Mist covered the River Torin at dawn.
Cold.
Thick.
Unforgiving.
It hid both armies from each other.
Only the sound of drums and distant horns cut through the silence.
Aren stood on the muddy bank beside Prince Rowan.
Rows of spearmen stretched behind them.
Shields locked.
Faces pale.
Hands shaking.
"They will test us first," Aren said quietly.
"With scouts," Rowan replied.
"With blood," Aren answered.
Arrows came without warning.
Dark shapes slicing through fog.
Men screamed.
Fell.
The first dead of the battle.
Draven's skirmishers rushed the broken bridge.
Light armor.
Fast.
Fearless.
Valenreach archers answered.
The river filled with bodies.
Red spread through gray water.
Then the main force advanced.
Heavy infantry.
Steel walls.
Black banners.
Drums pounding like thunder.
They built floating platforms.
Thrown bridges.
Ropes across the current.
"They're crossing," Caelis shouted.
"Hold!" Rowan commanded.
Aren ran along the line.
"Close ranks!" he yelled.
"Lock shields!"
Men obeyed.
Trusted him.
That frightened him more than the enemy.
The first wave hit.
Spears met flesh.
Shields shattered.
Men drowned beneath armor.
Horses screamed.
Blood soaked the banks.
A Draven knight charged Aren.
A giant in black steel.
Aren barely blocked.
The impact threw him back.
Pain exploded in his shoulder.
The knight raised his sword.
Lysa's arrow struck his throat.
He fell.
Dead before he hit the ground.
"Focus!" Lysa shouted from the ridge.
"Don't die yet!"
Aren laughed breathlessly.
Then fought harder.
Hours passed.
Neither side broke.
Bodies piled.
Weapons dulled.
Voices vanished.
Only killing remained.
At sunset, horns sounded.
Draven withdrew.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
The river belonged to Valenreach.
For now.
Aren collapsed beside the water.
Hands trembling.
Clothes stiff with blood.
Rowan knelt beside him.
"You saved the line," the prince said.
Aren stared at the red current.
"No," he replied. "I just survived it."
But across the hills, Draven gathered again.
Stronger.
Angrier.
And the war was far from over.