Four days later. Morning. Camp in the Black Forest.

  Morning was only just beginning.

  There was almost no light. The only glow came from the dim shine of the moon, not yet faded. The forest stood motionless—heavy, silent, as if holding its breath.

  A Vishap sentry moved near the barracks. He had been on duty all night. His body had been demanding sleep for hours, and his mind was no longer holding focus. He wasn’t used to night watches, and by dawn his thoughts tangled, his movements slowed.

  He crouched near the rocks. He set his torch aside carefully, so it wouldn’t blind him. His gaze dropped to the ground—to stones and roots jutting from the soil. His eyelids grew heavy. His head dipped forward on its own. He almost fell asleep.

  And then he heard footsteps. He jolted upright, reaching for the torch. Too late. Out of the darkness, a mercenary fighter emerged right in front of him. The strike was fast and precise. No shout. No struggle.

  The Vishap collapsed. He was dying. In the final seconds of his life, his gaze slid sideways—and he saw fires erupt across the camp all at once. Mercenary torches flew into the barracks one after another. The wood caught instantly—the dry autumn had done its work.

  Flames surged upward. Soldiers inside woke to heat and screams. Some ran out, already burning. Others fell, choking on smoke. The camp awoke, but too late.

  From the mountainside, other Compact detachments descended on horseback. They moved fast, in wide arcs, without stopping. They hurled fire into warehouses, tents, and structures. They set ablaze everything that could burn.

  The camp dissolved into chaos. And the morning was only beginning. The army had slept through the attack, but it had not been destroyed.

  Despite the mercenaries managing to set a large portion of the barracks ablaze, the camp was simply too vast. Part of the forces were stationed far from the centers of fire, where there was still no smoke, no screams.

  That was where the first battle formations began to take shape.

  Ranuver acted fast.

  He ran between units, barking hoarse orders, straightening lines, shoving soldiers into place, and pointing directions. The men had only just woken up, many still trying to understand what was happening. Helmets were missing. Armor half-fastened.

  It was hard to recover that quickly. But not for everyone.

  Hukan’s fighters were already assembled.

  They stood apart—cohesive, armed, ready—as if they had been waiting for this moment. The instant they moved toward the mercenaries, Ranuver spun toward Hukan.

  “They’ll retreat through the Maw!” he shouted. “Go there and meet them! We’ll drive them out of the camp!”

  Hukan gave a short nod. No questions. No delay. He turned his men and led them to cut off the retreat.

  At the edge of the camp, closer to the mountains, the fire was raging in full force. Siege engines burned—dry wood cracking, metal warping in the heat. The mercenaries moved with precision: ignite, strike, withdraw.

  They began to fall back slowly, keeping formation.

  And not forgetting to finish anyone who crossed their path.

  The battle was entering its true phase.

  At last, Ranuver managed to pull the scattered soldiers into more or less coherent units. He formed them on the move and was already advancing with them toward the attackers, trying to seize back the initiative.

  And at that moment, he heard the sound of a horn. Sharp. Loud. Unfamiliar. It came from the direction Hukan was supposed to be holding.

  Ranuver froze for a heartbeat. Those were the main forces of the Blue Cohort.

  They struck from the front—fast, organized, without pause. The blow was so powerful that the camp’s first defensive line didn’t hold. It broke almost instantly, torn apart and mixed with those who were still trying to figure out where the enemy was and where their own stood.

  Ranuver’s quick plan collapsed. Hukan hadn’t managed to seal the route of retreat.

  The worst became clear almost at once: the two mercenary groups were meant to link up.

  Skeld’s fighters seized the wide corridor near the mountains and formed a wall. They didn’t push forward—they held. This was where Rianes’s detachment was supposed to emerge, withdrawing from the burning forest after completing their part of the strike.

  Inside that corridor, held by Skeld’s infantry, stood the camp’s main siege engines.

  They were burning.

  The flames gathered strength. Dry wood cracked, plating collapsed, and metal heated to red. With every passing minute, it became clearer: the longer Skeld held this ground, the fewer chances the defenders had to contain the fire.

  Time was working against Ranuver. And for the mercenaries. Ranuver understood it immediately.

  Despite being outnumbered many times over, the mercenaries acted with speed and coordination. They moved through the camp like a blade, denying the defenders time to recover, regroup, or impose their own tempo on the fight.

  But Ranuver had something else. Numerical superiority. He changed his approach sharply.

  Orders flew to the officers one after another: flank the enemy, move into their rear, make a wide encirclement. Don’t press head-on—seal the space. Strip Skeld of any path of retreat.

  The plan was simple. And brutal.

  While Ranuver’s Cast Aside moved to envelop the mercenaries and began pressing their flanks, Hukan’s Vishaps struck from the front. They slammed into the attacker's head-on, trying to halt the advance and—most importantly—prevent Rianes’s detachment from linking up with Skeld’s forces.

  Rianes’s riders were fast. But they were lightly armed.

  In a direct clash with Hukan’s more heavily equipped fighters, they stood almost no chance. So Skeld’s infantry had to stretch the corridor—widen the formation—to receive the riders and cover their withdrawal.

  The decision was necessary. And dangerous.

  The infantry formation lost density. Its reliability began to fracture. Every extra step to the side thinned the line, and there was no room left to stretch it further.

  And then, at last, the mercenary detachments linked up.

  They began to withdraw slowly, maintaining formation as best they still could.

  But the camp’s defenders had already organized themselves. Now they moved not chaotically, but in concert. The pressure on the mercenaries’ ranks grew with every passing minute.

  And it became clear: the exit would no longer be easy.

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  Despite the siege engines having almost completely burned out—and the Compact’s plan being fulfilled—the withdrawal was growing more difficult by the moment.

  The section near the cliffs, held by Skeld, narrowed with every minute. Space constricted, as if the terrain itself were turning against them. Behind them, in the rear, more and more of Ranuver’s fighters appeared—dense, relentless, without pause.

  The ring was closing.

  The mercenaries still held formation, still fought—but it was already clear: there was almost no room left to maneuver. Every step back costs blood. Every delay meant a few more dead.

  The Battle for Korosten was no longer an advantage for them. Not even a retreat.

  It was turning into a self-sacrifice. A conscious trade of their own lives for destroyed barracks and siege engines.

  And everyone understood it.

  Night. Between Korosten and the Dark Forest.

  The mercenaries’ camp was waking quickly.

  Torches flared one by one in the darkness, but the night was so thick that even with fire it was hard to grasp the camp’s true size. Light was swallowed by trees, shadows, and uneven ground.

  That worked in the mercenaries’ favor.

  Even if enemy scouts spotted the camp, they wouldn’t be able to judge how many people were there. The light misled, hid the scale instead of revealing it.

  This was Atrion’s camp.

  He had arrived in the evening, after full dark. The task was simple—and risky: rest near the Dark Forest so they could move onto the battlefield quickly at dawn. And at the same time—remain unseen.

  That was why the clan entered in small groups.

  They skirted Korosten, avoided roads, and left no obvious traces. Rianes couldn’t rule out enemy eyes in the city—too many people, too much movement.

  So he sent two dozen of his fighters to meet the Black Directive’s clan. Their task was to help with navigation and guide them in without noise.

  Along with that, Atrion received the battle plans.

  He read them by torchlight—silently, carefully. And he didn’t hide his surprise. His brother’s decision was bold.

  And troubling.

  Rianes wasn’t waiting for him. He was starting the battle with his own forces. Atrion understood it at once. And remembered it. The task was clear.

  If the camp’s defenders managed to encircle the Blue Cohort’s forces, the Black Directive clan was to cut a retreat corridor for them—and hold it until the mercenaries disengaged.

  The route from Atrion’s camp to the battlefield was marked with torches. The light was dim and scattered, but it was enough. There were no issues with navigation—the path had been planned.

  The Black Directive assembled in less than an hour.

  No unnecessary noise. No shouting. People left their positions already prepared, as if they had been waiting for this signal. The column moved out—fast, disciplined, without stretching or breaking pace.

  Another hour later, they were in position.

  As an organized group, the clan climbed the same hill from which Feren had first seen the enemy camp. From here, the battlefield lay open before them—chaotic, torn apart by fire and motion.

  The battle was already at its peak.

  Flames still roared. Lines collided and shattered. Cries, steel, and smoke merged into a single, continuous roar.

  Atrion looked down. And knew there was almost no time left.

  Meanwhile, the camp was burning.

  Part of the defenders tried to fight the fires, drag out the wounded, and those trapped in the heart of the flames. They ran between burning structures, choking on smoke, shouting orders to one another—orders no one could hear anymore.

  But most of the forces were focused elsewhere.

  They were pushing back the Blue Cohort.

  The defenders had encircled it from all sides and were methodically trying to break the ranks. Pressing the flanks. Slipping into the rear. Probing for weak points. So far—without success. Skeld’s fighters held the line stubbornly and in unison, refusing to let the formation collapse.

  Syra’s archers had taken a strong position higher up, on the rocks. From there, they covered the battlefield with dense fire, picking off anyone who came too close to the infantry.

  The weak point of the Blue Cohort’s formation was the flank closer to the forest.

  That was where the mercenaries were retreating, shortening the corridor. That was where the line was thinner, more flexible, constantly on the verge of breaking.

  Rianes, Syra, Feren and Naelis were there.

  They held the flank together.

  Rianes was in constant motion, sealing gaps in the formation, plugging breaches, and placing people exactly where the line began to crumble. He didn’t fight in one spot—he stitched the front together.

  At the same time, Feren was drawing part of the enemy’s attention onto himself.

  Freed from the duties that came hardest to him—commanding others—he was finally doing what he did best. Fighting.

  Feren moved forward and sideways, constantly changing position, swinging his weapon with cold, practiced fury. His strikes were simple and brutal, without flourish. Wherever he appeared, the enemy line either broke or gave ground.

  Over time, opponents stopped approaching him head-on. They went around. Looked for other weak points in the mercenaries’ ranks, tried to press where this living threat wasn’t present.

  So Feren went looking for them himself. He plunged into the fight, moved from group to group, never waiting for anyone to dare approach him. He didn’t need orders or targets—seeing movement was enough. Hesitation. A gap in the line. That was where his fight was.

  Syra worked fast and cold. She shot down anyone trying to slip into the rear or force their way between groups. Arrows flew without pause—short movements, precise shots, no emotion.

  Naelis stayed behind.

  She pulled the wounded out, keeping them from falling under others’ feet. Minor wounds she treated with Lugu right there on the spot—quickly, roughly, without ceremony. It was enough to get a fighter back on their feet and into the line.

  But Hukan’s fighters allowed no room for mistakes. They pressed harder and harder. Step by step. Blow by blow. And there was only one thing holding them back.

  Velm.

  He stood behind the burning siege engines. Smoke wrapped around him, fire cast shifting shadows across the ground, but he did not move. The mace in his hands was aimed at those of Hukan’s group, trying to break through the flank.

  The Vishaps understood this. And they were afraid.

  They had seen what happened to their comrades when Velm began to suggest. He did not strike the body—he broke them from within. He forced into them the worst things he had personally witnessed in his own life.

  No one knew exactly what those things were. But the result was always the same.

  Victims screamed. Fell to their knees. Slit their own throats. Begged to be finished off. Some couldn’t endure it at all and simply froze, staring into emptiness.

  Velm broke even the most combat-ready Vishaps. Hukan understood this. He tried to reach Velm with archers, but the position was covered from all sides. Velm had a big experience and knew how to choose the ground for suggestion. Smoke, debris, and shields were enough to keep arrows from reaching him.

  The second option was another Suggestor on the Vishap side. But there was none. Their fighters were left without that kind of support. So only the worst option remained.

  To wait.

  To wait until Velm was exhausted. That would not be quick. As long as Velm held his flank, the Blue Cohort still lived.

  But the attackers had no path left for withdrawal. Their position was growing heavier and worse by the minute. While the strength of Rianes’s clan was running out, the camp’s defenders were becoming more organized, more aggressive.

  The Blue Cohort had done its part of the plan. From here on, everything depended on the Black Directive.

  The cavalry had already formed up. Horses stamped the ground, and men waited in silence. And when Atrion finally gave the signal, the riders drew their lances in unison.

  The column surged forward.

  The cavalry charged—straight into the ranks of the defenders assaulting the Cohort. Atrion rode with them, neither lagging nor pushing ahead—like a commander who strikes with his troops.

  Hukan saw it almost immediately.

  The mercenary cavalry was hitting the rear. He himself was on the far side of the battlefield, too far away to change anything. But Ranuver’s fighters were standing exactly where Atrion’s heavy cavalry was bearing down.

  They were facing the wrong way.

  They spotted the riders at the last moment. And they were completely unprepared for the impact.

  Hukan instinctively looked toward Ranuver, waiting for an order. Any signal at all.

  But Ranuver did nothing. He stood and watched as the enemy cavalry slammed at full speed into the rear of his army.

  The Black Directive mercenaries picked up speed.

  They advanced in a wedge—organized, disciplined. Identical armor. Lances leveled forward, locked in place. The horses moved in perfect rhythm, as if all the riders were parts of a single mechanism, a single body. The ground trembled beneath the hooves.

  Ranuver’s Cast Aside began to fall back when they saw them.

  It looked like panic. Like the correct response to a cavalry charge.

  They withdrew, opening space, as if yielding a path.

  And when no more than a few dozen meters remained before impact, Atrion saw what he had not been ready for.

  Among the defenders’ ranks—those that only a moment ago had seemed disordered—pikemen rose.

  They appeared suddenly: from behind backs, from between the retreating fighters, from the ground itself. Long, heavy pikes that had been lying hidden in the grass snapped upright almost simultaneously. Sharp. Straight. Far longer than Atrion’s riders’ lances.

  The Cast Aside carried no shields.

  They couldn’t—these pikes were held with both hands. Too long. Too heavy. Built not for defense, but for stopping power.

  Ranuver understood everything in time.

  He knew someone would come to cut a corridor for Rianes. Whether he deduced it himself or his scouts spotted Atrion during the night didn’t matter—he was ready. Alongside the units meant to swing into the Cohort’s rear, he had sent the pikemen.

  For this exact moment. To stop the Black Directive’s maneuver.

  And it worked. When Atrion’s clan saw the pikes, it was already too late. The cavalry was charging at full speed—no room to maneuver, no time to decide. The horses could no longer be stopped; the formation could no longer turn.

  The mercenaries were riding straight into a trap.

  At the same time, the Blue Cohort was struggling to hold the line. It was getting harder by the second. The pressure mounted, people fell, and the line bent.

  Hope of withdrawal was melting away. Melting together with Atrion, who was racing straight toward the pikes.