Chapter 22: Engines of War

The command tent was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Torchlight flickered against the canvas walls, casting long shadows over the massive war map spread across the table.

Carved figurines representing battalions were meticulously placed, their positions reflecting the Iron Fang's dominance over the region.

General Darius Kryn stood at the head of the table, his imposing figure framed by the glow of the torches.

His war council—hardened officers with faces carved by years of conflict—gathered around him, their eyes fixed on the map.

"The terrain here," Kryn began, his voice low and commanding, "is our greatest ally and our greatest enemy. St. Louvre's forces are entrenched in these valleys and ridges. They've fortified their positions, but they've also made themselves predictable." He leaned forward, his finger tracing a line along the map. "We hit them where they're weakest—their supply lines."

Strategist Tolliver Brask stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning the map. "Redbrook," he said, pointing to a village marked in red. "It's their granary hub. Cut off their food supply, and their armies will starve within weeks." He moved his finger to another point. "Aster's Hollow—a major trade post. Control it, and we choke their economy. And here," he tapped a third location, "Dunmar Vale. Perched on a cliff, it's a natural defense point. Take it, and we control the high ground."

Kryn nodded, his expression grim. "Redbrook, Aster's Hollow, Dunmar Vale. Secure these, and St. Louvre's forces will crumble from within." He turned to his commanders. "Eryk, you'll lead the 5th Division. Hit them hard and fast. No mercy."

Commander Eryk Vasden, a towering man with a face like chiseled stone, nodded. "The Ironclads will crush them. They won't know what hit them."

"Harlow," Kryn continued, his gaze shifting to the slender, sharp-featured woman beside Eryk, "your Bloodhounds will cut off their escape routes. I want no survivors unless they surrender immediately."

Commander Harlow Veck's lips curled into a cold smile. "They'll run, but they won't get far."

Kryn's eyes narrowed as he studied the map. "This isn't just about brute force. It's about strategy. We hit them where they least expect it, and we hit them hard. But we can't do this alone." He glanced at the northern edge of the map, where a cluster of figurines represented General Veyl's forces. "Veyl's strategy will complement ours. If he succeeds, we'll trap St. Louvre's forces in a pincer maneuver. They won't stand a chance."

The room fell silent as the officers absorbed the plan. Kryn straightened, his voice cutting through the tension. "Supply lines are critical. We move our logistics convoys westward, out of potential battle zones. No disruptions. No mistakes. This war will spread like wildfire, and St. Louvre won't realize the full extent of our invasion until it's too late."

The officers nodded, their expressions grim but determined. Kryn's gaze swept across the room, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "This is it. The beginning of the end for St. Louvre. We strike tomorrow. Dismissed."

As the officers filed out of the tent, Kryn remained behind, his eyes fixed on the map. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows over the carved figurines. The weight of the coming battle pressed down on him, but he didn't falter. This was war, and he was its architect.

---

The northern encampment was a stark contrast to the bustling main camp. Here, the air was quieter, the atmosphere more calculated.

General Veyl's tactical chamber was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single lantern hanging above a table covered in delicate ink sketches and detailed war maps.

Veyl himself sat at the table, his slight frame hunched over the maps, his sharp eyes scanning every line and marking.

Veyl was not a man of imposing stature, but his mind was a weapon sharper than any blade.

He moved a small figurine across the map, his movements precise, almost surgical. Around him, his officers waited in silence, their respect for him evident in their stillness.

Predictable, Veyl thought, his gaze lingering on the map. St. Louvre's commanders are competent, but they lack imagination. They rely on their defenses, their fortifications. But defenses can be broken—if you know where to strike.

He tapped a point on the map, a small village near a river. "Here," he said, his voice soft but carrying an edge of steel. "This is where we begin."

One of his officers, a grizzled veteran named Captain Ordan, stepped forward. "The water village? It's lightly defended, but it's also a minor target. Why there?"

Veyl's lips curled into a faint smile. Because it's not about the village. It's about the reaction. "St. Louvre will see us moving on a seemingly insignificant target and assume we're testing their defenses. They'll commit forces to defend it—forces they can't afford to lose."

He leaned back, his gaze sweeping across the room. "The 7th Division will lead the attack. Captain Ordan, you'll command the operation. Your objective is simple: bait St. Louvre into committing their forces. Draw them out, weaken them, and then fall back."

Ordan's expression hardened. "You're asking us to be disposable."

Veyl's smile didn't waver. "I'm asking you to be strategic. Sacrifices must be made for the greater plan. The 7th Division will play its part, and the rest of us will reap the rewards."

The room fell silent, the weight of Veyl's words settling over the officers. Ordan nodded, his jaw tight. "Understood, General."

As the officers began to disperse, a messenger entered the tent, his face flushed from running. "General Veyl, a report from Commander Veck of the 6th Division."

Veyl took the report, his eyes scanning the contents. His expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of interest in his gaze. "Sol Wielders," he murmured. "Among the enemy forces, but not St. Louvre soldiers. Interesting."

Unidentified Sol Wielders, he thought, his mind racing. Mercenaries? Rebels? Or something else entirely? He set the report down and turned to his officers. "It seems we have new players on the board. Unidentified Sol Wielders, operating outside St. Louvre's command. They could be mercenaries, rebels, or something else entirely. Regardless, they're a variable we can't ignore."

Veyl picked up a quill and began writing on a piece of parchment. Turn the local mercenaries and bounty hunters against them. Let them do the work for us.

"Issue a bounty for these Sol Wielders. I want them hunted down—alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary. Turn the local mercenaries and bounty hunters against them. Let them do the work for us."

The messenger took the parchment and hurried out of the tent. Veyl leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to the map. The game is changing, he thought, his mind already calculating the next move.

But the rules remain the same. Adapt, or die.

He studied the map, his thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and calculation. St. Louvre will commit their forces to defend the water village. They'll think they're outsmarting us, but they'll be walking into a trap. And these Sol Wielders… they're a wildcard. But even wildcards can be controlled, if you know how to play them.

Veyl's fingers traced the lines on the map, his mind already several steps ahead. The bait is set. The trap is prepared. All that's left is to spring it.

---

The water village was quiet in the predawn light, its wooden huts and docks bathed in a soft, silvery glow. The river flowed gently, its surface reflecting the first hints of sunrise. Birds chirped in the distance, and the faint sound of water lapping against the docks filled the air.

But the tranquility was shattered as the Iron Fang's 7th Division emerged from the treeline, their armor glinting in the pale light.

Captain Ordan led the charge, his expression grim. He knew his role—bait. His division was disposable, but their sacrifice would pave the way for victory. He raised his sword, signaling the attack.

The village erupted into chaos.

Iron Fang soldiers stormed through the streets, their weapons gleaming as they cut down anyone who stood in their way.

Villagers screamed, fleeing for their lives, but there was nowhere to go. The river, once a source of life, now became a barrier, trapping them between the invaders and the water.

St. Louvre's forces, stationed nearby, scrambled to respond. Sir Aldric Vaughn, their commander, barked orders as his soldiers rushed to defend the village. "Hold the line!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Protect the villagers! Don't let them take the river!"

But the Iron Fang was relentless. Their advance was methodical, their movements precise. They had no intention of holding the village—their goal was to draw St. Louvre's forces into the open.

The first catapult launched its payload, a massive boulder hurtling through the air. It struck a wooden hut, reducing it to splinters in an instant. The ground shook as the boulder rolled through the village, crushing everything in its path.

Another catapult fired, this time launching a flaming projectile. It arced through the sky, trailing smoke and fire, before crashing into the village square.

The explosion sent debris flying, the flames spreading rapidly as they consumed the wooden structures.

The battlefield was a nightmare, a swirling maelstrom of blood, fire, and steel.

The Iron Fang's Bloodhounds, elite warriors clad in dark armor, moved through the chaos like shadows, their movements inhumanly fast. They cut through St. Louvre's forces with terrifying efficiency, their blades flashing in the early morning light.

A group of St. Louvre soldiers tried to hold their ground near the village's central square, their shields raised against the onslaught.

But the Bloodhounds were relentless. They moved like ghosts, their strikes precise and deadly. One soldier fell, then another, their bodies crumpling to the ground.

"Hold the line!" Sir Aldric Vaughn shouted, his voice hoarse from the strain. "Don't let them break through! Protect the villagers!"

But the line was breaking. The Bloodhounds were too fast, too skilled. They moved through the defenders like a scythe through wheat, their blades cutting down anyone who stood in their way.

The village square was a slaughterhouse. Bodies littered the ground, their blood pooling in the dirt. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and death, the cries of the wounded echoing in the chaos.

Sir Aldric Vaughn fought with everything he had, his sword flashing as he cut down one Iron Fang soldier after another. But the Bloodhounds were closing in, their dark armor gleaming in the firelight.

"Fall back!" he shouted to his men. "Get the villagers to safety!"

But it was too late. The Bloodhounds were already among them, their blades cutting through the defenders with terrifying efficiency. Sir Aldric Vaughn fought to the last, his sword flashing as he tried to hold them off. But there were too many.

A Bloodhound's blade found its mark, piercing Sir Aldric's side. He staggered, his sword slipping from his grasp. He fell to his knees, his vision blurring as the Bloodhounds closed in.

"For St. Louvre," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

And then the Bloodhounds were upon him, their blades cutting him down.

The villagers screamed as the Bloodhounds turned their attention to them. They tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go. The river, once a source of life, now became a death trap. The Bloodhounds cut them down without mercy, their blades flashing in the early morning light.

The village was lost, its streets littered with bodies and its buildings reduced to smoldering ruins. The Iron Fang's forces had accomplished their goal—they had drawn St. Louvre's forces into the open, weakening them before the real battle began.

Captain Ordan surveyed the battlefield, his expression grim. "Fall back!" he shouted to his men. "We've done our part. Let the others finish the job."

The Iron Fang soldiers began to retreat, their movements disciplined even in victory. They left behind a village in ruins, its streets littered with bodies and its buildings reduced to smoldering ruins.