Feren, Philip, and the engineer Oryst were already nearing their destination.

  They were moving along a long-abandoned road that still, somehow, endured. Once these lands had been under the control of the Southern Empire, and even now that legacy lingered in small details: fragments of stonework along the roadside, carefully leveled shoulders, broken yet recognizable boundary markers. Caravans, patrols, and engineering columns—this route had once been heavily used.

  But that was long ago.

  Now the road served only as a reminder of changes that had happened in another age. Grass pushed through the cracks, tree roots heaved the stones upward, and the silence here was different—denser, more watchful. Time had erased the road’s purpose, leaving only its shape behind.

  The party had left the city early in the morning and planned to return before nightfall. Still, Feren had insisted they bring extra supplies—cloaks, dry rations, a minimal kit for an overnight stay. He hadn’t explained himself at length. Reconnaissance rarely went according to plan, and everyone understood that.

  Especially here.

  They walked in single file, keeping their distance but without visible tension. Weapons were close at hand, yet not displayed. Their steps were steady, unhurried. A quiet conversation passed between them in fragments—no jokes, but no heavy silence either.

  The road led onward.

  — So, then, Philip spoke without taking his eyes off the road, — did you use this route often?

  — Hardly at all, — Oryst replied. — It used to be popular. Back when I was young.

  He gave a small shrug.

  — But in recent years, we reached civilization by a different road — through the Crossroads.

  The Crossroads was the common name for Mosun, the largest city in this region. It lay between Korosten and Khariv, with the River Leshana flowing straight through it. The Compact made heavy use of that river to move goods into and out of Ceredan, so Mosun lived at a faster pace than the rest of these lands.

  Oryst finished his answer and then suddenly stopped.

  — Here, — he said after a short pause. — This is where we leave the road. To the right.

  Feren leaned forward in his saddle, peering in the indicated direction.

  — But the road goes left. What’s over there?

  Oryst didn’t even turn around.

  — The Betrayed.

  He raised a hand and pointed upward.

  — Ride up the hill, and you’ll see.

  Without another word, Feren urged his horse forward and climbed the slope. At the top, he reined in.

  Before him lay the remains of the White Hold — the fortress of the angels. Once its walls had gleamed with pale stone; now they crumbled and cracked under their own weight. The towers stood crooked, torn open by breaches, yet the fa?ade still held — stubbornly, as if refusing to admit defeat.

  …to admit defeat.

  Even in ruin, this place still remembers its former greatness.

  — Let’s go, — Oryst called from below. — We’re close now. No point wasting time.

  Feren cast one last glance at the fortress, then turned his horse around.

  The group reformed and moved on, leaving behind a road that led into the past and ruins that no longer protected anyone.

  A few hours later, they entered rolling terrain.

  To the right stretched a mountain ridge. Beyond it, hidden behind stone backs, lay the mines — cut deep into the earth, old, dangerous, yet still alive. Ahead rose one hill after another, uneven, like frozen waves. To the left, in the distance, yawned a dark chasm — the Maw of the Universe. It didn’t draw the eye at first, but once you noticed it, your gaze seemed to fall inward, pulled down.

  The grass here had grown tall. The ground was rocky, hard beneath the horses’ hooves. Trees became denser and lower, their canopies intertwining, casting a shadow even in daylight.

  And the farther they went, the darker the soil became.

  Not merely damp-dark — but as if burned from within.

  Oryst was the first to break the silence.

  — We can climb that hill, — he said, pointing ahead, — and from there we’ll see the Black Forest.

  He paused.

  — Beyond that, I’m not going.

  Feren didn’t argue. He only gave a short nod.

  They dismounted, tied the horses to a tree, and began the climb. The hill was steep and rocky, sharp, as if deliberately placed there — like a boundary separating one part of the land from another.

  The ascent was hard. Stones crumbled under their hands, dirt slid into their boots. By the end, they were almost crawling, clinging to roots and narrow ledges.

  At last, they reached the top.

  Philip was the first to pull himself up. He immediately took a solid position — lying flat against the stone — and looked ahead.

  The expression on his face changed almost instantly.

  Curiosity vanished.

  Tension took its place.

  — What is that?.. — Philip whispered. — Is that… some kind of city?

  Feren surged forward, almost sliding the last few meters.

  — What is it? — he breathed. — What’s there?..

  He looked ahead — and froze.

  — That’s impossible…

  Orist reached the top last. He lay down beside them in silence, breathing hard, and looked down as well.

  Beyond the hill lay the impossible.

  To the left — the Maw. A dense fog rose from the abyss, spreading outward and stretching to the horizon, hiding its depth as if refusing to let the mind even imagine what lay below.

  In the center — a dark, endless forest. A solid black mass, without gaps, without an edge.

  To the right — the mountains.

  And between all of it — an army.

  Not a detachment.

  Not a force.

  An army.

  There were thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. An endless camp spilling across the plain. Livestock. Supply columns. Temporary barracks. Storehouses packed with provisions. Mountains of weapons. Forges worked in the open air. Several siege towers already stood assembled, with trebuchets nearby — more engines still under construction.

  And a road.

  Wide. New. Fresh.

  It was being actively laid around the mountain ridge.

  From the very side where the three of them were now lying.

  Right there.

  The camp’s population was a motley mix. Soldiers of different heights, different builds, different armor. Some looked like regular troops. Some like mercenaries. Some didn’t fit any familiar category at all.

  But they were too far away to make out the details.

  — That’s… — Philip swallowed. — That’s a legion.

  He spoke quietly, but his voice trembled.

  — They could take the entire continent.

  Orist didn’t argue.

  — We have to go back, — he said. — Warn them. Let your king gather every force he has.

  Feren didn’t look away.

  — Wait, — he said at last. — We need to remember everything.

  He carefully shifted back a little.

  — And sketch it. Gather all the information we can.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He pulled a small notebook from his pack, opened it, took out a pen and ink.

  — Watch, — he said, no longer looking at them. — And make sure we aren’t seen.

  He dipped the pen quickly.

  — I’ll need about an hour.

  Philip and Orist obeyed in silence. They spread out slightly, taking new positions for a better view.

  And below them, between the forest and the abyss, the army continued its preparations.

  Unaware that it was already being watched.

  The next morning, at dawn, the scouts were breaking down their temporary camp.

  Documenting the enemy had taken more time than they expected. Because of that, the group hadn’t made it back to Korosten before dusk and had been forced to spend the night nearby — without fire, without noise, in the way only those who truly don’t want to be found know how to do.

  Now everything was done. Notes secured. Gear packed.

  They were already moving toward the horses, tied a short distance away from the campsite, when they froze.

  Two figures stood by the horses.

  Two soldiers from the enemy army.

  They weren’t hiding. They weren’t even trying to. Just standing there calmly, confidently, as if they had always been part of the landscape. And that alone was enough to understand one thing: the scouts had been discovered.

  The only question was how much time remained before the rest came for them.

  The group stopped.

  A decision had to be made immediately.

  — “Who are they?” Philip whispered, never taking his eyes off the figures by the horses.

  Feren studied them longer, more carefully.

  — “Looks like Vishaps,” he replied just as quietly.

  The Vishaps were humanoid, roughly human-sized, but calling them human would have been a stretch. Their skin was coarse and dense. Their faces elongated, stripped of any soft features. Natural armor covered their legs and forearms. Their arms themselves looked more like tentacles — flexible, powerful, built not for precision, but for gripping and breaking.

  They came from the far north of the continent, beyond the frozen ridge — from cold, damp lands where the sun barely warmed the ground and life had never been easy.

  A few years ago, the summer had been unusually warm. The ice along the ridge receded, and several mountain passes opened — narrow, dangerous, but passable. That was when the two races first met.

  Within weeks, where there had once been silence, war erupted.

  For centuries, the Vishaps had used humans solely as slaves in their territories. They never considered it cruelty — merely the natural order of things. And they were genuinely shocked when they encountered people who were not only more intelligent than expected, but capable of resistance.

  Before the passes froze again and became impassable, the Ceredanians managed to free many of the slaves and bring them south. Tens of thousands now lived on Compact lands, trying to start new lives.

  But when the ridge sealed shut, not only were the freed slaves left behind.

  Hundreds of Vishap soldiers couldn’t return home either.

  They vanished.

  Hid where no one thought to look.

  The Black Forest became one of those places.

  And now two of them stood by the horses belonging to Feren, Philip, and Orist — silent, patient.

  Waiting.

  — “What do we do?” Orist whispered.

  Feren didn’t hesitate.

  — “I’ll handle it. Philip, cover me if needed.”

  Philip was already slipping his bow off his shoulder.

  At the same moment, Feren drew his sword and lunged forward.

  The Vishaps didn’t have time to react. At the last instant, they shouted something — sharp, broken phrases, clearly directed at Feren — but he was already too close.

  A strike.

  Another.

  Both Vishaps went down heavily, hitting the ground with dull thuds. Their armor saved them from deep wounds — the blades slid along the natural plating, leaving only dents and cracks. They lay there, staring up at Feren with wide, unblinking eyes.

  And they didn’t reach for their weapons.

  Instead, they raised their hands and began speaking rapidly, pleading, begging not to be killed.

  Feren made a short gesture.

  Silence.

  The Vishaps complied immediately.

  No shouting.

  No alarm.

  The scouts didn’t waste a second. They vaulted onto their horses and spurred them forward, racing toward Korosten.

  The Vishaps remained on the ground, silently watching them disappear.

  The alarm came later.

  As the group neared the abandoned road leading from the White Hold, others appeared on one of the hills.

  They were Vishaps too.

  But not like the first two.

  These were larger. Heavier. Wrapped in spiked armor stained with dark red blotches. Their faces were hidden behind masks. On their belts and saddles hung trophies — enemy blades, fragments of armor, bones. Predators.

  They rode shaggy beasts resembling bison — massive, tireless creatures built for long pursuits.

  One of them raised a hand.

  A signal.

  From neighboring hills, more riders emerged at once.

  More. And more.

  A chase.

  — “Faster!” Feren shouted.

  Feren, Philip, and Orist drove their horses hard. Being taken alive by an enemy like this meant only one thing — a slow death.

  Or worse.

  Hooves thundered against the rocky ground. The road narrowed, the horses slipped, but they didn’t stop.

  Behind them — the bellow of beasts and the rumble of heavy riders.

  Ahead — only the road.

  And no guarantee that it led to salvation.

  South of Korosten

  At the same time, Rianes stood with his officers, observing the construction of Korosten’s defensive lines.

  They had decided to build several layers of defense. The first would lie beyond the river, hidden within a narrow but dense strip of forest. The idea was simple and proven: force the enemy into combat without understanding where the trap truly began.

  The trees here grew in a strange formation — like a horseshoe embracing an open stretch of field. The curve of that horseshoe pointed toward the mines, the direction from which, by all estimates, the main strike was most likely to come.

  Rianes stood at the very center of this forested arc. He carefully examined the sections already prepared: positions meant to slow cavalry, concealed obstacles, and narrow passages where an advancing force would lose speed and formation. Everything here was meant to work not through brute strength, but through the shape of the land itself.

  Meanwhile, other officers planned additional barriers along the edges of the “horseshoe” — the places where the enemy might try to bypass the defenses or break through with sheer mass.

  Rianes stepped out into the open field on the side facing the mines.

  He needed to see everything through the enemy’s eyes. To understand whether a hypothetical attacker would notice the fortifications hidden within the forest. Whether the terrain betrayed them. Whether shadows gave them away. Whether the intent could be read before the first contact.

  He took several dozen steps forward.

  And that was when he heard the pounding of hooves.

  Not one.

  Several.

  A steady, fast rhythm — nothing like the sound of work patrols.

  Rianes froze.

  Feren’s unit was fleeing.

  Behind them, a dozen enemies thundered in pursuit. Hooves struck the ground dully, the roar of shaggy beasts blending with the shouts of riders. Feren was the first to spot his own — the silhouettes of mercenaries inside the forest — and he veered sharply toward the left flank of the thicket.

  Some of the pursuers followed him.

  The others stopped on the hill before the forest.

  They saw the mercenaries within the trees and chose not to advance. Charging into dense woodland was dangerous even for them.

  But one figure remained alone in the middle of the field.

  Rianes.

  He stood fully exposed, without armor, dressed in work clothes. At his side — only a short knife. No shield. No spear. His comrades were far away, beyond the trees.

  The commander of the Vishaps and two of his mounted officers looked at him.

  The officers did not hesitate.

  They drew their spears and immediately spurred their mounts toward him.

  Rianes was completely defenseless.

  In the middle of an open field.

  Without real weapons.

  Without support.

  He turned and ran for the forest.

  It was the only hope.

  The riders closed the distance quickly. Spears were leveled. The bison-beasts roared as they gathered speed.

  Only a few meters remained between them — the hunt for the pack leader was coming to an end.

  The Vishap commander watched calmly as his officers closed in on their prey.

  And at that exact moment, Rianes jumped.

  The ground beneath the riders collapsed.

  Beneath the thin layer of turf, sharpened wooden stakes had been prepared in advance. The bison-beasts crashed into them at full speed. The stakes punched through their chests and bellies. The animals howled and collapsed, thrashing in their death spasms.

  The riders couldn’t keep their balance.

  The sudden stop hurled them forward. They flew several meters, tumbled through the mud, and rolled across the ground — shooting past Rianes.

  Rianes spun instantly.

  He rushed the first one before the rider could recover and drove the knife in. Short. Precise. He took the man’s weapon before the body had even finished twitching.

  The second officer managed to get back on his feet.

  He threw aside his spear and drew a short sword, preparing for a duel. Rianes stood opposite him, now holding the enemy’s weapon. A few steps toward each other.

  And then Rianes suddenly hurled the knife.

  The blade struck straight into the officer’s chest.

  He didn’t even have time to understand what had happened. Rianes was already there, finishing him with the sword, leaving no chance at all.

  Then he walked over to the bison-beasts.

  They were still suffering, impaled on the wooden stakes, breathing heavily, twitching. Rianes put both of them down quickly, without emotion.

  When he straightened up, the field was quiet again.

  And the Vishap commander was watching from the hill.

  For the first time, he did not move.

  He still had eight fighters with him. They were already preparing to attack in the next wave — slowly, confidently, knowing they held the numerical advantage.

  And at that exact moment, an arrow flew.

  It struck the commander’s bison. The beast roared, lurched, and nearly threw its rider. The commander stayed mounted only at the last second, clinging to the harness.

  The arrow had come from the forest.

  Syra stepped out from the shadows between the trees. It was her shot that broke the attack. Behind her, others emerged — several more fighters, armed and ready.

  The Vishaps assessed the situation quickly.

  They were fewer now.

  And the mercenaries were more numerous than expected.

  Without shouting, without heroics, they turned and withdrew — first at a walk, then faster, vanishing among the hills and trees, back into the forest where it could shield them again.

  The field emptied as suddenly as it had filled.

  Rianes walked slowly to the edge of the forest, where Feren was waiting.

  He didn’t need to ask what had just happened.

  What mattered was what they had seen beyond this place, and why the enemy had appeared here now.