The Dividing Paths

Two days had passed since Veynor's forces arrived at Blackmoor, and the urgency of their mission only grew heavier. The battered remnants of Ashenbrook's villagers worked alongside the soldiers, hastily gathering what little they could find to prepare for the inevitable Orc assault.

Veynor stood tall in the center of Ashenbrook, his commanding voice echoing across the desolate village. "People of Ashenbrook!" he called out. "Your land lies in the path of war. If you wish to keep your homes safe, if you wish for your families to survive, we must stand together! Blackmoor cannot fall!"

The villagers, gaunt and wary, gathered around him reluctantly. The once-thriving village was now a hollow shell of its former self, its people worn down by years of neglect and hardship. Among them, an elderly man stepped forward, his frail body trembling with anger and sorrow.

"Where were you?" the old man demanded, his voice hoarse but resolute. "Where were your soldiers when bandits ravaged our homes? When they stole our food and slaughtered our families? We have suffered alone for years—forgotten by Lorien, abandoned by its rulers. And now you ask us to fight for you? Where was your mercy when we needed it?"

The man grabbed at Veynor's armor, tears streaming down his wrinkled face. "My family is gone! My children—my grandchildren! All because no one came to help!"

Veynor's gaze softened, though he stood firm. He placed a steady hand on the old man's shoulder. "I will not ask for your forgiveness," he said solemnly. "I know your pain, and I will carry the blame of our failure. But hear me now: if we do not fight, there will be nothing left—not for you, not for anyone. The Orcs will take everything."

The old man's strength faltered, and he collapsed to his knees, muttering, "My family... my family..."

Veynor's expression hardened with determination as he turned to address the rest of the villagers. "I understand your anger and your despair. But this is not the time for grief. We cannot change the past, but we can fight for the future! Stand with me, and we will hold Blackmoor! Together, we will protect what remains and ensure that no one else suffers as you have."

The villagers exchanged uncertain glances, their fear battling against the faint ember of hope that Veynor's words kindled. Beside him, Eldrin stepped forward, his voice firm and clear.

"The Orcs are coming, but we only need to hold them off until reinforcements arrive," Eldrin said. "We've already sent riders to Dornhaven. Help is on the way. What we need from you now is courage. Gather your weapons—anything that can be used to fight. Every hand will matter in the battle ahead."

One villager hesitantly raised his hand. "What if the reinforcements don't come in time?"

"They will," Veynor said firmly, though the uncertainty weighed heavy on his mind. "We will hold the line, no matter the cost."

Eldrin added, his tone sharpening, "There's no time to waste. The Orcs are moving fast. If we don't act now, it will be too late. Gather everyone capable of fighting and prepare for battle. This is our only chance."

As the villagers scrambled to arm themselves with whatever they could find, Eldrin felt the change in the wind, a subtle shift that carried an ominous weight. His instincts told him the Orcs would arrive within a day—maybe even less. Time was slipping away.

---

Meanwhile, in the Ironhold Forest

Aerion and Aerendil crouched low in the dense undergrowth, their sharp eyes fixed on the massive Orc horde marching westward. Thousands of them trudged through the forest, their guttural roars and clanging weapons creating a cacophony that reverberated through the trees.

Aerendil's jaw tightened. "I can't believe they're splitting their forces. Half are heading west toward Dornhaven, and the other half toward Blackmoor. Why would they divide their strength like this?"

Aerion narrowed his eyes. "The Orcs aren't known for their intelligence, but this... this isn't normal. Someone is leading them—someone who understands strategy. That's the only explanation."

Aerendil closed the cover of the bushes and turned back to his horse. "We don't have time to ponder this. Dornhaven must be warned before it's too late. If we fail..."

"We won't fail," Aerion said, mounting his horse. "We ride now. If we push hard, we can reach Dornhaven before nightfall."

Without another word, the two riders spurred their horses into a gallop, racing against the encroaching darkness and the relentless advance of the Orcs.

———————-

At Blackmoor, the air was heavy with tension as Veynor and Eldrin oversaw the final preparations for the fortress's defense. The massive catapults stationed atop the battlements stood ready, their wooden frames creaking under the weight of the boulders they would hurl at the approaching Orc horde.

Eldrin inspected the mechanisms of one catapult while Veynor surveyed the outer defenses. As they worked, a knight named Malveis Grave approached Veynor, his expression grim.

"General," Malveis began, saluting sharply, "I bring news regarding the state of our volunteer force. We've managed to gather about 120 fighters from the village, but..." He hesitated, lowering his voice. "Many of them are unfit for battle. Some are too young, and others are mentally broken from years of hardship. They won't last long on the battlefield."

Veynor sighed deeply, his gaze hardening as he looked toward the ragged group of volunteers below. Many of them were little more than boys, their hands trembling as they held weapons too large for their frames. The weight of the kingdom's failures bore down on him like a crushing tide.

"I understand," Veynor said at last. "Do what you can, Malveis. Position the archers on the battlements and ensure they're ready at a moment's notice. We'll need every arrow to count."

"Yes, General," Malveis replied.

As Malveis departed, Veynor turned to another soldier nearby. "Reinforce the gates. Use every plank and scrap of iron we have. The Orcs must not breach the fortress, no matter what."

The soldier saluted and hurried off to carry out the orders.

Veynor remained atop the battlements, his sharp eyes scanning the activity below. The villagers-turned-soldiers were doing their best to prepare, but their inexperience was glaringly obvious. Many stumbled as they carried supplies, their faces pale with fear. Veynor's gaze lingered on a group of particularly young volunteers children, barely old enough to wield a blade.

A deep sadness welled up within him. These were not soldiers; they were innocents, forced to fight for a kingdom that had abandoned them. And yet, they were all Blackmoor had.

"This is a crime," Veynor muttered under his breath. "To ask children to defend a kingdom ruled by tyrants..."

---

Night Come…..

Far away, Aerion and Aerendil had finally emerged from the shadowy depths of the Ironhold Forest. The path ahead was brighter now, illuminated by flickering torches lining the road.

"We're close," Aerion said, urging his horse forward. His keen eyes picked up the faint silhouette of Dornhaven's towering walls in the distance.

As they approached the gates, a lone guard stepped into the road, squinting at the riders through the darkness. His stance was rigid, his spear held firmly in his hand.

Aerendil scowled, pulling the reins of his horse to a halt. "What's the meaning of this?" he barked.

The guard didn't flinch. "Who goes there? State your business!"

Aerion remained silent, watching the exchange from atop his horse. Aerendil, however, dismounted and strode toward the guard, his irritation evident.

"Listen to me, and listen well," Aerendil said, his tone sharp. "We are knights of Lorien, and we have no time for pleasantries. Our business is urgent, and we must speak with King Thalvion immediately. Now step aside."

The guard's eyes widened, his resolve faltering under Aerendil's commanding presence. He stammered, "T-The king... I mean, you need permission to—"

"We don't have time for this," Aerendil interrupted, mounting his horse once more. "Stand aside, or I'll ride through you myself."

The guard, clearly outmatched, stepped back reluctantly, allowing the knights to pass. Aerion cast him a sidelong glance but said nothing, spurring his horse onward.

As they entered the gates, Aerendil turned to Aerion. "The sooner we reach the throne room, the better. Every second we waste is another step closer the Orcs get to Blackmoor and Dornhaven."

Aerion nodded, and together they galloped through the streets of Dornhaven, the grand spires of the royal palace looming ahead.