The morning of the Jericho campaign had been bright and windless, the kind of day that seemed to promise a swift victory. Fiora rode at the head of her column — five hundred of Alpheria's finest, their armor polished, their banners snapping in the air.
She had fought Jericho before and beaten them with half this number. This, she thought, would be no different.
But Grandthrest had already set its trap.
Hidden among her soldiers were one hundred imposters — trained killers wearing the colors of Alpheria. They marched in perfect step, ate at the same campfires, and answered to the same roll call. They spoke little, but in an army, silence is often taken for discipline. Fiora did not see the knife they carried for her until it was too late.
The first sign came when she gave the order to advance. Instead of charging, a section of her line turned on their comrades. Confusion tore through the formation — friends and brothers-at-arms striking each other down in the dust.
Fiora shouted for order, but her voice was drowned in the clash of steel. Before she could rally them, Jericho's army struck.
Two thousand soldiers poured over the ridge, their war drums shaking the ground. It was chaos — Alpheria's forces fighting each other while the enemy closed in.
Fiora reacted as she always did: with speed. She rallied her loyal troops, carving through the imposters with brutal efficiency. By the time the last of the infiltrators fell, only thirty-six of her soldiers still stood.
The Jericho host still numbered in the thousands.
Fiora's instincts told her the truth: the battle was lost. But Alpheria could not lose all. She ordered her remaining soldiers to retreat, to carry word back to her father. They refused, swearing to fight at her side to the end.
So she lied to them.
Fiora led them in a feint, pretending to push toward an opening in Jericho's lines — then turned and cut a path for their escape. By the time they realized her intent, she had already sealed herself in the tide of enemy steel.
The thirty-six fled, cursing her name through their tears.
Alone, Fiora fought with a fury that seemed to break the world. Her blade sang, cutting down man after man. One hundred. Two hundred. Five hundred. Blood turned the earth to mud beneath her boots. When the dust cleared, over thirteen hundred Jericho soldiers lay dead, and four hundred more bled from wounds she had given them.
But rage has limits, and exhaustion came for her like a tide. She was still standing when the soldier from Grandthrest approached — a giant of a man in blackened armor, moving with calm certainty. She raised her sword, but her arms felt heavy as stone.
One strike was all it took.
When Jericho's commanders searched the battlefield after, Fiora's body was gone. Taken by one of Grandthrest soldiers as way to solidify their victory, as a trophy .
For the first time in twenty-five years, Alpheria had lost a war.