The gates of Rosenburg were chaos incarnate.
Kael pushed through a sea of desperate humanity—farmers clutching bundled possessions, mothers carrying crying children, old men leaning on walking sticks. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and livestock. Somewhere nearby, a goat bleated in protest as its owner tried to drag it through the crowd.
Refugees from at least three different villages, by the look of it. All fleeing south. All converging on the one city that might offer protection.
And the guards have no idea what's coming.
A handful of soldiers in Rosenburg livery stood at the gate, trying to maintain order. Their chainmail was polished, their weapons sharp—but their eyes held the bored irritation of men dealing with a nuisance, not a crisis.
"Form a line! One at a time! No pushing!"
"Please, sir, my daughter is sick—"
"Everyone's got a sob story. Back of the line!"
Kael didn't have time for this.
He shouldered his way to the front, ignoring the angry shouts behind him. A guard with a pike stepped into his path, eyes narrowing at the mud-caked boots and torn militia uniform.
"Hey! Another one from Sharl? Get in line like everyone else!"
A second guard leaned against the wall, picking at his fingernails with a small knife. "Let me guess—the sky is falling, the dead are walking, we're all gonna die?" He snorted. "Heard it five times today already. Find a spot in the refugee camp and wait your turn."
Kael's eye twitched.
This is why Rosenburg fell. Not because the walls were weak. Because the people inside them had forgotten what danger looked like.
He kept his voice level. "The information I'm carrying could save every life in this city. Including yours. Now let me through, or explain to your captain why you turned away the only person who knows what's actually happening out there."
The pike-guard's face darkened. "Listen here, you little—"
"What's all this noise?"
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. Deep. Commanding. The kind of voice that expected obedience and usually got it.
Both guards snapped to attention so fast Kael heard their spines crack. The one who'd been picking his nails fumbled his knife, nearly slicing his own finger in his haste to look professional.
A horse emerged from the gate. A warhorse, Kael noted—not some nobleman's parade mount, but a proper destrier with scars on its flanks and murder in its eyes.
The rider matched the horse.
Mid-forties. Square jaw dusted with gray stubble. A thick cigar clamped between his teeth, smoke curling up past eyes that had seen too much and forgotten none of it. His posture was parade-ground perfect even in the saddle—spine straight, shoulders back, chin level.
A silver lion badge gleamed on his chest. Beneath his uniform, Kael knew, was a Silver Star—the kingdom's highest military honor.
Hank Corrot.
Guard Captain of Rosenburg. Veteran of the First Mandragora War. Future founder of the Red Lion mercenary company.
And in the original timeline, a man who'd watched his city burn and his daughter die because he'd trusted fifteen years of peace more than his own instincts.
Not this time.
Kael met those sharp eyes without flinching. "Guard Captain Corrot. I'm Kael, acting militia captain of Sharl Town. I have urgent intelligence that requires your immediate attention."
Hank's gaze swept over him. Taking in the blood—some dried, some fresh. The mud. The battered sword. The militia badge that shouldn't belong to someone so young.
And the cloth-wrapped bundle at his hip. Heavy. Skull-shaped.
"Acting captain?" Hank's voice was gravel and smoke. "What happened to Captain Marsh?"
"Dead. Along with everyone else who didn't run fast enough." Kael's hand moved to the bundle. "I have proof. And information you need to hear. Now. Not in an hour. Not after you've finished your patrol. Now."
The guards shifted uncomfortably. Nobody talked to Captain Corrot like that.
But Hank didn't look offended. If anything, a flicker of interest crossed his weathered face.
"Bold words from a village militiaman." He took a long drag on his cigar, studying Kael through the smoke. "Most men who've seen real combat don't demand meetings. They find a corner and shake."
"I'm not most men."
A beat of silence.
Then Hank swung down from his horse in one fluid motion—the dismount of a career cavalry officer. He handed the reins to the nearest guard without looking.
"Show me."
Kael unwrapped the Bone Warden's skull.
The effect was immediate. One of the guards stumbled backward, his face going white. The other made a strangled sound that might have been a prayer.
"Mother's mercy—"
"A Bone Warden." Hank's voice was flat, but his eyes had sharpened. "You killed this?"
"Solo. About two hours ago, in Sharl Town."
"Impossible. Those things take a full squad to bring down."
"A full squad of average soldiers, yes." Kael met his gaze. "I'm not average."
Hank studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the skull. Turned it over in his hands. Examined the sword marks, the shattered eye socket, the precise damage patterns.
"Clean kills," he murmured. "Targeted strikes to structural weak points. This wasn't luck."
"No. It wasn't."
Hank handed the skull back. His expression had changed—the dismissive skepticism replaced by something harder. More focused.
"What else?"
Kael reached into his pack and produced the Corpse Mage's staff. The broken phylactery. The chain-wrapped skull marking.
"I intercepted a scouting party on the road. Twenty-three skeletons led by a Corpse Mage. Killed them all." He pointed to the marking. "Look at this."
Hank leaned in, frowning. "I don't recognize it."
"You wouldn't. It's new." Kael's voice dropped. "This is the insignia of the Imperial Select. The Lich Emperor's personal forces. Troops that answer directly to the throne of the Shivan Empire."
"Never heard of them."
"Because they're not supposed to exist yet." Kael held Hank's gaze. "Captain, this marking means the Emperor is consolidating power. The lich lords aren't independent warlords anymore—they're being brought under central command. And that means what's happening here isn't a random border raid."
He let the words hang in the air.
"It's a coordinated military operation."
Hank's jaw tightened around his cigar. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then: "Follow me."
The guard station was a small stone building just inside the gate. Hank slammed the door behind them, cutting off the noise of the crowd.
A map of the region dominated one wall. Hank strode to it, jabbing a finger at Sharl Town.
"The raids started three days ago. Sharl, Millbrook, Parten—all hit within hours of each other. I've received reports of skeleton activity across the entire southern frontier." He turned to face Kael. "I was about to lead a patrol to assess the situation. Expand our reconnaissance range. Figure out what we're dealing with."
Kael shook his head. "Don't."
"Excuse me?"
"If you send patrols out now, you're sending them to die." Kael stepped up to the map, tracing the attack patterns with his finger. "Look at the timing. The coordination. Three towns hit simultaneously, all along the same latitude. That's not raiding—that's a screening action. They're clearing the approaches."
Hank's eyes narrowed. "Approaches to what?"
Kael's finger stopped on Rosenburg.
"Here."
Silence.
"The Corpse Mage scouts, the Bone Warden in a backwater town, the Imperial Select markings—it all points to one thing." Kael turned to face Hank directly. "This isn't a raid, Captain. This is an invasion. And Rosenburg is the target."
Hank's hand moved to his sword hilt. Not threatening—reflexive. The gesture of a soldier processing information that changed everything.
"Invasion." The word came out rough. "Boy, do you understand what you're saying? The Shivan Empire hasn't launched a major offensive in fifteen years. Not since the Treaty of Thornwall. They don't have the unity, the resources—"
"They do now." Kael cut him off. "The Imperial Select proves it. The Emperor is done letting his lords squabble over scraps. He's building a real army. A unified force." He gestured at the map. "And he's testing it here. On us. On a border city that nobody in the capital cares about."
Hank stared at him.
The cigar had gone out. He didn't seem to notice.
"If you're right..." His voice was barely above a whisper. "If you're right, then we're looking at war."
"Yes."
"And you expect me to believe all this based on the word of a village militiaman I've never met?"
Kael held his gaze. "I expect you to believe the evidence. The Bone Warden skull. The Corpse Mage staff. The Imperial Select marking. And your own instincts, Captain—because I think you've felt it too. Something's wrong. Something's different about these attacks."
Hank said nothing.
But his hand hadn't left his sword.
"You're a veteran of the First Mandragora War," Kael continued. "You've seen what the undead can do when they're organized. When they have real leadership." He stepped closer. "Trust that experience. Trust what your gut is telling you."
The silence stretched.
Then Hank pulled the cigar from his mouth and crushed it against the table.
"Alright." His voice was iron. "Let's say I believe you. What's the timeline?"
"Two days. Maybe less."
"Force composition?"
"Based on what I observed? At least two thousand skeleton infantry. Fifty or more Corpse Mages in a dedicated caster formation." Kael paused. "And that's just what I saw. The main force could be larger."
Hank's face went gray.
Two thousand infantry. Fifty casters. Against a garrison of maybe three hundred guards and a city full of civilians.
"Gods above."
"Captain." Kael's voice cut through his shock. "We have two days. That's enough time to prepare. To fortify. To send for reinforcements. But only if we start now."
Hank looked at him—really looked, for the first time.
"Who are you?" The question was quiet. "Really. No village militiaman knows this much about undead tactics. No farm boy reads troop movements like a general."
Kael had prepared for this question.
"My father served in the Southern Legion. Wyvern Corps. He died at the Battle of Thornwall." The lie came easily—wrapped in just enough truth to sell it. "I was too young to remember his face. But I remember my mother crying over his medals. I remember swearing that I'd learn everything about the enemy that killed him."
He let old anger—real anger, accumulated over twenty years of war—bleed into his voice.
"Every legion. Every commander. Every tactic. I've studied them all. Because someday, I knew I'd have a chance to make them pay."
Hank studied him for a long moment.
Then something shifted in his expression. The suspicion didn't disappear—but it softened. Became something closer to recognition.
"Thornwall." The word came out heavy. "I was there. Lost half my company in the first hour."
"Then you know what's coming. And you know we can't afford to be caught off guard."
Hank closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the doubt was gone.
"Come with me. We're going to the barracks."
He grabbed his helmet from the table and strode toward the door.
"And pray to whatever gods you believe in that we're not already too late."