# Chapter Three
The earthquake had barely finished shaking the camp when Arthur felt the familiar chill of recognition creep up his spine. The tremor wasn't natural—he'd felt its like before, during the darkest days of the Great War. The memory clawed at him: the ground splitting open, the sky turning blood-red, and the screams of ten thousand dying warriors echoing across the battlefield of Nethermoor.
*No,* he told himself, gripping the tent pole until his knuckles went white. *It can't be. Not again.*
But the wind knew better.
It whispered around him in patterns he hadn't felt in twenty years—urgent, desperate, carrying the scent of something ancient and hungry stirring to life. The air itself seemed to recoil from whatever had awakened in the depths of the earth.
"Commander!" A runner burst into his command tent, chest heaving. "The tremor—did you feel it? The whole camp's in panic!"
"Calm yourself," Arthur said, though his own heart hammered against his ribs. "Send word to all patrol leaders. Full recall, immediately. No one ventures beyond the perimeter without my express command."
"Yes, sir! But... Commander, what about the scouts you sent to the eastern ridge? Young Zane and—"
"I said all patrols," Arthur snapped, then caught himself. The runner's eyes had widened at his tone. "Forgive me. Yes, include them. Send a rider if necessary."
The runner saluted and rushed out, leaving Arthur alone with his fears. He moved to the tent's opening and surveyed his people—three hundred souls, all that remained of the proud Libran military caste. They moved through the camp with practiced efficiency, but he could see the tension in their shoulders, the way they glanced toward the distant mountains where the earthquake had originated.
*They're looking to me for answers I don't have,* he thought grimly. *Or answers I pray I'm wrong about.*
"Commander Arthur!"
The voice belonged to Thorne, one of his most trusted Watchers. The lean man approached at a run, his face grim with purpose. Behind him came two other Watchers, their expressions equally troubled.
"Report," Arthur commanded.
Thorne straightened, though sweat beaded his brow. "Sir, we've been monitoring the approaches as ordered. The earthquake... it's disrupted our normal sensing patterns, but we're picking up movement. Something large, maybe two miles southeast."
"Define 'large.'"
The Watcher closed his eyes, his mark beginning to glow faintly as he extended his senses. Arthur watched as Thorne raised his arms, fingers splayed, and sent out a pulse of compressed air—invisible to the naked eye but felt by every Libran in the vicinity. The technique was an old one, developed during the siege of Kaeleth: send out waves of air and read the disturbances when they returned. Like ripples on a pond, but deadly accurate.
Thorne's eyes snapped open. "Definitely Orcs, sir. At least forty, maybe more. Heavy armor, siege equipment. They're moving in formation toward the old fort."
Arthur's jaw tightened. The abandoned fort controlled the only viable approach to their camp through the mountain passes. If the Orcs took it...
"There's something else, Commander," another Watcher added hesitantly. "The air patterns... they're wrong around that group. Like something's with them that doesn't belong."
Before Arthur could respond, another commotion erupted at the camp's edge. Shouts arose, and Arthur saw his people backing away from something. His hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt as a figure stumbled into the firelight.
It was Gareth, one of the outer sentries. His clothes were torn, his face streaked with dirt and blood. But it was his eyes that made Arthur's blood run cold—wide, staring, filled with a terror that spoke of things no man should see.
"Commander!" Gareth gasped, falling to his knees. "The eastern ridge... there's something wrong there. Something in the old battlefield. I heard... I heard screaming that wasn't human."
Arthur knelt beside the man, gripping his shoulders. "Easy, soldier. What did you see?"
"I didn't see it, sir. I heard it. And I felt it." Gareth's voice dropped to a whisper. "In my mark, Commander. It burned like fire, like it was trying to warn me to run."
A chill ran through the assembled crowd. Every Libran present touched their own mark unconsciously, remembering the pain they'd all felt during the earthquake.
Arthur stood slowly, his mind racing. The boys should have reported back an hour ago. The earthquake had come from the eastern mountains. And now this—reports of something unnatural stirring in the very area he'd sent Zane and Kaelion to scout.
"Sound the general assembly," he commanded, his voice carrying across the camp. "All company leaders, all senior staff. Now."
---
Within minutes, the command tent was packed with Arthur's most trusted officers. The air was thick with tension and barely contained fear. At the front of the group stood Reuze—tall, graceful, with the kind of quiet confidence that made men follow him into hell. His pale eyes missed nothing as he surveyed the assembly.
Beside him, in stark contrast, stood his older brother Kane. Where Reuze was calm and observant, Kane was a barely contained storm. His dark hair was wild from running his hands through it, and his scarred knuckles spoke of a man who settled arguments with his fists. The brothers were Arthur's finest warriors, raised from orphans into the deadliest fighters in the camp.
"Gentlemen," Arthur began, his voice carrying the authority of twenty years' command. "We face a crisis. Our scouts have failed to report. The Orcs are moving against us. And something has awakened that I had hoped never to see again."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Arthur raised his hand for silence.
"Reuze," he continued, turning to the younger brother. "I need you and your company to find our missing scouts. They were investigating the eastern ridge near the old battlefield."
The tent erupted.
"You want to send our best fighters on a rescue mission?" Kane stepped forward, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Arthur, with respect, those boys are probably dead. The eastern ridge is a death trap, and you know it."
"Kane—" Reuze began quietly, but his brother cut him off.
"No, Reuze. I won't stand silent while Arthur wastes our strength on a hopeless cause." Kane's eyes blazed as he faced his commander. "Those boys mean nothing to this army. Half the camp thinks the younger one is cursed—marked by the same cowardice that made his bloodline abandon us when we needed them most."
The silence that followed was deafening. Arthur could hear the wind outside, whistling through the tent ropes like a mournful song.
"You forget yourself, soldier," Arthur said quietly. His voice carried a dangerous edge that made several men step back. "Those 'boys' are Librans. They carry the mark of our people, and they bleed the same blood that flows in your veins."
"Blood?" Kane laughed bitterly. "What good is blood when it comes from traitors? When the kingdom fell, when the king vanished and left us to slavery, what comfort was our precious bloodline then?"
Arthur moved closer to Kane, and despite the younger man's impressive size, everyone present felt the shift in power dynamics. There was something about Arthur in moments like this—a presence that reminded them all why he had once been called the Wind Walker, why enemy armies had learned to fear the very sound of his name.
"You think I don't know pain, Kane? You think I don't carry the weight of every man and woman we've lost?" Arthur's voice was soft now, but it carried to every corner of the tent. "You think I don't lie awake at night, wondering what I could have done differently? What orders I should have given, what sacrifices I should have made?"
Kane's angry expression faltered slightly.
"But I'll tell you what I learned in twenty years of war, soldier. We are not defined by what others do to us. We are defined by what we choose to do in response." Arthur's voice began to rise, filling the tent with the kind of conviction that had once rallied broken armies. "The kingdom fell. The king vanished. We were scattered, enslaved, broken. And yet here we stand."
He turned to address the entire assembly, his presence seeming to fill the space.
"Look around you, brothers. Look at what we've built from nothing. Three hundred souls, the last free Librans in this world. We carry the knowledge of our ancestors, the power of the ancient winds, the memory of what we once were. And more than that—we carry the promise of what we can become again."
The tent was utterly silent now, every man hanging on Arthur's words.
"You speak of bloodlines and cowardice? I'll tell you about bloodlines." Arthur's mark began to glow faintly, and the air in the tent stirred. "Every man here carries the blood of kings. Every woman in this camp is descended from the wind-riders who once soared above the clouds. We are the children of those who tamed the very sky, who built cities that floated on currents of air, who commanded the respect of twelve kingdoms."
The wind outside grew stronger, responding to Arthur's emotion.
"The boy you dismiss so easily may indeed carry royal blood. But so do you, Kane. So does your brother. So does every soul in this camp. We are all heirs to a fallen kingdom, and we are all responsible for raising it again."
Arthur's voice dropped back to normal volume, but the intensity remained.
"The Orcs move against us. Something stirs in the eastern mountains that reminds me of our darkest hours. Our scouts are missing, possibly dead. This is not the time for division. This is the time to remember who we are."
He looked directly at Kane. "You were eight years old when I found you and your brother, half-dead in the ruins of Silverpeak. I raised you not as my soldiers, but as my sons. I trained you, bled with you, watched you grow into men who would have made the ancient wind-lords proud. And now I'm asking you—not ordering you, asking you—to trust me one more time."
Kane's jaw worked silently for a long moment. Finally, he bowed his head slightly. "Forgive me, Arthur. The earthquake, the reports... it has us all on edge. What do you need?"
Arthur clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "I need you to take your company and secure the old fort. The Orcs will try to use it as a staging ground for their assault. Hold it at all costs."
Kane nodded curtly. "And Reuze?"
Arthur turned to the quieter brother. "Find our scouts. Bring them home if they live. If they don't..." He paused, his expression darkening. "Find out what killed them. And if it's what I think it might be, get back here immediately. Don't try to fight it."
Reuze inclined his head with characteristic calm. "Understood. How many men do you want me to take?"
"A full company. Your best trackers, your fastest runners. In and out, Reuze. This isn't a search and destroy mission."
"What about you, Commander?" Thorne asked. "If both companies are deployed, that leaves less than two hundred to defend the main camp."
Arthur's lips curved in a slight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll be handling the Orc main force personally. Hector and I have some old debts to settle."
As if summoned by his name, Hector appeared at the tent entrance. The grizzled veteran's scarred face split in a grin that was equal parts anticipation and nostalgia.
"Did someone mention settling debts?" Hector asked, his weathered hand resting on his sword hilt. "Because I've been keeping a very long list."
Arthur's smile became genuine for the first time that evening. "Old friend, I hope you remember how to fly. We're going to remind these Orcs why they used to fear the sky itself."
The assembly began to disperse, men moving with renewed purpose. But as they filed out, Arthur caught Reuze's arm.
"A word," he said quietly.
When they were alone, Arthur's expression grew serious. "The boy, Zane. There's more to him than you know. More than anyone knows, except possibly the king himself."
Reuze's pale eyes studied his commander's face. "What are you saying, Arthur?"
"I'm saying that if you find him alive, protect him with your life. The future of our people may depend on it."
"And if I find him dead?"
Arthur was quiet for a long moment, listening to the wind outside. Finally, he spoke:
"Then we'd better pray that whatever killed him doesn't have a taste for royal blood."
---
An hour later, Arthur stood at the edge of the camp, watching Kane's company march toward the fort in the distance. Their movements were precise, disciplined—the product of years of training and bitter experience. To the east, Reuze's smaller force was already disappearing into the mountain passes, moving with the fluid grace that marked the finest Libran warriors.
Hector approached from behind, leading two magnificent creatures that made Arthur's breath catch despite having seen them countless times.
The first was a standard war horse—a massive destrier bred for battle, its coat black as midnight. But the second...
The second was legend made flesh.
Zephyr the Wind Dancer stood seventeen hands high, her coat white as fresh snow and gleaming like moonlight on water. Her wings, currently folded against her sides, spanned nearly twenty feet when extended. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds, intelligent and wild and utterly fearless. She was one of perhaps a dozen Pegasi left in the world, and the only one that had ever accepted Arthur as her rider.
The great mare's head turned toward him as he approached, and he felt the familiar thrill of recognition pass between them. They had flown together through the siege of Kaeleth, soared above the battle of Thornfield, raced the very wind itself across skies that no longer knew the touch of Libran wings.
"Hello, beautiful," Arthur murmured, stroking her neck. Zephyr nickered softly, and the sound carried notes of wind chimes and distant thunder.
"She's restless," Hector observed. "Feels the wrongness in the air, same as we do."
Arthur nodded, checking the elaborate saddle that would allow him to fight effectively while airborne. "The bond between Pegasus and rider was always more than just companionship. She senses things I can't. And right now, she's telling me that whatever's coming, it's bigger than just an Orc raiding party."
"Any word from the search party?"
"Too soon. But I have a feeling..." Arthur trailed off, his mark beginning to ache with familiar pain. "I have a feeling this night is going to test everything we've fought to build here."
Hector swung up onto his destrier with the easy grace of a man who'd spent more years in the saddle than on foot. "Like old times, then."
Arthur vaulted onto Zephyr's back, and the Pegasus immediately spread her wings, catching the mountain winds. "Like old times. But with higher stakes."
As they prepared to launch into the night sky, Arthur looked back at the camp one final time. Three hundred souls, looking to him for leadership, for protection, for hope. The last free Librans in a world that had tried to break them.
*Whatever's coming,* he thought, *we'll face it as we always have. Together. And if we fall, we'll fall as Librans—with the wind at our backs and the sky as our witness.*
Zephyr leaped skyward, her wings catching the air with a sound like thunder. Below them, the camp grew smaller, but Arthur's resolve only grew stronger.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead, two boys were depending on him. Somewhere beyond that, an ancient enemy might be stirring to life.
But Arthur had faced impossible odds before. And he had something his enemies would never understand—the loyalty of free men, the power of the ancient winds, and the unbreakable will of a people who refused to surrender.
The war for the future of Libra was about to begin.