Between Baha Balm and Stanki lay a dense jungle. To reach Stanki quickly, we had to push through it.

Marching through such thick woods was perilous, but skirting around would add weeks to our journey. Speed was of the essence—I chose the jungle path.

The tangled foliage scattered our ten-thousand-strong column. A prickle of unease crept up my spine.

"Barzak, order the troops to quicken pace. We break through this jungle ASAP."

"Got it." Barzak relayed my command via messengers.

He’d almost bellowed it himself—simple, brutal, guaranteed to reach every ear—but thought better of it. Shouting would only give away our position.

We entered the jungle at dawn, timing I’d carefully planned. Night marches through such terrain were suicide.

Forced marching drained our combat strength, but that was a luxury we couldn’t afford. Ambushes here would be deadly.

"Barzak, double the scouts and pathfinders. Mentu, stay sharp on perimeter watch."

"Aye!"

Both snapped to action.

Meanwhile, Herates had pinpointed our exact location through relentless scouting.

Position confirmed. Now came the wait.

Absolute stillness. Stanki’s entire army seemed to melt into the jungle itself.

A massive force dispersed through the woods, yet leaving no trace of discord.

Even the Empire’s veteran legions rarely achieved such discipline.

Herates never slackened military drills. Haunted by foresight, he forged an army of iron discipline—every order obeyed, every movement precise.

He knew Stanki’s peace wouldn’t last. Nor did he believe the Duke’s decadent reign would endure.

Only Master Carl’s steadfast presence held Herates back from defecting to a stronger lord before Stanki’s inevitable fall.

Carl had risked death time and again to counsel the Duke. His advice, always heeded, revived the territory. That flicker of hope made Herates stay.

Where there was hope, he would fight.

He hadn’t joined the military for coin. He fought for home. Stanki was his soil.

Now, Herates lay prone on the damp earth, waiting.

I’d deployed every scout I had along our route—yet found nothing. My tension eased.

A fatal mistake. Lowered guard meant death in war.

Herates knew this ambush was pivotal. His scouts moved like shadows: only one dispatched at timed intervals.

By their return times, he gauged our distance. If one or two failed to return? Proof we’d spotted the trap. Even then, the sequence of their silence would reveal our position, guiding his next move.

Close? Herates would vanish without hesitation. Distant? He’d harass us—raids, phantom attacks—to fray our nerves until exhaustion crippled us before battle even began.

But all scouts returned unharmed. Herates’s confidence swelled. This strike would succeed.

Baha Balm’s army was now less than a kilometer away.

At the critical moment, Herates clamped down on every impulse. No room for error.

The jungle held its breath. Only the drone of hidden insects and the rustle-crunch of our march broke the silence.

Noon’s fierce sun beat down, powerless against the dense canopy.

Only stubborn shafts of light pierced the gloom, spilling warmth onto the shadowed earth.

One such beam stabbed my eyes. I squinted.

That unease returned—a cold thread coiling in my gut.

Like the curtain rising on some unseen stage.