The First Strike

The city of Varethas held its breath.

From the rooftops, the rebels watched as the Imperial banners rippled in the wind, their crimson fabric stark against the cold night sky. Beyond the gates, torches burned like a sea of fire—Aldric had arrived.

Reinhardt gripped the hilt of his sword, his mind a battlefield of thoughts. He knew Aldric. He knew his tactics, his ruthlessness. The Empire never fought wars it wasn't sure it could win. If Aldric was here, then the Empire had already decided how this battle would end.

Unless they could change the script.

Selene crouched beside him, bow in hand. "This isn't just an army," she whispered. "This is a purge."

Reinhardt clenched his jaw. She was right. This wasn't just a battle—it was meant to be an execution.

Isolde joined them, her blade already drawn. "We strike first."

Reinhardt nodded. "We don't have a choice."

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The Ambush

In the dead of night, the rebels moved like shadows through the twisting alleys of Varethas. The Imperial forces were setting up camps, unaware of the city's silent resistance waiting in the dark.

At the city's eastern gate, the first blood was drawn.

A rebel archer loosed an arrow. A single sharp whistle in the air. The Empire's forward scout barely had time to turn before the arrow pierced his throat.

Silence.

Then chaos.

Reinhardt led the charge, sword flashing in the moonlight. He moved with precision, his strikes quick and lethal. The first Imperial soldier fell, then the second. The camp erupted into shouts as soldiers scrambled for their weapons.

Selene's arrows found their marks. One, two, three fell before they could even draw their swords.

Isolde led her fighters in, cutting through the ranks with brutal efficiency. The Empire was caught off guard.

But it wouldn't last.

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Aldric's Wrath

The attack was going too well. Too easy.

That's when Reinhardt felt it—a shift in the air. A presence.

And then he heard it.

The heavy clang of steel boots. The slow, deliberate steps of a man who never ran, because he never needed to.

Sir Aldric had entered the battlefield.

The moment he stepped into the torchlight, the tide turned. He was a mountain of a man, clad in darkened steel, his greatsword resting easily in one hand.

A rebel lunged at him. Aldric barely moved. His sword came up in a lazy arc—and the rebel was gone.

A second charged. The same result.

The battlefield fell silent as the Empire's soldiers rallied behind their general.

Reinhardt exhaled. This was it.

Aldric's helmet turned toward him. Even from this distance, Reinhardt felt the weight of that gaze.

Aldric raised his sword and pointed it straight at him.

A challenge.

A promise.

And then, with the force of an executioner, Aldric spoke.

"Come and face me, Reinhardt."

The battle had truly begun.