The hall was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting shadows across the long oak table. Rowan stood with his arms crossed, James leaned over the map spread before us, and old Roderic sat stiffly, his eyes narrowed in thought. I remained at the head of the table, fingers pressed against the wood, staring at the crude map of Ashenvale and the surrounding villages.
"The scouts confirm it," I said, voice low but steady. "The bandits are not just harassing us. They're gathering, testing, preparing. If we wait too long, they'll strike when they're ready."
James slammed his fist into the table. "Then we strike first. Meet them at the old mill road before they muster more strength." His youthful fire burned in his eyes, but Rowan shook his head.
"No. If we march blindly, we walk into their trap. The Butcher isn't some common brigand — he's Bronze rank, and cunning. If he lures us into the forest, our levy will be torn apart."
Roderic cleared his throat, his voice steady, measured. "Our strength lies in defense. Behind walls, we can hold, buy time, let the bandits waste themselves on stone. Risking open battle… it's dangerous, my lord."
I listened, but my thoughts drifted — not here, but back to another life.
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I remembered a faraway continent, banners of gold and black snapping in the wind. I had commanded legions once — disciplined, proud men who trusted me with their lives. I had led them into battle against overwhelming odds… and won. Until the night of betrayal. My closest allies had turned, driven by jealousy and ambition. Poison in the wine, daggers in the dark, my soldiers cut down around me. I died choking on my own blood, my final sight the fire consuming my banners.
The memory burned like hot iron, and I clenched my fist on the table. Not again. Never again will I trust blindly. Never again will Ashenvale fall because I hesitated.
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"I've made my decision," I said at last, the edge of steel in my tone. All three men looked at me.
"We cannot wait for the storm to break. We will take the fight to them — but not blindly. Rowan, you'll lead the levy in a tight spear wall. James, you'll command the right flank with the old soldiers. Roderic, ensure supplies are ready in case this drags on. And I…" My eyes narrowed on the map where the mill road was marked. "…I'll deal with the Butcher myself."
Sir Rowan's brow furrowed. "My lord, that's madness. He's Bronze—"
"No." I cut him off, my voice sharp. "He bleeds like any man. And I will not hide behind walls while my people suffer."
There was silence, then James nodded firmly, pride in his eyes. "Then we'll fight by your side."
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The levy held the line, their shields shaking under the weight of the bandit charge. Spears thrust, men screamed, blood splattered the dirt. James fought like a wolf on the right flank, his sword cutting down one foe after another, keeping his section from collapsing.
And then he appeared.
The Butcher. A mountain of a man, axe in hand, aura burning like a furnace. The sheer pressure of his Bronze rank made some of the levy falter, their arms trembling.
He roared and charged, scattering the front line with a single swing. Shields cracked, men fell. My chest tightened as I watched him tear through my soldiers as if they were straw.
I felt something stir in my chest, hot and alive. My body trembled as steel aura sparked faintly to life, wrapping me in a dim glow. Steel Low Rank.
The Butcher's gaze locked onto me. He sneered, amused. "So the little lord has aura after all. Still not enough to save you."
He swung his axe, and I barely raised my sword in time. The blow sent me sprawling back, my arms screaming in pain. The difference between Steel and Bronze was like night and day. I could only survive against him, not win.
Before the killing strike could fall, Rowan's voice thundered across the battlefield.
"FACE ME, BUTCHER!"
Rowan charged, his own aura flaring bright Bronze, cutting through the oppressive weight of the bandit leader. He slammed into the Butcher with shield and blade, sparks flying as steel clashed against steel.
Their duel shook the field. The Butcher was stronger, heavier, each swing of his axe meant to break Rowan in half. But Rowan was disciplined, calm, his strikes precise, each movement honed by years of battle.
I staggered to my feet, my aura still weak but burning inside me. I couldn't defeat the Butcher, but I could fight. I rallied the nearby levies, shouting with all the strength in my lungs.
"Hold the line! Ashenvale stands! With me!"
Their eyes lit up, courage rekindled at the sight of their lord glowing faintly with aura. Together, we pushed the bandits back from Rowan's duel, buying him space to fight without interruption.
The clash dragged on. Rowan's shield shattered, the Butcher's axe grazed his armor, but Rowan did not falter. He seized an opening, driving his sword deep into the Butcher's side. The giant roared, swung wildly, and Rowan ducked beneath the killing blow, plunging his blade up beneath the ribs.
The Butcher froze, blood bubbling from his lips, before collapsing with a heavy thud.
For a moment, silence. Then, the levy erupted in cheers, their voices carrying across the battlefield.
I stood, panting, bloodied but alive, watching Rowan pull his sword free. Our men had seen it all — their commander's victory, their lord awakening aura, their comrades standing firm.
We had survived. But this was only the first. Two lieutenants still remained.