Holding the Line

The Ebonreach Wilds lay shrouded in smoke and dusk. Arrows jutted from churned soil, and the cries of the wounded drifted across the field. The trampled grass was slick with mud and blood, littered with broken shields and splintered spears. A Legionnaire, his armor battered and scarred, scanned the treeline where Syndicate banners had just vanished. The horns of retreat echoed faintly, swallowed by the wind. This was no crushing triumph—only a hard-fought reprieve, one more day of resistance carved out of the enemy’s momentum.

He spotted a comrade struggling to rise, one hand pressed against a bleeding shoulder. Striding over, he extended his arm and pulled the soldier to his feet. The younger man’s face was pale, but his eyes burned with the stubborn fire that marked the Legion’s ranks. They locked eyes but exchanged no words. A slight nod between the two was enough for them to understand the cost of the day and the greater cost that surrender would bring.

They walked together toward the battered formation, where healers moved swiftly and the living gathered what could be salvaged from the field. Every soldier understood the stakes—even in victory, the war could still be lost.

---

Hours later, the command tent glowed in the torchlight, the air heavy with the scents of sweat, oiled leather, and damp wool. The steel legion leader stood at the head of the war table, the edges of the map curling from years of use. Three markers sat on the parchment, each marking the site of an upcoming battle.

“Emberpeak Pass, the Stonecross Plains, and the Vale of Telos,” he said, tapping each in turn with a gauntleted finger. “If we take all three, and we have a path to the Wilds. Lose even one, and the Syndicate’s grip may tighten for good.”

His general leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied the map. “The Syndicate’s taken more ground and they’re pressing hard, but they’ve stretched themselves thin. If we force them into open ground, their advantage will fade.”

A third officer, older and more deliberate in his speech, traced the route between the second and third markers. “The last battle will be the fulcrum. If we reach it intact, they can be broken—though if they’re ready for us, it may be the Legion that shatters.”

The leader’s gaze swept over them both. “We strike first, fast, and with everything we have- if we make it to the Vale, our soldiers will rise one final time. The Syndicate think they have already won... we’ll show them the cost of that belief.”

Outside, shadows shifted. Beyond the rear of the tent, a Syndicate spy crouched low, every word burned into his memory. With a swirl into the night wind, he slipped silently away.

Three battles remained. The Legion, though beaten down in the early stages of the campaign, had life left in them yet. But the Syndicate still held the advantage, and the war’s outcome hung by the thinnest of threads.