Chapter 368: He’ll run right into the trap himself
While Ethan was giving Faelith the best day of her life, far away in Fallenwinter, an army was beginning to gather.
All around the city, the ground had been ravaged.
Centuries-old trees had been felled for kilometers on end, their still-fresh stumps bleeding sap into the summer air, filling it with the sharp scent of resin and cut wood.
In place of the forest, a vast encampment stretched as far as the eye could see—a sea of white tents and banners fluttering in the wind.
More than thirty thousand men were already gathered there, with another ten thousand still on their way.
Organizing a force of that size was, obviously, a logistical nightmare.
Still, under the coordination of more than a hundred third-stage specialists and the supreme command of a fourth-stage warrior, the army was taking shape.
While the men trained beneath the blazing sun and sharpened their blades, the leaders of that vast force met elsewhere.
Inside the mansion of the Lord of Fallenwinter, dwarves, elves, and humans sat gathered around a massive rectangular table carved from dark oak.
The Lord of Fallenwinter sat at the head, his body encased in imposing white steel armor that reflected the candlelight in icy glints.
His hands, calloused from decades of battle, gripped the edge of the table as he watched the other lords converse among themselves, lost in trivial matters and vulgarities.
His eyes were cold, filled with pure disgust.
He despised those people.
They were not there because they feared that someone else—perhaps a tyrant—might take control of their people. Not because they cared about the enslavement of the men, women, and children they had sworn to protect.
Those Lords were there simply because they could not bear the mere idea of losing their own power.
In Lord Zael Fallenwinter’s view, power should be nothing more than a tool—a means of protecting those beneath him, of ensuring the freedom and well-being of his citizens, and of keeping them out of the clutches of tyrants.
What was the value of a soldier’s death, claimed solely for the greed of his leaders?
"Any news from Faelith? Why haven’t we heard back from our scouts yet?" Zael asked, his deep voice cutting through the murmur of the room like a blade.
The chatter died at once.
"No new information on her, my lord." An officer stepped forward, bowing his head slightly. "One of the third-stage specialists we infiltrated into Goldenveil returned this morning. According to the intelligence we’ve received, Goldenveil has ten thousand soldiers ready to march, and Lady Greenleaf remains at Lord Ethan’s palace. We were unable to establish contact with her."
"Hm..." Zael grunted, letting his back slump against the chair’s backrest.
He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in thought.
"It’s obvious that damn elf has already betrayed us! Cowardly knife-ears!" One of the dwarves raged, slamming his fist on the table so hard that the goblets rattled and wine sloshed onto the dark oak. "We can’t trust them!"
His furious eyes swept over the Elven Lords across the table.
"Go back to your cave, you filthy mole! This is a conversation among intelligent and civilized beings!" One of the Elven Lords leapt to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, his face contorted with pure contempt.
"The only mole here is the one between my legs—the one your wife dreams about every night, you son of a bitch!" The dwarf grabbed the handle of the axe leaning against the side of his chair, his thick fingers clenching around the wood with a menacing creak.
At that very moment, the Elven Lord drew his elven silver saber halfway from its sheath, the polished blade whispering against the leather, his eyes gleaming with murderous intent.
"Enough!"
Zael Fallenwinter rose in a single fluid motion, his aura exploding along with him, sweeping through the room.
The Dwarf Lord and the Elven Lord—both third-stage warriors with centuries of experience behind them—choked under the crushing weight of that pressure.
They collapsed back into their seats, faces turning pale as they struggled to draw air back into their lungs.
The pressure of a fourth-stage warrior was no joke.
"I understand your concerns, but we are in no position to tolerate internal disputes." Zael looked each of the Lords in the eye, one by one.
"You have your own scouts and know Goldenveil’s power well, just as you know exactly what will happen if we don’t act."
"I’ve already sent nearly my entire male population to war, and you’ve done the same. A defeat would be disastrous. And so would delaying too long."
"You can kill each other after we’ve dealt with Goldenveil. Until then, try not to rip each other’s throats out."
Zael let out a heavy sigh, drawing the pressure back into his body.
Everyone there was tense.
It was the height of summer.
They should have been preparing the harvests and filling the granaries for the harsh winter that was approaching. Instead, there they were, ready to march, taking with them nearly all the men of working and fighting age from their cities.
A single mistake would be catastrophic for everyone.
"Ethan has ten thousand soldiers? Very well. We have four soldiers for every one of his," Zael declared, leaning over the map.
"Furthermore, I’ve already made contact with the orc tribes. They know of Goldenveil’s existence, and apparently, they’re also preparing to attack it in the name of some barbaric nonsense about the god of war."
"The moment Lord Ethan steps outside the walls of Goldenveil with an army, he’ll have endless hordes of orcs gnawing at his heels."
Zael ran his fingers across the map, tracing invisible lines between the marked positions.
"The green skins should be enough to wipe out Goldenveil on their own. And if they aren’t, at least they’ll weaken them enough for us to deliver the final blow without much effort."
"When Ethan leaves the walls of Goldenveil—or if Ethan leaves the walls of Goldenveil?" A human lord interjected, crossing his arms over his chest.
"How many months will we have to wait for that? How can you be sure that the brat won’t simply hole up behind the walls until winter comes and starves us to death? We don’t have anywhere near the strength needed to lay siege to fortifications of that size."
"The scouts we’ve infiltrated into Goldenveil, disguised as adventurers, have already brought us the exact words of the speech he gave to his own people when he announced the unification of these lands under his command."
Zael looked up, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips.
"He’s young, arrogant, brimming with confidence. He’ll march, because in his mind, defeat isn’t even a possibility. We just need to nock the arrow. He’ll run right into the trap himself."