Chapter 48 — The Scourge at the Gate
Night cloaked the valley, the ribs of stone rising around the rebels like the bones of a fallen giant. The air was thick with mist, and the only sound was the soft whisper of the wind.
Aron stood at the valley's edge, his sword point resting on the ground. His wound throbbed with every heartbeat, but he kept his stance firm.
Beside him, Lina notched an arrow, her eyes sharp, watching the tree line.
Garron paced like a caged beast, axe in hand, jaw tight.
"They'll come with the dawn," he said. "Or sooner."
"They're close," Lina agreed. "I can feel them."
---
As if in answer, a drumbeat rolled through the night — low, slow, relentless.
Then another.
And another.
The Scourge had come.
---
From the shadows of the forest's edge, torches flared. Dozens. Hundreds. The valley filled with the glow of firelight as Jaren's army gathered at its mouth.
And at their head rode Jaren, his silver mask gleaming, his black cloak stirring in the night breeze.
He raised his hand, and the drums fell silent.
His voice carried clear across the valley.
"Little prince. Lion cub. Your den is broken. Your pride is dead. Yield."
---
Aron stepped forward, his voice strong despite the pain.
"We yield nothing to a mask."
Jaren tilted his head, as if amused.
"Then you die beneath the storm."
---
The drums began again, faster now, the beat of a heart racing toward doom.
The Scourge advanced — a tide of steel and shadow, of masked faces and raised blades.
The rebels stood their ground at the valley's throat, few against many, the stone ribs their only shield.
---
Lina's arrows flew, swift and true, felling the first to cross the line.
Garron's axe rose and fell, shattering shields, breaking bones.
Aron fought with the fury of desperation, his blade a blur of silver in the torchlight.
---
The Scourge pressed on, wave after wave, but the rebels held — for now.
And above it all, Jaren watched, his silver mask cold and bright, as the storm he'd summoned crashed against the last defiance of the lion's blood.