Chapter 21
The march west did not feel heroic.
It felt organized.
Which, Rowan Valebright knew, was far more dangerous.
The road beyond Eastrun stretched wide and empty, banners snapping softly in the morning wind. Rows of soldiers moved with disciplined rhythm, boots crunching gravel in steady cadence. Supply wagons followed behind, flanked by adventurers from the Silver Ember Guild — veterans, misfits, and a few very brave newcomers pretending not to be terrified.
Rowan rode at the front.
Not because he needed to.
Because everyone expected him to.
He rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other loose at his side, posture relaxed enough to calm nerves. Inside, his mind cataloged distances, formations, terrain.
Westward hills. Broken stone. Old trade paths.
Too quiet.
Dorian rode up beside him, armor gleaming far more than necessary.
"You know," Dorian said casually, "this would be much more dramatic if there were ominous clouds."
Rowan glanced at the sky. "Give it time."
Dorian squinted. "I hate when you say that."
Behind them, someone dropped a crate. Another cursed loudly. A horse snorted.
Normal sounds.
Rowan held onto them.
They encountered the first sign of battle before noon.
The road dipped into a shallow ravine where the air smelled wrong — scorched metal, ash, something bitter beneath it.
The advance scouts halted abruptly.
Rowan raised a fist.
The army stopped.
Ahead, the ravine opened into a field of shattered stone.
And broken shields.
Not cracked.
Not sliced.
Crushed.
Rowan dismounted.
He knelt beside one, running a gloved thumb over the warped metal.
"...Malthros," he murmured.
Dorian frowned. "That a drinking buddy of yours?"
Rowan stood slowly.
"No," he said. "That's the one who breaks walls."
The ground trembled.
Lightly at first.
Then again — heavier.
Something moved at the far end of the ravine.
Soldiers raised weapons. Adventurers shifted stances.
Rowan stepped forward.
"Hold," he said calmly.
The tremor became a quake.
Stone split.
And then he emerged.
Malthros, Breaker of Shields, did not roar.
He did not announce himself.
He simply walked forward, each step cracking the earth beneath his massive frame.
He was enormous — broader than a siege tower, armor fused into his flesh like a second skeleton of blackened iron. His helm was faceless, save for a single glowing slit of dull red light.
In his hands: no blade.
Just fists.
Rowan felt the air change.
Not fear.
Pressure.
Dorian swallowed. "Right. That's... new."
Malthros stopped.
The glow in his helm fixed on Rowan.
And for the first time since the march began, Rowan felt something cold settle in his chest.
Recognition.
The general raised one hand.
And slammed it into the ground.
The shockwave ripped forward.
"BRACE!" Rowan shouted.
Too late for some.
Soldiers were thrown back. Shields shattered outright. The earth split like paper.
Dorian flew sideways, crashing into a wagon.
"...I am absolutely writing a complaint about this," he groaned.
Rowan surged forward.
The clash was not elegant.
It was violent.
Rowan met Malthros head-on, sword ringing against iron-flesh with a thunderous crack. The impact sent pain up his arm — more than it should have.
He adjusted instantly.
Stronger than expected.
Malthros swung.
Rowan blocked — barely — boots skidding through dirt.
The general didn't pursue.
Instead, he laughed.
A deep, grinding sound like stone dragged across stone.
"Adamant Shield," Malthros rumbled. "Still standing."
Rowan narrowed his eyes. "You know me."
"Your kind remembers legends," Malthros said. "Ours remembers walls."
He struck again.
Rowan countered — fast, precise — landing a blow that would have dropped a lesser foe.
Malthros staggered.
Then straightened.
Unaffected.
Rowan's jaw tightened.
Dorian scrambled to his feet nearby, rallying soldiers.
"Alright!" Dorian shouted. "Plan B! Which is— hit it harder and hope!"
Rowan almost smiled.
Almost.
The battle spread.
Adventurers engaged the general's vanguard — warped creatures of ash and iron — while Rowan held Malthros's attention, drawing him away from the main force.
Every blow landed.
Every blow mattered.
And still, the general did not fall.
Rowan ducked a crushing strike, countered with a shield bash that sent Malthros skidding back ten paces.
The earth cracked beneath him.
Malthros laughed again.
"You're slower," he said. "Still strong. But slower."
Rowan breathed evenly.
"Age does that," he replied. "It also teaches patience."
He changed tactics.
Stopped meeting force with force.
Started redirecting.
Using terrain.
Using timing.
Malthros roared — not in anger, but approval.
"Yes," the general said. "That's better."
Dorian, watching from behind a shattered boulder, muttered, "I do not like enemies who critique."
The horn sounded.
A controlled retreat.
Rowan disengaged, leaping back as the army pulled away in disciplined order.
Malthros did not pursue.
He simply watched.
"Run," he called after them. "Fortify. Prepare."
Rowan met his gaze.
"We will," he said.
Malthros tilted his head.
"Good," he replied. "I would hate to break you too easily."
And then he stepped back into the ravine.
Gone.
Silence followed.
Broken only by breathing.
Rowan stood still for a long moment.
Then he sheathed his sword.
Dorian limped up beside him.
"...So," Dorian said. "We're still doing the wedding, right?"
Rowan huffed a breath of laughter — tired, real.
"Yes," he said. "Absolutely."
Behind them, soldiers regrouped.
The war had begun.
And the wall had taken its first hit.
The fires came first.
Not the roaring infernos of victory or ruin—just the quiet, practical flames of a camp that knew it would still be here in the morning. Soldiers moved with measured exhaustion, armor half-removed, weapons leaned against rocks or tree stumps. Medics worked without panic. That, at least, was a small mercy.
Rowan stood at the edge of it all, watching the flicker of orange light reflect off steel and tired eyes.
They had held.
Not cleanly. Not easily. But the line had not broken.
He flexed his right hand, then his left. The motion was subtle, almost invisible beneath the gauntlets—but he felt it. A faint protest along his shoulder, a stiffness in his back that lingered longer than it used to.
Nothing debilitating.
Nothing he would admit aloud.
Still.
Dorian dropped down beside him with a groan that sounded deliberately louder than necessary.
"Well," he said, tugging his helmet off and tossing it to the ground, "on the bright side, no one died screaming in my immediate vicinity."
Rowan snorted despite himself. "Your standards continue to inspire."
"I aim to be a beacon in dark times," Dorian replied. He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the smoke-dimmed sky. "So. That was one of Draxis's generals."
"Yes."
A beat passed.
"...I liked him better when he was further away," Dorian added.
Rowan didn't answer immediately. His gaze had drifted past the camp, toward the dark stretch of land where Malthros had stood—unmoving, unshaken, as if the clash had been nothing more than a test.
Because it had been.
Rowan reached up and loosened the strap at his shoulder. The armor shifted with a faint scrape of metal.
Dorian noticed.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction. "You're adjusting."
Rowan's hand paused.
Then he nodded. "He reads strength," Rowan said quietly. "Measures it. Waits for it."
Dorian frowned. "That sounds... rude."
"It means charging him head-on won't work," Rowan continued. Not bitter. Not afraid. Just certain. "Not anymore."
Dorian studied him for a moment, then huffed a laugh. "Good. Because if your plan was to just hit him harder next time, I was going to fake my own death and go home."
Rowan allowed himself a small smile.
He turned slightly, pulling a folded scrap of cloth from inside his armor. Lila's ribbon—frayed at the edge now, stained with dust. He brushed his thumb over it once, grounding himself.
Go out there and survive, her voice echoed in his mind.
Then we'll talk about forever.
He exhaled slowly.
"I won't fight him the way I used to," Rowan said.
Dorian pushed himself to his feet, offering a hand. "Good. Because I like the version of you that comes back alive."
Rowan took it, standing. The camp continued around them—quiet, determined, breathing between storms.
Beyond the firelight, the enemy waited.
But for the first time that night, Rowan wasn't thinking about how hard he could strike.
He was thinking about how to win.