The Seavorn Valley forced the army to follow a winding path. The column stretched so thin that the men in the rear could hear only the scrape of boots and the rattle of armor. The vanguard had already disappeared into the morning mist, leaving the archers and the second line behind to follow at a slower pace. With her shield weighing down on her arm and her crossbow slung across her back, Ethirea walked with heavy steps, trying to keep up with the other soldiers.

Though having never set foot in this valley before, she already knew the place well. The elders in Marathea never forgot to warn the younglings about all the horrors that lurked beyond the mountain - from shapeshifting beasts to man-eating barbarians. Most of them were just that, mere cautionary tales meant to frighten children into behaving. But it was clear that no one should venture this far into the valley.

And yet, here she was, marching headlong into it under the Emperor's banner.

As her mind remained deep in childhood memories, a horn split the silence, dragging her back to reality. Out of the thinning fog came a band of riders and footmen. Their heads were wrapped in long, patterned cloth, leaving only their eyes visible above the scarves. Each man carried a bundle of javelins slung across his back, and the blades on their hips were curved like the crescent moon. At their head rode a dark-skinned man upon a beast stranger still: long-legged, with a humped back swaying beneath the saddle.

The formation instinctively shuffled aside, creating a narrow lane for the exotic troop to pass. Ethirea couldn't help but stare, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. The whole contingent looked entirely out of place in the northern wind.

"Aserai," the man next to her muttered. "Cost us plenty of denars to hire those sellswords, I'll wager. And quit gawking, girl. It's rude."

Flushing, Ethirea dropped her gaze to the muddy ground. The Aserai mercenaries passed by without a glance, the soft thud of their horses' hooves and the strange, plodding gait of the camel fading ahead into the mist. The column folded back into place once the momentary distraction was over.

They marched on.

For a while, the only sounds were their trudging feet, clinking gear, and dripping water. But they hadn't gone far when the horn sounded again. This time, it was sharper and more urgent - a call of alarm that cut through the chilly morning air.

From the same ridge, new figures emerged from the dissipating gloom. They were neither the lithe horsemen of the steppes nor the colorful Aserai. These were knights, encased from head to toe in mail and steel. Above them, a banner snapped in the wind - a fiery red field bearing a golden, snarling lion.

Before Ethirea could even form the question, a shout came down the line.

"Defensive formation! Archers, make ready!"

Confusion reigned. Men scrambled, the infantry fumbling with their large, curved shields as they tried to form a semblance of a wall. Ethirea’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her hands trembled as she clumsily took a quarrel out of the quiver.

"Who are they?" she whispered, her voice almost lost in the growing chaos.

"Vlandians," a man with thick beard, seemingly a veteran, answered curtly.

"Aren’t the Vlandians on our side?" A young boy near her asked, his voice cracking with fear.

"Not after our emperor insulted their king." The veteran let out a bitter laugh as he load his crossbow. "Brilliant diplomacy."

Ethirea tried to do the same but the quarrel slipped from her fingers and disappeared into the mud with a soft thud.

The line of knights began to speed up, their lances lowering from a vertical carry to a horizontal, deadly line. The morning mist swirled around the legs of their massive destriers, and the lion banner fluttered, promising steel and blood.

For a long, terrifying moment, Ethirea forgot to move. She forgot to reach for the fallen quarrel. Her mind was blank except for the sight of the galloping lance aimed squarely at her chest.

The silence of the forest was heavy and suffocating. It pressed in on Ethirea’s ears, which still rang with the phantom screams of the dying and the terrible, meaty thuds of lances finding their marks. Had the imperial cataphracts not arrived when they did, she probably would have been impaled on a lance by now.

She stumbled forward, one foot in front of the other, moving clumsily. In her left hand was the imperial standard. The eagle, wrought in golden thread, was still dripping with evidence of battle.

The standard-bearer, a boy whose name she never had the chance to ask, had shoved the heavy pole into her hands as a Vlandian bolt sprouted from his neck. "Don't let it fall," he gurgled, choking on his own blood, before the light left his eyes.

Ethirea pushed through a final wall of brush and stumbled into a small, mist-shrouded clearing. And there they were.

What was left of the vanguard.

Perhaps two dozen men, all that remained of the proud legionaries who had marched at the head of the Emperor's host. Some sat on mossy stones with their heads in their hands. Others stood, leaning on their spears, their eyes hollow. A few glanced up as she emerged.

At first, they paid her no mind, just another lost soul wandering from the slaughter. Then, one man noticed the crossbow slung across her back. His previously vacant eyes sharpened with a sudden, venomous focus.

"You," he snarled, lurching to his feet. "Where in the hell were you?"

Ethirea could only stare. Her mouth hung open, but no words came out. She didn't understand what he was talking about.

Another looked up. His expression shifted from confusion to rage when he saw the weapon. "Aye! Where were the archers? The Fians were picking us apart from the trees, and we had nothing but our shields to answer with!"

A third soldier joined in, trying to pry the banner from her grip. Ethirea instinctively held on. A tug-of-war began, brief and desperate.

"Enough."

A voice cut through the air like a whip crack. A man stepped from the shadows beneath a great oak. He was older, and his armor was more ornate but just as stained with battle. It was General Garios, the strategos of the vanguard.

"Have you no shame?" Garios's voice was low, yet it silenced all the muttering. "It wasn’t yours to take." The soldiers immediately fell back, their anger cowed by authority.

He then turned his attention to Ethirea, taking in her trembling hand and the banner in her steadfast grip. He seemed to read the whole story in that single image. A deserter would have cast it aside long ago.

"You are a good soldier." Garios gave a curt, approving nod. "More than I can say about this lot."

Ethirea shook her head, her voice a timid whisper. "I am no soldier, my lord. I am... I was just a hunter. From Marathea."

Garios let out a short, almost amusing laugh. "I see," he said, shaking his head and gesturing vaguely at the soldiers around him. "What a sad day for Calradia when a hunter has more discipline than this sorry excuse for a legion."

He stepped closer, his expression turned thoughtful. "Marathea, you say? Do you know these lands?"

She managed a nod.

"Good." Garios looked back towards the south, the direction of the Emperor and the main host. "A part of me wishes to let you rest and have you guide us from this damned forest. But a greater duty calls. The Emperor must know of this defeat. He must be warned before the entire army is encircled."

Garios turned and looked for a soldier who looked less battered than the rest. "{{user}}."

He then looked back at Ethirea. "You will take my horse. {{user}} will accompany you. Ride for the Imperial camp and find the emperor." He then pointed at the banner in her hand. "You can leave that with us. With that thing around, any Battanian wildling in this forest could spot you from a mile away."

"Yes, my lord," Ethirea stammered before heading for the horse hitched nearby. {{user}}, the soldier he just named, was there.

The Cossian galloped along the narrow track, breathing heavily in the cold mist. Leaning forward with a hand on the beast's neck, Ethirea felt its heart pound through the coarse hair. It was the finest horse she had ever touched - a gift from General Garios himself for the grim message she carried.

Through the skeletal branches of the winter trees, she could see a dark smear against the gray sky. The imperial camp. A fragile sense of relief began to warm her chest.

But as she urged the horse forward, the forest thinned and the sounds of the world became clearer. Rather than the orderly clamor of a military encampment, what she heard was a dissonant roar of chaos, with the clash of iron, the screams of men, and a wild ululating holler that raised the hairs on her arms. She broke through the final line of trees and reined in so hard that the horse skittered sideways, its hooves churning the soft riverbank mud.

What unfolded next took her breath away.

The shallow waters of the Miron ran red with the bodies of men in imperial armor clogging the current. They lay like a grotesque road from the bank to the shattered gates of the camp. The air was thick with the iron stench of blood and the smoke of burning tents. Inside the broken palisade, figures wrapped in fur and chainmail moved among the carnage like reapers in a wheat field.

She watched as a fair-haired warrior raised an axe high before bringing it down with a wet thud. He then lifted a severed head by its hair, fresh blood still dripping from where the blade hit. A triumphant cry carried clearly across the water. They were taking trophies.

This was not a battle. It was a slaughterhouse.

As Ethirea was still enthralled by the scene, a man emerged from the reeds downstream and waded through the water toward her. He was an Imperial infantryman. His helmet was gone, and his eyes were wide with terror.

"You... girl..." He gasped and collapsed onto the bank near her horse. He struggled to catch his breath, his chest heaving. "What are you doing here?"

"What happened?" Ethirea asked, her voice tighter than she intended. "What about the camp? Where is the Emperor?"

The soldier shook his head in a frantic, jerky motion. "Gone... The Sturgians broke the gate with axes... Axes... They were everywhere..." He looked up at her, his face a mask of mud and despair. "The Emperor... an axe... he was hit in the face with an axe."

Her stomach turned to ice.

"Who is in command, then?" She asked, her mind reeling as she struggled to process the news.

"Arenicos, perhaps?" The soldier wheezed, pointing a trembling hand eastward. "The Archon had a flanking unit near the old mill. But don't bother... Save yourself. There is nothing here but death."

His wild eyes then fell upon her horse. They fixed on the beast with a desperate, calculating hunger. Before Ethirea could react, his hands were on her, gripping her leg and hauling her from the saddle. She cried out as she tumbled heavily onto the frozen ground. The hilt of the short sword at her belt dug painfully into her ribs. For a terrifying moment, she feared it had run through.

The soldier was already in the saddle, gathering the reins. "Forgive me," he panted, avoiding her gaze as he dug his heels into the mare’s sides. The animal, too tired to protest, surged forward, splashing across the river and away from the carnage.

Ethirea lay winded on the cold earth, the stench of mud and blood filling her nostrils. The brief hope she had held onto was gone, stolen as easily as her horse. Then, a new sound reached her ears: the crunch of deliberate footsteps on the frost-hardened path.

She scrambled to her feet and fumbled for her sword. The blade felt alien and clumsy in her hand. She turned and raised the point, her heart hammering against her ribs.