The Thorned Rose army stretched across the hills like a serpent. Its temporary encampment bustled with activity: campfires crackled, warriors tended to their gear, smithies hammered away, hunters returned with game strung over their shoulders, and supply carriages rumbled along muddy paths. Beasts of burden grunted under their loads as soldiers moved in shifting rotations—some patrolling the nearby western forest's edges, others hunting or raiding for resources, while the rest fortified the camp and outposts or maintained the border zone along the northern coasts.

  Each soldier carried their wealth on their back—ornate armor polished to a sheen, weapons adorned with trophies, and gear fitted to their unique specialties. They were an irregular force, but what they lacked in cohesion, they made up for in specialization and quality. A Thorned Rose warrior was not a soldier of the line; they were individual or small-team combatants, putting everything on decisive strikes.

  Shade and Jorrik arrived at the outskirts of the camp under the shadow of dusk. The fires cast long, flickering shadows across the churned earth, and the din of the camp drowned out their approach. Shade moved like a ghost, his dark cloak blending seamlessly into the encampment’s shifting light. Jorrik, however, strode with deliberate weight, his heavy war axe strapped across his back, his presence a tangible force that turned heads.

  Jorrik’s rank as a former captain allowed them to pass unchallenged through the outer defenses. The camp bustled around them, a tapestry of Thorned Rose life in motion—hunters unloading their kills, raiders inspecting captured spoils, and officers poring over maps beneath swaying lanterns.

  At the encampment's heart was a loosely organized command hub—a circle of tents where the regimental captain and brigade officers convened to coordinate logistics. Lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, casting long, shifting shadows over the maps and ledgers sprawled across crude wooden tables.

  Shade stopped just outside the main tent, letting the noise wash over him for a moment before stepping forward into the circle of light. The commanders within turned to face him, their expressions a mix of curiosity, suspicion, and outright hostility.

  “Commanders of the Thorned Rose,” Shade said, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the din like a blade. “I come bearing a message—not of peace, but of necessity.”

  The nearest commanders turned, their expressions skeptical.

  “And who are you to speak of necessity?” asked a burly woman in blackened plate armor, her horned helm tucked under her arm. Her gaze was sharp, her tone sharper. “We don’t take orders from anyone, especially not some shadow demon.”

  Shade stepped closer, the firelight illuminating his unsettlingly smooth, shadowy features. “You don’t know me,” he admitted, his tone calm. “But you know him.”

  He gestured to Jorrik, who stepped forward, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the churned-up earth.

  “Jorrik the Cleaver,” he said, his voice firm. “Veteran of the Siege of Caer Toranos, raider of the Broken Coast, and former captain of the Thorned Rose.” He swept his gaze over the gathered commanders, his expression challenging. “Former indeed. I bled beside many of you—fought with you, feasted with you, and tasted the bitterness of defeat in the old war. And now, I’m here to tell you the truth—the truth you already know, brothers and sisters.”

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  The commanders exchanged uneasy glances but did not interrupt.

  Shade pressed forward. “The Thorned Rose is a force of unparalleled potential. Your warriors are unmatched, your tactics adaptable, your presence a bulwark against the encroaching guilds of the western and eastern zones. But what has the Unholy Alliance given you in return for your loyalty?”

  A grizzled commander with a scarred cheek and a fur-lined cloak snorted. “Gold,” he said bluntly, crossing his arms. “Stable contracts. Coin to pay our smiths and feed our men.”

  Shade tilted his head, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Does it?” he asked, his tone cutting. “Does it truly pay? How much of that gold makes it to your warriors after the Alliance’s cutbacks? After the merchants gouge you for supplies you secured for them? You’ve been reduced to guards and mercenaries—protectors of wealth that isn’t yours. When was your last great conquest? When did the Thorned Rose last carve its name into the annals of history? The Syndicate has vetoed any real action for years, lest it disturb their luxury trading. You’ve been reduced—from conquerors to petty guard dogs.”

  The commander’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing.

  Jorrik stepped in, his voice fiery. “You carry your entire being on your backs—armor forged of your own wage, weapons that tell the stories of your victories. But what good is your strength if it’s squandered on someone else’s ambitions? The Syndicate grows fat and lazy off your sweat from the comfort of their offices, while you fight and bleed their battles.”

  The tension in the air thickened as soldiers nearby began to gather, drawn by the commotion.

  A wiry spearman with a predatory smile—likely a raiding captain—spoke up. “And what would you have us do? Abandon our contracts? Turn on the Alliance and risk losing everything we’ve built?”

  Shade’s crimson eyes glowed faintly as he locked onto him. “Not abandon—reclaim,” he said. “The Alliance uses you because they fear what you could become without them. They see the Thorned Rose as a servant to be kept submissive, not a partner. But the Dark Host offers you something greater—a chance for a great conquest. A chance to reshape not just the Darklands, but all the lands of this world. Instead of serving those who parasitically hoard riches, claim your destiny.”

  The gathered soldiers murmured, their voices a mix of intrigue and skepticism.

  Another commander, a burly orc with a greatsword strapped to his back, growled, “Bold words. But words won’t feed my warriors or arm my raiders.”

  Jorrik’s laughter rang out, deep and genuine. “Words don’t win battles,” he agreed. “Actions do. And the Dark Host doesn’t deal in promises—it deals in results.” He jabbed a finger northward. “The Velvet Syndicate sits on enough wealth to arm your regiments for years. Join us, and you’ll see that wealth redistributed—not hoarded by merchants, but reforged into blades, shields, and victories.”

  Shade stepped forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Tomorrow, some of the Syndicate’s northern caravans will fall. Stand with us, and you’ll be paid upfront—and share in the spoils. Stand against us, and you’ll be swept aside by the coming tide of the Dark Host.”

  The commanders glanced at each other, their expressions unreadable.

  The woman in blackened plate armor stepped forward, her voice measured. “You ask much of us, stranger, and seem to know more than should be possible. But you’ve given us little reason to trust you.”

  Shade smiled, a shadowy thing, more felt than seen. “Trust isn’t given,” he said. “It’s earned. Watch what happens tomorrow, leave whatever escorts you have send to the syndicate. See the Dark Host in action against your own and the syndicate. Then decide where your wishes—and your loyalties—lie.”

  With that, Shade and Jorrik turned and walked away, leaving the commanders to debate their next move. The gathered soldiers watched them go, their whispers rising like a growing storm.