Stormguard Stronghold – Threnar Isle, Auxiliary Grounds
Drizzle glazed the stone paths. Mist hung low over the outer fields as Moorfire assembled under the shadow of the outer rampart. Their breath steamed in the chill. Connach stood still as the cliff face behind him, falcata sheathed, eyes locked on the formation ahead.
The air shifted as two figures approached from the barracks. A Stormguard officer in full Blacktide plate marched beside them, his voice clipped, tone commanding.
"New support for your unit: a wardruid and a warhealer, trained in druidic spellwork and battlefield healing, assigned under the new directive of Commander Altan of the Stormguard."
He handed Connach their dossiers without another word
Naelin of Clann Thorne gave a nod, calm and sharp-eyed. Vaegor of Clann Aerdan remained silent, gaze scanning terrain as though speaking to the ground.
Connach sized them both. "Can you two keep up with the warband?"
Vaegor answered without pause, voice steady. "Yes, war-leader."
Naelin smirked. "Yes. War-healer, even if the unit's cocks fall in battle, I'll reattach it mid-fight."
The unit cracked up, some choking on their breath. Even Urekh cracked a grin.
Connach stayed straight-faced.
The unit cracked up, some choking on their breath. Even Urekh cracked a grin.
Connach stayed straight-faced.
"You'll do." He nodded once, then added,
"Join the unit right now."
He said nothing more. Connach needed to see how they moved in formation, how their presence shifted the rhythm of the group. It was the first time he had fought beside wardruids and warhealers.
In the old wars of the moors, druids never stood on the battle line. They were priests, keepers of omens, singers of victories, guardians of sacred groves. Healers remained in the crannógs or hillforts, tending to the broken after the blood had dried.
This was new. But so was the war.
He faced the field.
"Four across. Two deep. Shields forward."
Then added, with clear command,
"Naelin, Vaegor, rear of second rank."
There was no ceremony to it. Only purpose. Only war.
Feet shifted. The warband snapped into formation, four wide, two ranks deep. Falcatas rested against hips. Tidecut spears angled forward. Javelins slung. The rear rank held Naelin and Vaegor, Stormguard-assigned warhealer and wardruid. Each carried no spear but held authority heavier than iron.
"Scouts on the flanks," Connach added. "Protect the druid and healer. You fail there, we lose half the line when the air starts burning."
Eorlas and Tuarin split left and right. Urekh trailed behind them, composite bow already strung, eyes flicking to the tree line and mock horizon. Every movement rehearsed but tense, like a string pulled taut.
"Form holds. Pressure west."
Bradan stepped forward to simulate the push. Aoan counter-braced. Shields locked. Sira ducked under a rising spear, repositioned, and adjusted. Gelnor grunted, shifting weight into his left foot. A test. A press. Then they reset into position.
Naelin murmured something under her breath. Her hands glowed faintly as she walked behind the formation, checking shoulders, watching posture, noting where fatigue crept in. Vaegor knelt, fingers pressed to the ground, listening to the leyline hum beneath the soil.
"Movement on the flank," Eorlas called out.
"Druid stays protected," Connach barked. "Bow team, suppress."
Urekh loosed two arrows in quick succession, silent, swift. Firaen followed with a signal. Green flag up. Enemy position cleared.
The formation adjusted, ranks rotating as if turning on a single axis. Vaegor rose, hands weaving sigils mid-air. Energy coiled around him in silent warning.
"Hold position," Connach ordered. "War magic fires on my mark. No earlier."
Vaegor gave a single nod, still chanting. Even the weather seemed to hush around him.
Ten minutes passed. Then the whistle blew.
Connach raised his fist. "Drill complete. Reset for next sequence. Breach and clear formation coming up."
The next drill was brutal.
"Close quarters. Stack formation. On me," Connach ordered.
Bradan, Gelnor, Maelin, and Sira shifted instantly. Shields up. Falcatas drawn.
They formed a four-stack breach column. Compact. Lockstep.
Before they moved, Vaegor stepped forward.
"Warleader. I can sense movement through the leylines beneath the ground. Weight, pressure, position. If someone's inside, I'll know."
Connach studied him. Silent.
Then he turned to the unit. "Maelin. Hide inside. Your choice where."
Maelin gave a quick nod and slipped into the first structure.
Vaegor knelt, placing both hands to the ground. His eyes closed. A breath. Then another.
"Back left corner. He's crouched low, near the wall."
Connach looked at Bradan. "Check it."
Bradan advanced, cleared the imaginary doorway, then pointed.
"He's exactly where Vaegor said."
A few raised brows. Sira muttered, "That's… something."
Connach straightened. His voice was calm but clear.
"That skill can save lives. You bring it to every breach. Understood?"
Vaegor nodded.
Connach turned to the rest.
"Anyone with abilities like that, don't keep it to yourself. Any detail can win a fight or get us home. No secrets in the shield wall."
He raised his fist. "Go. Simulate the breach."
They moved. First breach again. Bradan shielded the frame. Gelnor stormed in. Sira swept low. Clear.
"Second team. Rear breach. Same drill."
Tuarin's shadow slid along the far side. "Clear."
Eorlas stepped in. "Flank three's still wide. Gelnor drifted past arc line."
"Noted," Connach said. "Reset and run it again."
Later, under the fading light, the drills shifted.
"Long-range patrol. Dusk prep," Connach called.
"Tuarin. You're on point. Ten klick out. Simulate cut-off. Return silent."
"Copy. Pulling loadouts," Tuarin said. "Maelin on rear."
"Eorlas, Naelin, pair off. You drop, she drags you. If she drops, you cover."
"Understood," Eorlas replied.
Connach turned to the rest. "We'll cycle every pair through autonomous drills. Command wants unit-level mission readiness. You'll get one-day assignments. No support. No signals."
There were no cheers or complaints. The silence that followed was hardened by understanding. Orders were orders. Mission was mission.
Naelin moved among them, checking vitals, inspecting gear tightness, replacing sigil straps with deft hands. Vaegor silently marked weather readings with etched runes in the dirt.
The warband reset again.
This was not a ritual for show. It was preparation for something much worse. The forge before the fire. The final conditioning before war.
And they were almost ready to burn.
It was weekend. The Stormguard allowed time for rest. Most soldiers returned home to their clans, bound by oath not to reveal Stormguard secrets. Combat manuals, cultivation methods, and missions were forbidden to speak of.
Moorfire unit remained at the barracks. Some gathered in the evening at the barracks tavern. They drank local island wine, strong, red, bitter-sweet. Laughs echoed. Faces flushed.
They remained in the auxiliary barracks, scattered between cots and the worn hearth-slab, while some drifted to the attached tavern built beneath the mess hall.
There, the sound of laughter and cups clinking echoed against blackstone walls.
The wine was local, fermented from sunberry, sea herbs, and wild grape, sharp and tinged with the coastal island's brine. Stronger than they'd expected. Firaen was the first to go tipsy, and Urekh soon followed, cheeks red, words slurred in amusement.
They welcomed Naelin and Vaegor into the fold.
"Stormguard's not just sharpening blades anymore," Bradan muttered. "They're building units like puzzle pieces."
"Druids and healers ain't auxiliary now," Aoan added. "We're full-stack."
Naelin sipped slow. "We arrived late 'cause there's training. Special rites. For those aligned to healing or the ley."
Vaegor nodded. "Not everyone makes it past the rites. Those who do get recruited differently."
Firaen raised her cup. "To puzzle pieces."
Tuarin raised his back. "To stitched cocks and summoned storms."
The table burst with laughter again.
The tavern doors opened.
Five new figures entered. Wardens.
Nyzekh and his sister Yezari the Virak'tai. Dark elves of the north. Their movements silent and walked the hunter's grace.
With them: Wen Tu the eastern monk, Bruga of the Skarnulf, a northborn giant, followed by Ryoku, the swordsworn.
Wen Tu and Bruga, despite their origins, bantered like old comrades.
"I told you this whisky was worth the march," Tu said.
Even Nyzekh held a flask, a small, bone-carved vessel tucked into his satchel. Triple-distilled Threnari whisky. A burn that made men silent.
The warbands stood when the wardens entered.
Bruga raised a hand. "At ease. We also want to enjoy the evening and whisky."
The tavern, wide and fire-lit, rang with laughter and scent of spiced meat. It was served by regular marines bound by oath to the Stormguard creed. On weekends, they cooked and sometimes formed a band. Tonight, they played.
The off-duty Stormguards entered with helmets off. They clasped arms in a way known only to the brotherhood.
When Nyzekh approached the table, all fell silent.
"Mind if we join?" he asked.
Tuarin, usually the mouth of the group, said nothing.
Bruga raised a brow. "You gone mute?"
Eorlas, ever dry, replied, "First time he met Warden Nyzekh, he was shitting outside the camp."
The table burst again, wine sloshing.
"Even Nyzekh said it smelled awful," Tu added.
Nyzekh didn't smile, but his silence stretched less cold. The Virak'tai relaxed with whisky. Yezari even smiled.
The wardens sat. Cups raised. Plates shared. Names exchanged.
The night deepened with warmth.
And in that firelit tavern, beneath Threnar's stars, bonds were formed that would be tested in the wars yet to come.
As the night deepened and the fire's glow softened to embers, the tavern door opened once more.
A Stormguard officer stepped in, armor still damp with the island's mist. His voice cut through the noise like a drawn blade.
"The commander summons all wardens to the war hall."
Bruga exhaled through his nose, pushed back his chair, and downed the last of his whisky in a single swallow. "It was nice drinking with you all."
The wardens stood without complaint. Cups were emptied. Weapons buckled to belts. They filed out one by one into the waiting dark.
As if on cue, the remaining Stormguard in the tavern also drained their cups and rose, the music tapering off behind them.
Connach watched them go, then stood as well.
"I guess we need to end the evening," he said. "Maybe there's a new mission tomorrow."
No one argued.
They had trained. They had bonded. And something was coming. They could feel it.