories in the murmurs: boys from Thornvale now swordbrothers to axemen of High Barrow. The divisions faded with every battle line drawn. In that place, among the frost and fire, a new shape was forming.
Not rebellion.
Not vengeance.
An army.
---
It came before dawn on the fifth day.
The alarm horn blew sharp, echoing through timber slats. Lorien was already armored, having sensed the tension in the wind before the call came. Vale met him at the central ridge. Her twin blades were already sheathed across her back.
"Advance probe," she said. "Two warbands. They're testing our outer lines."
"Let them test," Lorien said. "We'll answer in steel."
Lady Sera took command of the right flank. Kael rode out to anchor the left, bringing with him the spearmen from the east. Lorien led the center himself—just three cohorts, Emberborn among them, veiled in nightpaint and silence.
The battle was brief but brutal. The enemy fought with a kind of belief Lorien had not yet seen in this war—a frenzy, almost sacrificial. They burned their wounded. They did not retreat. But they broke. And when they did, Lorien pursued.
By midday, the outer woods were cleared. Bodies lay among the moss. No banners were recovered.
Only a single shard of obsidian, bound in copper wire, was found clutched in one soldier's fist.
Vale studied it under torchlight. "It's not decorative," she said. "It's ceremonial."
"For what?"
She didn't answer.
---
That evening, as snow began to fall in earnest, Lorien gathered his captains beneath the embankment arch. The firelight played across steel and shadow.
"We are not here to chase ghosts," he said. "We are here to tame the north. Stone by stone, field by field. We do not fear darkness. We burn it."
No one cheered. But every man there stood straighter.
He looked to Lady Sera. "You have three days. Fortify the northern ridge. Make it into a blade pointed toward their heartlands."
Then to Kael. "Pull back the eastern auxiliaries tomorrow. I want them drilling under Thornvale standards before dusk."
Finally, Vale. "You said they're rebuilding. So we'll dismantle them. Quietly. Precisely. Begin your deep strikes tomorrow night. No survivors."
Vale nodded, slow.
The flames crackled low, steady.
And the northern wind carried no songs that night—only the whisper of steel drawn in silence.
---
Far behind them, in the dark halls of Vesdil, the Imperial Council would wait weeks before receiving full reports.
But war had already answered.
And it spoke in fire.