The Lys Alliance camp lay shrouded in a night as thick as ink. The earlier noise had faded, leaving only the crackle of bonfires and the muffled snores drifting from the distant slave quarters.
Sellswords rotated their shifts, exhaustion etched into their faces. Soldiers from the Maiden's Men and the Ragged Standard sat huddled around several fires, talking in low voices as their vigilance slowly waned.
A scar-faced soldier from the Maiden's Men licked his cracked lips, greed glinting in his eyes.
"Once this battle's over… I'm heading to those damned Lys estates to have some fun. They say Lys women have skin white and smooth as peeled eggs. I'll pick out the juiciest ones and take a few back."
A sellsword from the Ragged Standard snorted, patting the money pouch on his belt.
"Idiot. If you're gonna take something, take gold—gold that jingles. With that, you can buy any woman you want. Lys's white wine alone could drown you. Just imagine that taste…"
He smacked his lips dreamily.
Just then, a group of yawning sellswords from the Windblown approached, led by a man with messy flaxen hair carrying several wineskins.
"Hey, lads, shift change!" he called out, tossing the skins toward the men by the fire.
"Here," said Straw Dick, "a little something to perk you up."
"Dick, you sly fox, where'd you get Lys wine?"
The scar-faced man took a wineskin, sniffed it, and laughed as he cursed.
Straw Dick grinned slyly and lowered his voice. "Where else? Borrowed a little interest from a nearby plantation—just an advance payment."
He winked, and envy flickered across the others' faces as they silently cursed themselves for not thinking of it first.
They each tilted their heads back and took a few gulps. The sour bite of cheap wine slid down their throats, leaving behind a fleeting warmth.
"Alright, alright, just a few sips to take the edge off," Dick urged. "Now get to sleep. Rest up—you'll need your strength to chop off some Easterners' heads in a few days. Leave the night to us Windblown brothers."
Grumbling, the night watch reluctantly set down their wineskins, staggering to their feet and shuffling off toward their tents.
Soon after, every sentry post in the area—and several key nearby positions—was quietly replaced by men of the Windblown Company.
As the last figures vanished into the shadows, Dick's grin faded, replaced by an expression of cold tension. He exchanged a silent glance with the others, his hand tightening on the weapon at his waist.
The night grew utterly still. Even the insects had fallen silent.
Then—
Outside the palisade guarded by Dick and his men, from the dark green thickets veiled in mist, came the faint rustling of crushed leaves. Moments later, it was as though the darkness itself began to move. Figures emerged soundlessly from the shadows.
First came the Dragon Soul Guards. Their tall, imposing forms were encased in sleek, copper-red plate armor, and the Valyrian steel longswords in their hands gleamed with an icy menace. As they advanced, their heavy iron boots struck the ground with only muted thuds, drawing closer to the camp's edge.
Behind them surged Lo Quen's elite armored infantry, their iron plating grinding softly with every step. Countless eyes gleamed blood-red in the darkness, silently converging on the defenseless camp.
Dick's heart pounded so hard it felt ready to burst from his chest. Forcing down his fear, he rasped to the Windblown beside him,
"Listen up! Don't just stand there! Open the gates—lead them in, just like we planned."
The sellswords snapped out of their stupor, fumbling but moving quickly as they cleared the prearranged barricades and fences, opening several paths deep into the camp.
Dick drew a deep breath, pulled his scimitar free, and signaled toward the advancing copper tide before turning to lead a small team of Windblown into their own camp.
The mist thickened, swallowing the faint glow of the fires. Dick's grip tightened on his blade, his knuckles white. He could hear his own ragged breathing, and the men beside him were just as tense, their eyes darting between the fog and the shifting copper silhouettes.
The Tattered Prince's orders and the promise of gold drowned out the unease that came with betrayal. They were sellswords—men who lived and died for coin, nothing more.
Dick led a detachment of Dragon Soul Guards and Ironclad soldiers toward the tents of Magister Tregar, the slave officers, and the mercenary captains.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Dragon Soul Guards and Ironclad elite split into several units, striking hard at the encampments of the Maiden's Men, the Ragged Standard, and the Long Lances. Among them moved the Windblown, their blue-and-white cloaks the only mark of who they truly were.
"Attack!"
A command as deep as a beast's roar shattered the dead silence.
"Woo—!"
A piercing bugle blast ripped through the night sky—the signal from the Windblown.
In an instant, the silent camp erupted into chaos.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
Sharp shouts rang out from all directions, filled with the terror and disbelief of those roused from sleep.
The Dragon Soul Guards struck first. Copper-red armor crashed through makeshift tents as Valyrian steel swords traced icy arcs. The slave officers and sellsword captains inside didn't even have time to reach for their weapons before their throats were slit. Blood sprayed across the canvas walls, landing with dull, heavy splatters.
The screams were short and desperate, quickly drowned out by the growing uproar.
The Magister's tent was the next to fall, breached by several Dragon Soul Guards.
Magister Tregar Ormollen jolted upright from his simple silk-covered bed, his eyes bleary, his face still twisted with anger from being roused mid-dream.
"Who goes there?!"
His shout was cut short by the cold tip of a sword pressed against his chest.
In the chaotic glow filtering through the tent flaps, he caught sight of the copper-red breastplate and the emotionless eyes behind the visor.
"You—"
The word died on his lips as the blade thrust mercilessly into his heart.
Tregar's eyes widened in shock, filled with disbelief, resentment, and one last flicker of longing for the wealth of his estate before his body went limp and collapsed to the floor.
On the other side of the camp, the fighting was even bloodier.
The Dragon Soul Guards and Ironclad Elite troops stormed into the unsuspecting sellsword quarters. The Maiden's Men's camp descended into utter chaos. Many sellswords, roused by horns and battle cries, were half-dressed—or completely naked.
They grabbed whatever curved blades, axes, or spears they could find and charged aimlessly through the confusion like headless flies. Flames danced, shadows flickered, and the heavy fog made friend and foe impossible to tell apart.
"Slaughter them all!"
A Tyrosh officer roared as he swung his sword, cutting down a Maiden's Men sellsword who had just crawled out of his tent. The man managed only a muffled grunt before collapsing.
"The Easterner! And traitors from the Windblown Corps!"
Scarface spotted the blue-and-white cloak on Dick and his eyes went bloodshot with rage. Gripping his short sword, he charged at "Straw" Dick, who was hacking down one of his comrades.
"Traitor! I'll cut you down!"
Dick's face twisted into a snarl as he spun around to block. The two curved blades collided with a violent clang, sparks bursting between them.
Dick shoved the scarred man back and slashed at his ribs with a backhand swing. The scarred man stumbled aside, but a spear thrust from the flank pierced his abdomen. He let out a beast-like howl of agony.
In the Ragged Standard Company's camp, Captain Webber reacted faster than most. He was already in chainmail, swinging his battleaxe as he tried to rally his men. But the confusion of the night raid and the thick fog made orders impossible to carry out. His soldiers fought separately, scattered and surrounded.
Gylo's Long Lances tried to mount their horses, but the terrified animals reared and bolted through the cramped camp, trampling their own riders and men alike. In the chaos of the night raid, the heavy cavalry's advantage vanished completely.
Tattered Prince stood atop a small earthen ridge at the edge of the camp, watching coldly as the inferno raged below. Flames devoured the tents one by one. Thick smoke billowed upward, merging with the fog, spreading a sharp, acrid stench through the night air.
Screams, the clash of steel, dying groans, the shrill cries of horses, the crackle of burning wood—
Amid the chaos, the Windblown regained formation, coordinating with the attackers. They struck their former "allies" from the flanks and rear—especially the Maiden's Men.
Denzo D'han swung his longsword, the "Warrior Bard" now shouting the Windblown's battle cry as he led his brothers in cutting through enemy lines.
"For gold! For the Tattered Prince!"
The Windblown's shouts pierced the chaos, fierce and unrelenting.
The slave soldiers' camp collapsed completely. Panic spread like plague.
Already stripped of fighting spirit, they lost what little will to resist in the face of the sudden onslaught and the horror of friendly blades turned against them. Some dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, begging for mercy. Others ran blindly through the smoke, trampled underfoot or cut down as they fled.
More screamed as they bolted into the darkness beyond the camp, cursing their parents for not giving them two more legs to run on.
Lo Quen stood at the camp's edge, the firelight painting his copper-red armor as if it were drenched in blood. He gazed at the inferno he had set in motion, expressionless.
The night wind carried the stench of blood and burning flesh straight toward him.