A Brewing Storm of Steel and Blood

Heavy boots pounded against the cold stone floors as a hulking bandit sprinted through the dimly lit corridors of a massive fortress. Sweat dripped from his brow, panic seizing his breath as he barreled forward, pushing past torches flickering along the ancient walls. His lungs burned, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

At last, he reached a massive set of iron doors and, without hesitation, threw his full weight against them.

BOOM.

The doors burst open, slamming against the stone floor as he stumbled into a vast armory. The air reeked of oil, iron, and sweat. Lining the hall were bandits, each of them arming themselves with weapons ranging from jagged blades to spiked maces. The walls gleamed with polished armor, and the sound of steel being sharpened echoed throughout the chamber.

But at the very end of the armory, towering over the rest, stood a figure clad in jagged black armor. The sheer presence of him was suffocating. His dark elven features were sharp, his green eyes cold and calculating as he gazed down at a map spread over a massive stone table.

Sensing the disruption, the man slowly turned his head, his eyes narrowing and locking onto the frantic bandit standing in the doorway.

The bandit gasped for breath, his voice raw with urgency. "THEY HAVE DESTROYED ONE OF OUR OUTPOSTS!"

The entire armory went dead silent. All movement ceased as every single pair of eyes flicked toward the dark elf at the end of the hall.

A slow exhale escaped from his lips. Then, he spoke, voice as cold as the steel he wore.

"Anything else?" His words were smooth, laced with something far deadlier than mere annoyance. "We are already ready to go to war. Doesn't matter where the fuck they are or what they do. They're dying."

The bandit hesitated, swallowing thickly. "A-Are we not waiting for the Grumblehold—"

He never got to finish.

The dark elf lifted a single hand, fingers slightly curled. Instantly, the bandit felt a sudden tug—an invisible force pulling at his armor. His breath hitched as he was yanked off his feet and hurled forward at terrifying speed.

CRACK.

The force sent him soaring down the armory before he was caught midair by a powerful grip around his throat. His body flailed uselessly, hands clawing at the armored fingers crushing his windpipe.

The dark elf barely even looked at him.

Then, with a sickening CRUNCH, the sound of bone snapping echoed through the vast chamber.

Silence.

The lifeless body fell to the floor with a dull thud. The bandits standing nearby didn't flinch. They didn't even react.

The leader slowly turned his gaze back to the men before him. Not a single one showed fear. If anything, their grips on their weapons tightened, their eyes burning with something primal.

He spread his arms wide. "MEN!" His voice boomed through the armory. "IT IS TWO HUNDRED OF US TO MORE THAN FOUR HUNDRED OF THEM! BUT DO NOT FEAR! GLOOMTAURS ARE BUT RATS WHO USE THE TERRAIN TO THEIR ADVANTAGE! ON AN OPEN STAGE, THEY ARE NOTHING BUT SITTING DUCKS!"

He let the words sink in before his lips curled into a sharp grin. "BE PREPARED TO KILL! BE PREPARED TO SLAUGHTER! FIRE UP THAT BLOODLUST OF YOURS, BOYS, FOR SOON THERE WILL BE CORPSES GALORE!"

The response was immediate.

An ear-splitting roar erupted from the bandits, shaking the very walls of the fortress. Weapons clashed against armor, boots stomped against stone, and voices howled in unison.

At that moment, they were no mere bandits.

They were an army.

And their leader?

A force of destruction waiting to be unleashed.

…

The small team of half-Gloomtaurs and half-Ophelia's people returned to the caravan just as dusk settled over the rolling plains. Dust clung to their clothes, their faces hardened from battle as they dragged the battered, near-unconscious bandit leader toward Edwin. 

Without hesitation, Edwin took custody of the man, nodding once before signaling for the caravan to continue its march. The moment the bandit was secured, the caravan wheels groaned, and the entire formation resumed its slow, steady advance across the wilderness.

Edwin hauled the dark elf leader toward Ophelia's cart, his grip unforgiving as he forced the man to his knees before her. The interior of the cart was dimly lit, the soft flicker of a lamp casting eerie shadows along the wooden walls. Ophelia sat comfortably on her cushioned couch, her expression unreadable as she peered down at the captive.

Without looking away from him, she calmly spoke. "Bring Tridra."

Edwin gave a sharp nod and exited without a word, leaving Ophelia and the dark elf alone.

The bandit leader, though bloodied and bruised beyond recognition, still had arrogance in his gaze. He scoffed at her, rolling his shoulders as if testing his restraints. "What a weak leader…" he spat, his voice thick with disdain.

Ophelia's expression did not change. She merely studied him, her cold stare unwavering. Then, almost absentmindedly, she muttered to herself, "If only dark elves had Mana Tunnels."

The bandit narrowed his eyes but said nothing more.

Moments later, the door swung open, and Edwin returned with Tridra following closely behind. The dark-haired woman walked in, her violet eyes glimmering as she took in the captive. She needed no instruction. She already knew what to do.

Stepping forward, Tridra exhaled softly, her fingers twitching as she worked her magic. The bandit resisted—his will was strong, defiant—but not strong enough. Slowly, his body sagged, his gaze losing focus as a hazy violet shimmer spread across his pupils.

Ophelia leaned forward slightly. "Tell me everything about The Chained Droplet."

The bandit's lips parted sluggishly, his voice dull, robotic. He provided basic information—nothing Ophelia didn't really care for. How the group functioned, their hierarchy, the petty disputes between bandits over loot or pride. It was all worthless. But then…

Two pieces of information changed everything.

First, The Chained Droplet was already preparing for war. Their numbers were a little over two hundred men strong, ready to march.

Second, their deal with the Grumblehold faction had collapsed.

The Grumblehold leader had approached The Chained Droplet first, proposing an alliance to crush Ophelia's caravan entirely. However, the arrogant leader of The Chained Droplet, holding onto past grudges, had refused. Despite this, whispers suggested that Grumblehold was still preparing for war—with seven hundred men.

At that revelation, Tridra and Edwin both stiffened. A bead of sweat trickled down Edwin's temple. Two hundred was manageable. Seven hundred… was a death sentence.

Ophelia remained still, unreadable. Then she asked, "Where are The Chained Droplet planning to attack us?"

The bandit's glazed eyes flickered slightly before he said, "There is a large prairie just at the edge of the outer circle."

At that, Ophelia's lips curled into a faint smile. Her gaze lifted to the map pinned to the cart's wall.

Her eyes scanned the map, and sure enough, a red marker already rested on the very spot he had mentioned. It was no surprise. The Gloomtaurs, while formidable, thrived in dense terrain—not open battlefields. Their enemy sought to neutralize their advantage by forcing them onto unfavorable ground.

Tridra and Edwin exchanged nervous glances, but before they could voice their concerns, Ophelia, without even turning, reassured them. "Just as I predicted."

They swallowed their unease.

Ophelia leaned forward again, her tone firm. "What are the powers of both the Grumblehold and The Chained Droplet kings?"

The bandit hesitated, even in his trance. "I don't know. I just know my leader's power revolves around magnetism."

Ophelia considered this for a moment before casually gesturing to Edwin. "Dispose of him."

Without hesitation, Edwin grabbed the bandit by the collar, dragging him away as if he weighed nothing.

As the door creaked shut behind them, Ophelia's gaze drifted back to the map. Her eyes traced the edges, moving from the prairie to the bottom left—Veiled Spring, where The Chained Droplet's base stood. But then, her attention shifted further right, past a long stretch of rocky terrain, to a place that sent a chill down her spine.

Whispering Ravine.

The stronghold of the Grumblehold faction.

She lingered on the name, her thoughts swirling with calculations, strategies—until a sudden tap on her shoulder pulled her from her trance.

"M-My Lady," Tridra's voice was hesitant, yet eager. "I'd like to learn more about runes, if possible."

Ophelia blinked, shifting her gaze from the map to the woman standing before her. Tridra's dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her violet eyes wide with anticipation. The emerald earrings she wore caught the dim light, reflecting a soft glow.

For the first time in hours, Ophelia's expression softened. "Just call me Ophelia." She patted the open space on the couch beside her.

Tridra's face lit up, an excited smile tugging at her lips. She hesitated for a moment before carefully sitting beside her new girlfriend. "O-Ophelia…" she murmured, as if testing the name on her tongue. Then, with newfound confidence, she added, "The runes you taught me before really helped in the last battle. I took your advice and made some throwing knives with the exploding runes."

Ophelia let out a small smile, reaching over to gently stroke Tridra's hair. "Well done."

A dusting of pink spread across Tridra's cheeks as she instinctively scooted closer. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I've never felt like this before…" Then, she leaned her head onto Ophelia's shoulder, exhaling softly. "I love you, Ophelia."

Silence hung between them.

Tridra tilted her head, looking up, only for a shiver to run down her spine. Ophelia's gaze was still locked onto the map, but her expression had turned eerily cold. Calculating. Unreadable… yet it didn't seem like she was staring at the map at all. It was something else.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the look vanished. Ophelia turned to her with a warm smile.

"I love you as well, Tridra."

Tridra shook the unease from her mind, pushing away the image of that chilling stare. Instead, she reached into her pouch, pulling out a sack of rune stones—each one carrying the runes Ophelia had instructed her and Alexandra to spread across the forest. She turned them over in her palm before hesitantly asking, "These runes… they're for earth manipulation. Are you planning on making a retreat back into the forest, leading the bandits into a trap, and then collapsing the ground beneath them?"

Ophelia took one of the stones from her, rolling it between her fingers thoughtfully. 

"Tridra. Always remember these words…" Ophelia muttered. "Mastery over runes is mastery over magic. Mastery over magic is mastery over everything."

…

In the dim glow of torchlight, a lone figure stirred upon a massive stone throne. He was tall—towering, even—his frame a monument of sheer power. His short black hair barely peeked from beneath the heavy hood draped over his head, casting shadows over his face. His fingers flexed, curling into a fist, before reaching for the colossal blade that rested at his side.

The sword was no mere weapon—it was a monolith, its immense bulk embedded deep within the stone-brick floor as if it were a part of the fortress itself. With a single, effortless motion, he wrenched it free. The sound of stone grinding against steel echoed through the chamber like a beast growling to life.

Without hesitation, he turned and strode forward, his footsteps reverberating through the empty throne room. His dark cloak billowed behind him, a phantom trailing in his wake. The fortress halls were vast yet eerily silent, saved for the dull thud of his boots against cold stone. 

Then, he reached the great doors of his stronghold. With one push, they swung open, revealing the expanse beyond.

Before him stretched his city—a bandit base in name alone, but in truth, a kingdom carved from chaos. It sprawled over the rugged terrain like a thriving beast, countless buildings of wood and stone huddled together, forming a dense network of streets and alleys. The flickering light of torches illuminated the hundreds of homes, shops, and armories that lined the pathways, the unmistakable clang of blacksmiths working steel ringing through the cool night air.

As he stepped forward, the people bowed.

Every man, woman, and child who laid eyes upon him lowered their heads in reverence. Some pressed fists to their chests, while others merely stilled, awaiting his word. He acknowledged none of them. He did not need to. 

His presence alone was enough.

He strolled through the city like a blade through flesh, until at last, he reached the outskirts.

Here, at the edge of his domain, the buildings gave way to an open expanse of solid rock. And there, assembled before him, stood his seven hundred warriors.

A sea of steel gleamed beneath the torchlight—shields, axes, spears, and swords clutched with iron grips. The scent of sweat, oil, and blood lingered thick in the air, mixing with the quiet murmur of restless anticipation. They were ready. Armed to the teeth, clad in layers of worn but reliable armor, they stood like an unbreakable wall, their eyes locked on the giant among them.

He towered over them, his presence like a storm gathering before the downpour. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and with a slow, wide motion, he lifted the gargantuan blade high—before driving it down into the rock beneath him. The impact sent a sharp crack through the air, splinters of stone bursting outward.

He took in a deep breath. Then, his voice roared.

"IT IS ABOUT TIME WE SETTLE JUST WHO OWNS THESE MOUNTAINS!"

A thunderous cheer erupted from the gathered warriors, fists pounding against armor, weapons clashing in raw exhilaration. The sheer ferocity of their response sent a ripple through the air, shaking the very ground beneath them.

He lifted his chin, his voice rising to an earth-shaking crescendo.

"FOR TOO LONG, RATS HAVE SCURRIED THROUGH THESE LANDS, PRETENDING TO HOLD AMONGST US!"

The crowd erupted, their battle cries mixing into a single, primal roar.

"WE ARE NOT FARMERS! WE ARE NOT PEASANTS! WE ARE NOT DOGS TO BE FED SCRAPS! WE ARE WARRIORS! WE ARE THE GRUMBLEHOLD! AND TONIGHT, WE MARCH NOT AS MEN—BUT AS LEGENDS!"

Shields slammed against the ground, the sound like rolling thunder across the rocky expanse.

"LET THEM THINK THEY CAN STAND AGAINST US! LET THEM BELIEVE THEY CAN RESIST! FOR WHEN WE COME, WE COME LIKE A TIDAL WAVE, A FLOOD OF STEEL AND WRATH!"

Weapons rose into the air, seven hundred blades gleaming beneath the night sky.

"WHO AMONG YOU WILL FALTER?! WHO AMONG YOU WILL TURN BACK?! WHO AMONG YOU WILL BREAK?!"

A resounding "NO ONE!!!" shook the night, a single, unified voice of fury and bloodlust.

The man grinned beneath his hood, his empty eye sockets seemingly burning with fire.

"THEN READY YOUR BLADES! WE MARCH SOON! AND WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARS, THE WORLD WILL KNOW THE NAME GRUMBLEHOLD—NOT AS MERE BANDITS, NOT AS MERE MEN—BUT AS GODS OF WAR!"

The roar of his army split the heavens.

And the mountains themselves seemed to tremble in their wake.

…

Word of the up and coming war spread quickly through the caravan and Gloomtaurs and one of the people who heard such information was the leader of the Caravan's workers.

Steven trudged forward in silence, lost in thought. His mind drifted back to their first battle in the Jagged Pass—the ambush, the struggle, and Ophelia's swift, calculated response. She had captured their enemy's leader, wrung every bit of information from him, and, without hesitation, altered their course once more.

A shiver crawled up Steven's spine, the weight of realization settling over him like a thick fog. His breath hitched as the pieces clicked together in his mind.

"She planned for us to cut through this prairie from the very beginning," he murmured under his breath. "She… expected something like this would happen? No… that's too farfetched. No mortal could ever predict such an outcome." 

Little did he know, all the pieces had lined up perfectly.