An hour’s march remained to Mosun. The silhouette of the city was already darkening on the horizon—at first a phantom, then a clear outline of towers rising above the river. The open steppe gradually gave way to forest; as they neared the water, the trees thickened, the air grew damp, and the scent of grass shifted to wet bark and silt.

  The column moved in silence. The battle had drained them dry. Their pace was quick but heavy—as if each man dragged an invisible chain. Only Demetrius’s detachment remained fully combat-ready, capable of mounting a proper defense if needed. The rest endured on stubbornness alone.

  Few spoke. They traded brief gestures, nodding instead of words. All tried to move faster—toward the familiar walls, the known gates, the smell of home. Mosun was close; they could feel it in their skin.

  That was when they heard the rumble.

  At first, a faint tremor through the ground. Then a low, swelling thunder.

  Cavalry.

  Demetrius turned. Dust was rising over the steppe.

  The Rejected had received their reinforcements.

  This time, they were not scattered bands. They advanced in formation—heavy armor gleaming with dull iron, shields locked, spears leveled forward. Beneath them were no horses, but massive bison, dark as night, heads lowered, metal caps fixed to their horns. Each step of those beasts struck the chest like a drumbeat.

  Stopping such a wave in open ground was nearly impossible.

  The soldiers felt it at once. Fatigue suddenly grew heavier than before. Someone swallowed dryly. Someone tightened his grip on a sword hilt until his knuckles turned white.

  Mosun was close. But not close enough.

  “Damn… maybe we should have stayed in the fortress,” Petros muttered, eyes fixed on the rising dust.

  Demetrius wheeled his horse sharply.“Spears out. Shields forward. Hold the front. Archers—prepare to fire!”

  The commands spread through the ranks like ripples across water. The men took positions without hesitation. The ground beneath them was soft, roots pushing through the soil, complicating the formation—but the trees offered at least some shelter.

  The roar of the cavalry grew louder. No longer just thunder—a true bellow rising from several directions. It seemed the Rejected had swung around the flanks and were closing from the rear. The air thickened with tension.

  “Form a circle! Among the trees! All-around defense!”

  They shifted deeper into the forest, using several thick trunks as natural shields. Shields locked, spears angled outward, archers positioned within the circle. Breath mingled with the scent of wet bark and sweat.

  The cavalry was approaching from the direction of Korets. But behind them, the rumble was even stronger. The defenders no longer knew from which side the main strike would come. Eyes darted from shadow to shadow; fingers tightened around spear shafts.

  The first riders appeared between the trees.

  “Ready!” someone shouted.

  Spears turned toward them.

  But these were not rejected. Red cloaks. Leather cuirasses reinforced with metal plates. Lighter, swifter horses. At the front rode two figures—Balrek and Tuneta, recognizable even at a distance. Mercenaries of Red Breach.

  The thunder of the Rejected bison was now dangerously close. The circle tightened.

  Balrek glanced at Demetrius and raised his voice. “Tuneta—protect the men of Korets. The rest—follow me.”

  The mercenaries of Red Breach moved at once—no pause, no dramatic flourish. They drove straight toward the Rejected heavy cavalry, as if this were a planned maneuver rather than a sudden clash in the woods.

  The collision came at the edge of the road and the treeline.

  Horses screamed. Bison bellowed, lowering their horned heads. Spears snapped with a dry crack or were torn from hands and flung aside. Riders fell, slid across damp earth, clawed for stirrups. Steel struck steel. Some shouted. Some were already silent.

  The chaos lasted only a few heartbeats.

  Because this was not chaos.

  It was work.

  Those among the Rejected who tried to swing wide and break through to Demetrius’s detachment ran straight into Tuneta. She drove her riders hard and sharp, intercepting every attempt at penetration. They did not chase—they cut at angles, tore men from saddles, shattered formations before they could fully form.

  Petros and his fighters held the circle among the trees. Shields locked, spears outward. But the enemy rarely reached them—mercenaries intercepted the attackers mid-charge. The men of Korets were left to finish those already dragged from their bison: heavy bodies struggling to rise in the enemy forest.

  The main battle unfolded on the road.

  There, Balrek met the core of the Rejected cavalry.

  He did not charge blindly. His men advanced in a wedge—narrow, precise. They struck not at the mass, but at fracture points. They split the line, severed groups from one another. Every movement was drilled.

  The professional riders of the Rejected fought back. Their bison crashed forward with savage force, spears aimed at chest and throat. But the armor of Red Breach held. Metal rang dully; spearheads slid, failing to find weakness.

  And then came the answer—short, exact strikes.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  The rejected were cut apart, isolated, and finished in sequence. No panic. No chaos. Like drills on a training ground. Within minutes, it was clear—the levels were different. The Rejected cavalry still fought from inertia, but belief was gone. They struck because they stood in ranks, not because they saw victory ahead.

  When the first bison turned back, it was not maneuvering. It was a retreat.

  This time, there would be no regrouping. The mercenaries pressed relentlessly, denying them the chance to reform. The enemy formation finally disintegrated. The forest filled once more with heavy breathing and the scent of blood.

  Mosun still stood on the horizon. But now the road to it was clear. The mercenaries did not pursue. Instead, they turned at once to their own.

  Medics were already moving among the wounded riders of Red Breach. Saddles were cut free, armor unfastened, bleeding bound with swift, practiced hands. Those still able to stand formed a protective line between Demetrius’s men and the open steppe.

  No one complained.

  Demetrius understood. If the evacuation of Korets had been swifter—if the garrison had not wasted precious hours clinging to chests and silver—these men would not now be paying in blood for someone else’s delay.

  Balrek rode closer, unhurried. His armor was scratched, but unbroken.

  “Any wounded?”

  Demetrius inclined his head. “Yes. We did what we could.”

  Tuneta dismounted without another word and joined the medics.

  The wounded cried out through clenched teeth. Then they laughed—nervously, hoarsely, almost hysterically. They were alive. And that was enough.

  Balrek surveyed the field with a glance.

  “Good. Those who cannot walk—mount them. We return to Mosun. You’re expected there.”

  No one asked who.

  The two forces moved out together. Now, without panic. Mosun rose before them—its walls clearly visible between the trees, the river gleaming like a strip of steel.

  Meanwhile, the Rejected were already entering Korets.

  The fortress greeted them with silence. They inspected their prize methodically: food stores, grain in the granaries, bundles of spears, armor, and part of the wagons that had not been evacuated in time. Most of the Korets garrison had withdrawn—but the spoils were substantial.

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  And this was only the beginning.

  On the horizon, across the steppe, another cloud of dust was rising. Not scattered detachments—an entire mass. A vast army.

  They had arrived sooner than expected. Mosun was still preparing. Atrion had not yet completed the fortifications. Supplies were being distributed, orders relayed, and reconnaissance was only beginning to grasp the scale.

  The Battle for Mosun would begin before he was ready. And strategically, Ranuver was already winning this war.

  Several days later.

  Ranuver’s armada advanced slowly toward Mosun. The columns stretched all the way from the marshes—narrow trails prevented rapid redeployment, wagons sank into ruts, and the road from Korets to Moshchun climbed steadily upward. The ascent exhausted even the bison, let alone the infantry.

  This time, Ranuver had been fortunate with the weather. Autumn in this part of the kingdom had turned out dry. Had the rains come, the churned roads would have delayed the army by at least two more days. And he did not have two days to spare.

  The Rejected needed to secure a foothold on the far bank of the river before the main forces of Ceradan arrived. The exact location mattered less than the fact of holding ground. Establish a bridgehead. From there, expand the advance, deploy heavy units, and bring up supply trains.

  But there were few viable crossing points.

  Korosten was out of the question. Too advantageous for defense—fortified approaches, elevation, and natural barriers. To assault it head-on would mean losing momentum.

  That left Moshchun.

  Two bridges over the Leshyna. Fewer stone fortifications. More open ground. Less history of siege defense.

  That was precisely what Ranuver intended to exploit.

  He expected the mercenaries of Red Breach to begin building resistance as early as Korets—to delay, to anchor themselves in the terrain, to use the incline, to force the attackers to climb under constant pressure.

  Every meter paid for in blood.

  But now it had become clear: Atrion had made a different choice. He had sacrificed space for time. All efforts were directed toward fortifying the riverbank. Earthworks, barricades, archer positions, heavy infantry strongpoints. The bridges over the Leshyna were becoming the gravitational center of the entire campaign. Two bridges. Two nodes upon which the fate of the coming months would turn. Ranuver understood it. Atrion did as well. And now everything would be decided by who broke first at the crossing.

  Ranuver rode a massive bison, dark as wet stone. Beside him moved Sivash’s convoy—slower, heavily guarded. The cause of the Suggestor’s illness had been identified, treatment begun, but he still looked drained. His face had lost color; shadows lay beneath his eyes.

  Ranuver leaned slightly closer.

  “How are you?”

  Sivash grimaced.

  “Like hell. That cursed girl truly could have killed me. But I’m alive. As for their Suggestors…” He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. “I’m not so sure.”

  The last words sounded strange—carrying more than a simple answer. As if there were a trace of Suggestion in them, even now, weakened as he was.

  Then he laughed. Dry. Hoarse.

  Ranuver snorted.

  “Seems this battle will be fought without Suggestion. I can’t remember the last time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sivash narrowed his eyes. “I’ll remind them all who I am.”

  Ranuver gave a brief reply and spurred his bison forward. They were nearing Mosun.

  The army began to occupy the outskirts of the city.

  The buildings stood empty. Doors torn from hinges, windows shattered. The locals had taken everything they could—even nails from the frames. Forges were dismantled, hearths drowned in water. Stables stood hollow, troughs overturned. Wells were filled with debris or poisoned. Firewood stockpiles burned, charcoal scattered across courtyards.

  The city had been prepared thoroughly. You could feel the hand of someone who thought a step ahead. The only thing they had not done was burn it all to the ground. The final step that would have turned Mosun into ashes. The authorities had not dared—perhaps out of pity for their own walls. Or perhaps they had kept that option for the last resort.

  Ranuver surveyed the empty streets. He did not like it when an opponent thought as coldly as he did.

  Meanwhile, scouts crawled cautiously toward the bridges.

  Nothing unnecessary had been left before the crossings. Fences broken. Bushes cut down. Even stones were cleared from the roadside. The space before the bridges had been stripped bare, as if licked clean to naked earth.

  The bridges were barricaded tightly and intelligently. Anyone attempting to approach would fall under crossfire from both banks. There was nowhere to hide. Twenty paces of open ground looked insignificant on a map—but in reality, it was a strip of death.

  Ranuver, meanwhile, was setting up his headquarters in a seized stone building on the outskirts. A sleeping area had been partitioned off with screens; beside it stood a table already covered with maps.

  Officers spread parchment sheets, updating markings. Among them was Karasel—silent, attentive. On the table lay a fresh map of Mosun, likely purchased in the city before the evacuation. Beside it—a large map of the kingdom, its southern lands carefully outlined.

  Hukan stood leaning on the table. He moved cautiously—the wound he had taken at Kosteli had not fully healed. Ungaron watched in silence.

  A young Rejected officer, Navren, delivered his report:

  “Our units near Korosten are establishing a defensive line. Patrols are dispersed along the river. If the Ceradans attempt a strike to our rear, they have only one viable crossing—near Korosten. We’re leaving there the units that require time to recover.”

  Hukan cut him off dryly.

  “Focus on Mosun. We’ll discuss defense later.”

  Navren allowed himself a faint smile.

  “As we discussed it when we stood in the forest?”

  It was a direct jab.

  Ranuver did not react—there was truth in it. But Hukan stiffened.

  “Do not forget your place.”

  Navren did not look away.

  “I know my place. Do you know yours—or should I point to it on the map?”

  He traced a finger along the northern edge of the parchment.

  “Forgot. These are lands of men. Just like you. Only different. And not you.”

  Ungaron slammed his fist onto the table, scattering dust from the parchment.

  “Enough. On the far bank waits someone for whom a man is nothing more than pink skin. None of us fit that measure. So leave your blood-counting for other tables.”

  Silence thickened in the room.

  At last, Ranuver spoke.

  He leaned over the map and pointed.

  “See the space before both bridges? You can erase everything drawn here. There’s nothing there. Bare ground. To reach the bridge, twenty meters across open space.”

  His finger shifted.

  “And this tower. And that tall building. Ballistae. Judging by the angles, capable of firing incendiary bolts.”

  He straightened.

  “Any shields or temporary cover we raise will be pierced and set alight. So instead of competing in sarcasm, think about how we get to the other bank.”

  The argument died instantly. They all bent over the map. Eyes traced the river line, the towers, the narrow streets beyond the bridges. Twenty meters of exposed ground. Two crossings. No obvious solution.

  Hukan broke the silence. Slowly, he ran a finger along the blue ribbon of the river.

  “There is no clean solution. We can’t build temporary bridges—the current is too fast, the depth too great. Under fire, that’s suicide.”

  He looked up.

  “We go straight through. Prepare for heavy losses. But first, we take control of the square before the bridges. Temporarily neutralize their archers. That reduces the dead. Then we erect barricades and shield ourselves from further fire. If we’re lucky, we bring up a ram and smash the fortifications on the bridge.”

  He paused.

  “The real question,” Hukan continued, “is how we buy time to build those barricades. How do we keep the square clear of arrows and ballista bolts?”

  Navren answered without hesitation.

  “Burn the leaves.”

  Hukan narrowed his eyes.

  “Is that some Rejected metaphor?”

  Navren shook his head.

  “No. When dry leaves burn, they make thick smoke. And the wind here almost always blows from the marshes northward, toward the forest. If we place the fires correctly, the smoke will drift over the bridges.”

  Hukan considered it.

  “That could work…”

  Ranuver added calmly,

  “Even if we seize the bridges, it will be a slaughter. They’ll rain arrows and spears from both sides. We’ll lose many riders before we can force engagement on the far bank.”

  The air in the room grew heavier.

  Hukan lifted his head.

  “Then perhaps the Oakens will finally prove themselves in battle? They have the strongest bodies and armor in our ranks. We raise the smoke screen. Put them on bison and send them straight into the barricades. They’re heavy. They can break through.”

  Slowly, the gazes turned to Karasel. He had remained silent until now, watching the debate as if it were a game whose ending he already knew. At last, he looked up.

  “You want to make martyrs of us, don’t you?”

  His voice was even. No anger. No offense. But it carried weight.

  Silence returned to the table.

  On the map, the two bridges looked like thin lines.

  In reality, they would cost hundreds of lives.

  Hukan did not look away.

  “You missed the previous battle. I’m merely giving you a chance to prove you’re not passengers here—but warriors.”

  Karasel answered evenly.

  “The previous battle happened because of your stupidity and your refusal to follow Ranuver’s orders. And now we’re deciding who to send to die.”

  The air turned heavy.

  Ranuver did not raise his voice.

  “But Hukan is right about one thing. Your people have the best chance of breaking the barricades. And you’re the only ones who still have a Suggestor with the transparent mace. And let me remind you—Atrion commands the defense of the western bank. That is why you are here.”

  The name hung in the silence.

  Karasel studied the map for a long moment. His fingers rested on the drawn bridges—thin lines deciding the fate of the campaign.

  “Fine,” he said at last, without lifting his eyes. “But we storm only one bridge. When they commit their forces there, someone else takes the second.”

  Ranuver nodded.

  “Hukan. Karasel is right. The first battle began because you ignored an order. The second bridge is yours. You wait until the mercenaries commit to repelling Karasel’s assault—then you strike from your flank. Navren—the smoke screen and full support to both flanks. We move the day after tomorrow. For today—that’s all.”

  He turned and left the headquarters. The officers followed. Navren. Ungaron.

  Inside remained Karasel and Hukan.

  For a few seconds, they simply looked at one another. Words were unnecessary.

  Hukan understood.

  Karasel understood him.

  The assault lay ahead. And after the bridges, nothing between them would remain unspoken.