General Marus sat alone in the dim light of his tent, the command center of the encampment. Outside, the bustle of the camp was muffled, as if the world beyond had faded to a distant hum. All that mattered now was the map before him—its carefully drawn lines etched with symbols of strategic weight, detailing the terrain of Zorim Field.
His broad, muscular frame loomed over the table, eyes sharp and unblinking as they swept across key vantage points, chokeholds, and the anticipated paths of both his forces and the advancing Army of the Undead.
A single oil lamp flickered beside him, casting restless shadows across his weathered face. Deep lines carved by time and battle caught the light, while silver streaks peppered his greying beard. His balding head gleamed faintly in the lamp’s glow. His green eyes, still keen with command, darted from mark to mark, calculating, preparing.
With a steady hand, Marus traced a line across the map, marking positions with a charcoal pencil. He added a few more marks, indicating where the enemy’s advance was most likely to strike. A slight furrow of concentration appeared on his brow as he weighed every possible scenario. The undead horde wasn’t something he had encountered before—its sheer numbers and unpredictability were unlike any foe he had fought in the past. But Marus was a master strategist. If anyone could turn the tide in their favor, it was him.
His mind raced with calculations, plotting troop movements across the barren terrain of Zorim Field. The wide open spaces and sparse cover would make maintaining a solid front difficult. Speed. Surprise. Precision. That’s how they’d win this.
Marus paused, his gaze drifting to the edge of the map where the shadow of the approaching enemy loomed ever closer. His thoughts flickered to Alvinnué, the young scout who had gone ahead to observe their movements. The boy was capable, but this was the moment of truth. The undead would show no mercy, and Marus feared for anyone who found themselves in their path.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the wooden surface of the table. The stillness of the tent was almost suffocating, broken only by the swirl of his thoughts—commands, counter-strategies, contingencies.
After a long moment of silence, Marus spoke softly to himself, as if reassuring the forces in his command.
“We will hold them. No matter the cost.”
Marus’s gaze never left the map, but the sudden noise from outside the camp—raised voices, hurried steps, and an unmistakable sense of urgency—caught his attention. His hand stilled on the map as he listened, his senses sharpening. The camp had been quiet, but now something felt wrong.
A beat later, the tent flap was thrust aside, and Adjutant Cenric hurried in, breathless and wide-eyed.
“General,” the adjutant panted, “Alvinnué, the scout… he’s returned. He has his report.”
Marus’s posture stiffened, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. Without looking up, his voice cut through the air, steady and commanding. “Bring him to me.”
Cenric nodded sharply and left in a hurry.
The seconds seemed to stretch, the weight of what was to come hanging heavy in the air. Marus’s eyes narrowed on the map once more, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind replayed the last moments he had seen Alvinnué—the young scout heading into the fields. The unease that had settled in his chest when the boy had left now returned with full force.
The tent flap was pushed open again. Alvinnué entered, panting and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His breath was ragged, and his face was drawn, but his eyes—those sharp, obsidian eyes—met Marus’s with unwavering resolve. He steadied himself, his posture straightening as he spoke.
“Advanced Scout Alvinnué reporting, General Marus,” came the voice of the young scout, each word heavy with the weight of urgency.
The moment their eyes met, a sharp silence fell between them. Alvinnué’s obsidian eyes, wide and resolute, bore into Marus’s, and the general, seasoned by years of battle and strategy, didn’t need any more words to know what had come. The Army of the Dead had arrived.
Marus’s gaze hardened, his mind already racing. He steadied himself, trying to keep his voice calm and composed, but his thoughts were already calculating. “How many?”
Alvinnué’s lips barely moved as he met Marus’s gaze again, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. “Thousands, sir.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence, the weight of them striking Marus in the chest. He forced himself to remain composed, though his heart beat faster with each passing second. Thousands… Can they hold them back?
Marus took a deep breath, his hand gripping the edge of the map, the silence between them thickening. His mind raced with strategy, but the growing sense of urgency gnawed at him. “How long?”
“I sprinted back as fast as I could…” Alvinnué’s voice wavered only slightly, but the urgency was undeniable. “Two hours at the most, sir.”
Marus’s voice was sharp, filled with disbelief, but his mind worked quickly. “Two hours. It might not sound like enough time, but we planned ahead. This should give us what we need.”
His words were calm, but Marus’s mind was already racing, running through contingencies, strategies, and the growing weight of his inner turmoil. The reality of the situation was setting in, but he didn’t show it—he couldn’t.
He turned to Alvinnué, his gaze steady but tinged with respect. “Good work, Advanced Scout Alvinnué. You have our thanks. You are dismissed.”
Alvinnué stood motionless for a heartbeat, his shoulders tight, as though there was more he had to say. After a pause, he spoke again, his voice calm but weighted with urgency.
“Sir, there is one more thing I’d like to report.”
Marus’s brow furrowed. “Well, go on with it.”
Alvinnué took a steady breath, meeting the General’s eyes, knowing the next words would likely change everything. “I encountered and dispatched enemy scouts, sir. Netherwolves.”
Marus froze, his heart skipping a beat. “What? Nether-wolves?!” The words didn’t make sense.
Alvinnué nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir. Netherwolves. It seems that there is an undead capable of summoning them from the spectral plane.”
The words hung in the air, thick with dread. Marus stood straighter, his mind racing. “Any ideas?”
Alvinnué hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the best way to deliver the next part of his report. His posture remained rigid, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes, something Marus had come to recognize as the quiet before a storm.
“I climbed a tall tymer aspen,” Alvinnué began, his voice steady but carrying the weight of the dangerous task. “It gave me a clear view of their ranks, sir. The undead stretched out across the fields—farther than I could have imagined. It was… overwhelming. But I needed to see it from above. Needed to find their weak points.”
He paused for a moment, as though recalling the scene, before continuing. “And that’s when I saw it… at the rear of their ranks. A figure. A shadow among the dead, moving with purpose. It stood apart from the others—a bone-white face beneath a black hood, eyes burning red like coals. It was… a lich.”
Marus’s brow furrowed deeper. His gaze never left Alvinnué, but his mind was already racing. A lich?
Alvinnué’s voice dropped lower, thick with a kind of dread that had not been there before. “The lich is the commander, sir. It leads them, orchestrates their advance. It’s not just an army of the dead we face, but a mind, a strategy… something far more dangerous.”
Marus’s grip on the map tightened, his knuckles whitening. A lich. The implications were grave. The undead horde wasn’t just a mindless swarm; it was being controlled, directed by something ancient and powerful.
Marus stared at Alvinnué in stunned silence, his mind reaching back through decades of military study, legends, and war reports. A lich. The word echoed like thunder in the chamber of his memory.
His blood ran cold.
“A lich…” he repeated under his breath, the weight of it pressing down on him like a boulder. “There hasn’t been a lich seen in Tarmynia for thousands of years.” He looked past Alvinnué for a moment, as though trying to glimpse some answer in the darkness beyond the tent walls. “Why now?”
His eyes returned to the young scout, sharper than before. “You mentioned Netherwolves. How did you dispatch them?”
Alvinnué straightened slightly. “I used the Shadow Arts, sir. I was trained in them during my Rite of Proving.”
A brief flicker of surprise passed over Marus’s face, quickly replaced by a slow, approving nod. “Good,” he said, the word clipped but sincere. “A very good thing. We’ll need every edge we can get.”
Marus studied the young scout a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. “You’ve done more than we could have asked, Alvinnué. Thank you—sincerely.”
A flicker of emotion passed over Alvinnué’s face—something between pride and humility—but he merely bowed his head. “Sir.”
“Return to your unit,” Marus ordered, his voice steady but not unkind. “Get water. Rest if you can. You’ve earned it.”
Without another word, Alvinnué turned and exited the tent, the flap falling closed behind him with a quiet rustle. Marus was left alone once more, the weight of the scout’s report settling like lead in his chest.
He remained still for a moment, staring at the map without seeing it. The boy’s composure, his discipline, his clarity under pressure—rare traits in one so young. There was more to Alvinnué than met the eye. Marus made a mental note to keep watch on that one. Not just for his potential… but because they’d need survivors like him when the night fell.
He exhaled slowly, then raised his voice with calm authority. “Adjutant Cenric. Send word. I want all senior officers in this tent immediately—Marmo, Varno, Tomas, Yenn. We don’t have time to waste.”
From just outside the tent flap, Cenric’s voice answered crisply, “At once, General.”
Marus rested both hands on the table and stared down at the battle map, steeling himself. The next phase had begun.
The tent flap opened once more as Adjutant Cenric stepped inside, followed closely by four figures in cloaks and armor—Baroness Yenn, Count Marmo, Count Varno, and Duke Tomas.
General Marus straightened, his expression unreadable but his voice sharp with urgency. “We’ve received a full report from Advanced Scout Alvinnué.”
He pointed to the map on the table. “The Army of the Undead is advancing. Estimated arrival: less than two hours. Thousands in number. And worse—”
He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the map. “He saw a lich. Commanding them from the rear.”
The room fell into silence, tension thick as the commanders exchanged glances.
Baroness Yenn, the youngest among them with keen grey eyes and a sharp mind honed for battlefield calculations, stepped forward. “A lich… If that’s true, General, our current strategy may not hold. The undead are dangerous enough, but a lich could command dark magic beyond any prediction.”
Count Marmo, the aging mage commander with silver-trimmed robes and a deep furrow in his brow, gave a solemn nod. “We do not have sanctified spells prepared. Holy incantations are rare among our ranks. If this lich is truly awakened, dispelling or warding it will be difficult. And deadly.”
Count Varno, broad-shouldered and resolute in his plated armor, responded with a grunt and firm nod. “No matter what sorcery they bring, our lines will hold. The infantry is ready. We will meet them with steel.”
Duke Tomas, the oldest among them, with a dark beard streaked with white and a scar down one cheek, added, “And the cavalry rides with you, General. Wherever you lead, we follow.”
Marus gave a tight nod, then turned to Cenric. “What about the Volunteer Force?”
Cenric, ever composed, replied, “No word yet on when Aelric will arrive. But I trust him. He will make it to the field, one way or another.”
Marus looked across the faces of his commanders—young and old, hardened and brilliant—all awaiting his final word.
“We fight with what we have,” he said, firm and clear. “There’s no time for doubts. Get the Geldanos Army ready.”
The commanders saluted, turning toward the tent entrance with renewed purpose.
The battle for Zorim Field had begun.