"No wind. No fire. No word. Then I choose the next move. If the gods are watching, they can blink when it's done." —Connach of Clann Durnach, Moorfire Warband Leader
The sun barely broke through the mist that hung over Caerwynd. Moorfire had taken Tor Rhydd before dawn. Hours had passed. No signal came. No messenger. No horn. Nothing from Garnath Hold.
Connach stood at the edge of the parapet. His fingers gripped the hilt of his falcata. Cold. Damp. He looked to Eorlas and Tuarin.
Connach's voice was low and direct.
"Scout Garnath Hold. I need a clear visual on the banner. If it still flies Dazhum colors, then something went wrong with the Blacktide assault. And if it's already fallen, I need to know why no signal was sent to us. We've held this ground for hours without word. I can't plan the next move blind. Bring back confirmation. I need it to decide what happens next."
Tuarin gave a sharp nod. Eorlas adjusted his harness and checked the bindings on his war bow. Both pulled on their helms, sloped and close-fitting blacksteel lined with wool against the cold. Rain tapped softly against the metal as they moved.
They kept their kits light. Backsatchels fastened. Javelins secured. Falcatas sheathed at the hip. Their battle-green tartan cloaks hung damp against their shoulders, muted under the gray light. Scout moccasins gripped the moss and slick stone underfoot, near silent.
Connach looked them over once.
"Eorlas, hold position just outside visual range. If you spot Dazhum movement, break contact and return. Tuarin, you're faster. Get eyes on the flag. If it still flies Dazhum colors, do not delay. Run back and report. I need confirmation before I commit to the next move."
No further words were needed.
They moved out at once, slipping into the wet mist, cloaks vanishing between brush and boulder as the wind rolled in from the north.
Connach walked back into the inner yard. Moorfire rested in shifts. Armor nearby. Packs light. Eyes always alert. Trained to wait. But not like this.
Tuarin reached the ridgeline first. He crouched low behind a wind-warped rowan tree, breath steady despite the climb. Rain slid down his brow, tracing cold lines beneath his helm. Below, the stone silhouette of Garnath Hold loomed through the mist.
He waited for Eorlas. Moments later, the older scout settled beside him, quiet as fog, eyes scanning the terrain with seasoned calm.
Neither spoke. They both saw it.
The banner still hung from the main spire. Sodden. Faded. But unmistakably Dazhum.
It stirred weakly in the wind. Red and black, stitched with that jagged sigil of conquest. No movement on the walls. No torches lit. But the gate stood open, yawning dark between the towers.
Tuarin's jaw tightened. He shifted his weight, ready to run.
Eorlas touched his shoulder once, firm and brief.
Tuarin nodded. He stepped back from the ridge, kept low through the grass, then vanished into the fog, moving fast. Moss and heather swallowed the sound of his passage. The tartan cloak clung damp to his back as he slipped between stones and stunted trees, the cold air biting his lungs.
Behind him, Eorlas remained in place, eyes fixed on the hold.
Watching and waiting.
Ready to move the moment the Dazhum stirred.
Tuarin returned by midday. Boots wet, breath steady.
"The Dazhum banner still flies," Tuarin said, catching his breath. "No patrols. No movement on the walls."
Connach didn't speak. He unrolled the map and laid it flat on a crate. Ten outposts. Ten warbands. If Garnath Hold was still occupied, everything they'd done last night could collapse.
He scanned the unit.
"We send five to the nearest outposts. Confirm status. If they're clear, those warbands move to the ridge, one mile west of Garnath. Quiet. No signals. If an outpost is still held or damaged, return. We adjust."
Sira, Urekh, Firaen, Aoan, and Tuarin were chosen. They moved fast. No wasted steps. The rest of Moorfire waited in silence.
Connach reviewed the approach again and again. Terrain. Timings. Scenarios. If Blacktide command had failed across the region, they'd be left holding nothing.
By late afternoon, the scouts returned one by one.
Each brought the same news. All outposts secured. Minor injuries. No losses. All warbands were ready to move.
Connach stood.
"We go."
They left Tor Rhydd in silence. No torches. No songs. Moorfire led the route, then one by one the other warbands arrived. Ten in total. One hundred warriors.
They gathered behind the ridge. One mile from Garnath Hold. No fires. Low voices only. The units formed a perimeter.
Connach laid the map across his shield.
"We take the hold if it's open. If not, we retreat. Fight from the hills and wait for support."
As night fell, they moved. Down the slope. Toward the hold.
The gate was open. No guards. No movement.
Connach gave the advance signal, a flat palm cutting forward through the mist. The column moved in silence, boots muffled by damp moss and stone. As they neared the outer wall, he raised a clenched fist. The warband halted immediately. Weapons lowered slightly, not in rest but in readiness.
Connach scanned the courtyard beyond. Still no sign of patrols. No banners on the inner tower. Just the distant sound of water running through the drainage channels and the steady groan of wind slipping between stone.
He turned to the warriors behind him.
"I'll go ahead," he said quietly. "If it's a trap, I'll draw it. You fall back to the hills and hold. Buy time until support arrives."
Several voices murmured protest, but none stepped forward louder than Eorlas.
"We go with you. If it's a trap, we'll hold long enough for the others to retreat."
Connach gave a nod, brief and firm.
"Then we enter tight. No gaps. If it turns, we hold the gate."
He and Eorlas moved first, weapons drawn. Behind them, Moorfire advanced in tight formation, shields ready, eyes sharp.
They stepped into Garnath Hold.
A campfire burned in the courtyard. No bodies. No blood. Just silence and firelight.
A voice broke the quiet.
"Took you long enough."
Warden Bruga stepped forward. His armor scorched and scarred, embersteel plates catching the fire's glow.
Wen Tu adjusted his staff. "Told you they'd act on their own."
Bruga gave a dry chuckle. "We need people who can decide in the field. This war is getting broader. We're spread thin. Borders expanding faster than command can anchor them. We need people who can think."
Bruga looked back to Connach. "Report to Nyzekh. He's waiting for you."
He turned to a nearby Blacktide skarnulf. "Raise the Chasm Flag. Let the others come in. Tell the warmages to burn the Dazhum bodies. They're starting to rot and stink."
The skarnulf saluted and moved without delay.
Connach wiped the mist from his helm as the warbands began filing through the gates.
"Get them inside. Let them eat and rest. They've marched long enough for one day. No orders until they've had a hot meal and time to breathe."
The courtyard slowly came to life. Shields were stacked, helms unfastened, firepits lit. The cold silence of Garnath Hold gave way to quiet conversation and the sound of iron boots on stone.
Connach turned to his second. "Signal the Stormtide navy and marines. The raid's done. Now it's their turn. They'll secure the outpost and hold the island. Have them check the prisoner mines. If any Dazhum slipped past us, I want them found."
The banner rose above the wall. Dark on mist.
In the fortress hall, Nyzekh stood before a war table. His fingers hovered above a hand-drawn map, inked with shifting lines and counters.
Connach paused at the threshold. The tall figure beside the war table stood bathed in lantern shadow, silver hair tied back, dark skin like scorched iron, Nullmantle Carapace etched in alien sigils.
The Virak'tai.
Memory flickered. A night of rain and moorfire on Threnar Isle. The firelight. The first meeting. The stranger's calm voice from the dark.
A silent exchange of mutual recognition passed between them.
Nyzekh looked up and met Connach's eyes. No words. Just a long, still look between soldiers who had once shared fire and wine in the wild.
Then Connach stepped forward and gave his report.
"Garnath Hold secured. Ten warbands in position. All outposts are in our control."
Nyzekh didn't look up immediately.
"You can question me now. This will be the last. From here on, you follow me without hesitation."
He raised his eyes. Cold. Steady.
"Let me hear your argument. I will answer. But only once. Then we move forward as Stormguard."
Connach gave a nod, steady and measured.
"We walked in blind. And if it had been an ambush, we might not have walked out."
Nyzekh studied him.
"What if there had been a greater enemy? What if we, the entire cohort, had been defeated? What would you have done after walking into an ambush?"
Connach answered without pause.
"Survive. Regroup. Adapt. Shift command to surviving warbands. Secure terrain, cut losses, reinforce with what remains. Fall back if needed, but never without drawing blood. Never leave a banner behind."
Nyzekh's expression did not change.
"That is why you're still here. You didn't wait for command. You followed the principle."
Connach gave a sharp nod.
"Orders or not, we complete the task."
Nyzekh turned the map slightly.
"Then you're ready. From here onward, no hesitation. No second chances."
He rolled the map once, tucked it beneath his arm.
"Prepare the warbands. We sail before first light."
As Connach turned to leave, the doors opened.
A figure stepped in, clad in dusk-grey silk armor, trimmed in muted bronze, the emblem of the Stormguard sewn onto the shoulder.
One of the Qorjin-Ke. Elite Scout detachment. Silent observers.
Nyzekh gave a nod. "Report."
The scout bowed. "All nine warbands responded within regulation. Maintained discipline. Coordinated movement. Awaited signal. No deviation."
Nyzekh's voice was flat. "And the tenth?"
"Moorfire. Moved without instruction. Secured fallback position. Sent forward scouts. Held Tor Rhydd and then rallied the others west of Garnath. Took initiative. Stayed within tactical range. No oversights. No delays."
The scout turned slightly toward Connach. "The commander remained calm. No visible strain. Coordinated relief without support. Twenty additional Dazhum marines arrived too late, but Moorfire had already engaged and eliminated a second wave near the outer wall."
Nyzekh nodded once. "Then the trial is complete. Return to your captain."
The scout bowed and vanished as quickly as he arrived.
Far from Caerwynd, the Stormguard stronghold on Threnar Isle loomed above black cliffs.
There, Altan stood within the upper chamber, reading a sealed dispatch freshly delivered by a Qorjin-Ke messenger bird.
The raid on the islands was successful. The test complete. Nyzekh's detailed report noted every maneuver, every delay, every decision made in the absence of command.
Altan exhaled through his nose. He handed the message to Chaghan.
"Have them return. The Blacktide needs rest and resupply."
Altan exhaled through his nose, gaze steady on the horizon.
He spoke to a fellow Stormguard officer nearby.
"When the Blacktide and the warbands return, have them rested and resupplied. Train them. Make them ready for the next mission."
He turned back to the map.
"And send word to the Warmage Legion and Stormguard Hospitalier. Deploy the Threnari war-druids and war-healers—the ones who endured the full rites, who bled and stood through the trials. Assign them to the warbands. Only the best. Only those bound by oath and fire to the Stormguard creed."
The war was growing. And so too must the blades to meet it.
When the Blacktide left, regular marines from the Eastern Realm arrived to secure Caerwynd Isle. It would be repurposed as a new prison for captured Dazhum fighters. The current prisoners were freed one by one. Their records were read aloud. Those guilty of murder or rape remained in chains. But those convicted of lesser crimes were pardoned.
The mines beneath the island would be reopened, no longer just for punishment but as part of the Eastern Realm's expanding war effort. The ore pulled from those dark tunnels would feed the forges of the Stormguard and serve as a new supply line.
Another war loomed. And every blade, every oath, every shadow in motion would matter.