Chapter 20: The Divided Path

Twenty days. Twenty days of relentless marching, of biting wind and frozen ground, of dwindling supplies and ever-present danger. The attack force, once a proud display of Volgunder strength, was now a column of weary, grim-faced warriors, their armor dulled by dust and ice, their spirits tested by the harsh realities of the Eastern Wastes. They had left the last vestiges of civilization behind, venturing deep into the heart of Rubak territory, a land as unforgiving as its inhabitants.

Liam, riding near the rear of the third squad, felt the exhaustion in his bones, the ache in his muscles. But his physical discomfort was overshadowed by the turmoil within him. He was still grappling with the aftermath of the tournament, with the revelation of his magic, with the weight of his family's expectations, and with the gnawing guilt and grief over Van's death.

He had thrown himself into training during the march, pushing himself to his limits, trying to master the short sword and shield, trying to control the unpredictable surges of ice magic that still threatened to overwhelm him. He had also, secretly, begun to experiment with the Umbral Core, drawn to its power, yet terrified of its potential.

He glanced at Brad, riding silently beside him. Brad was a constant presence, a watchful guardian, a source of quiet strength. But even Brad couldn't fully understand the burden Liam carried, the secret he guarded, the destiny he was struggling to accept.

A sudden commotion behind the column broke Liam's reverie. A lone rider, his horse lathered and exhausted, was galloping towards them from the rear, waving a Volgunder banner. A messenger, from Volgunder Keep.

Captain Karl Volgunder, his face etched with grim determination, signaled the attack force to halt. He rode back to meet the messenger, his lieutenants close behind.

Liam strained to hear their conversation, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread. News from home? Reinforcements? Or… something worse?

The messenger dismounted, his face pale and drawn. He spoke rapidly, urgently, to Karl, his words lost in the wind. But Liam could see the change in Karl's expression, the tightening of his jaw, the hardening of his eyes.

The news, whatever it was, was not good.

Karl dismissed the messenger with a curt nod, then turned to address his lieutenants. Liam, though not part of this inner circle, was close enough to overhear some of their conversation.

"…reinforcements… but not many…" Karl's voice was a low growl. "…only fifty men… Arthur can't spare more… stretched thin…"

Fifty men? Liam's heart sank. They had started with nearly three hundred, and they had already suffered significant losses. Fifty men wouldn't make much of a difference.

"…led by Brian Volgunder…" Karl continued, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "…he's back from the south… with a small contingent… veterans…"

Brian? Liam's mind reeled. His oldest brother? He hadn't seen Brian in seven years, not since he was a boy of eight. Brian had been away on missions for the Volgunders, fighting in distant lands, earning a reputation as a skilled and ruthless warrior. A 6-star swordsman.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Liam: surprise, relief, a flicker of hope, but also… apprehension. What would Brian think of him? Of his magic?

He remembered Brian as a kind, protective figure, someone who had always looked out for him. But that was a long time ago. People changed. Especially warriors.

The news of Brian's imminent arrival spread quickly through the ranks, causing a ripple of excitement and speculation.

Liam listened to these conversations, his heart pounding. His brother, a Great warrior, was coming.

The arrival of the messenger, and the news he brought, sparked a fierce debate among the attack force's leadership. Some argued for an immediate assault on the main Rubak camp, claiming they should strike before the enemy could consolidate their forces. Others urged caution, advocating for waiting for Brian and the reinforcements, however small their number.

Karl Volgunder listened to the arguments, his face a mask of grim contemplation. He was torn. He knew the risks of attacking prematurely, but he also knew that waiting too long could be even more dangerous. The Rubaks were a volatile, unpredictable enemy. If they were to unite, to call upon other tribes for assistance, the attack force could be overwhelmed, even with reinforcements.

And then there was the matter of supplies. They were running low on food, on water, on everything. Waiting in this desolate land, with dwindling resources, would only weaken them further.

Liam watched the debate unfold, his own thoughts a turmoil of conflicting emotions. He wanted to prove himself, to avenge Van, to strike a blow against the Rubaks. But he also knew he was still inexperienced, still vulnerable. He didn't want to be a burden, a liability.

He found himself drawn to a quiet corner of the camp, away from the noise and the arguments. He needed to think, to focus, to prepare himself for whatever lay ahead.

He reached into his tunic and pulled out the Umbral Core. The dark, intricately carved object felt strangely warm to the touch, pulsing with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. He had been experimenting with it, secretly, whenever he had a moment to himself. He had tried to absorb small amounts of magic from the air, from the faint, lingering traces of his own ice spells. He had tried to channel the stored energy, to use it to enhance his strength, his speed, his reflexes.

The results had been… mixed. The Core was powerful, he knew that much. But it was also unpredictable, dangerous. He had felt its hunger, its insatiable desire for energy. He had felt the way it could twist his emotions, amplify his anger, his fear, his desperation.

He knew he shouldn't be using it, not without understanding it better, not without guidance. But he was desperate. He needed every advantage he could get.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the Core, trying to sense its power, to understand its nature. He felt a faint tingling sensation, a subtle connection to the object, as if it were a part of him, a dark mirror reflecting his own hidden potential.

He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if he would survive this campaign. But he knew one thing: he would fight. He would fight with every ounce of his strength, with every skill he possessed, with every flicker of his magic.

He would fight for Van. For Drakonia. For himself.