The sky was dark.
Smoke was emerging from every rooftop. There were screams everywhere.
It was clear, Skeldrhall was lost.
Senjar stood in the courtyad of the palace, breathing hard. He was covered in blood, not all of it his own. His chest ached with every breath he took and his legs were shaking beneath him.
But still he was standing.
Around him, the enemies were pouring through the broken palace gates. Morhaal warriors were like wild animals, they were roaring as they climbed over the fallen bodies and burning carts.
One of them charged Senjar with axe in hand. Senjar didn't think-he moved. His blade cut clean across the man's chest. The Morhaali fell without a sound.
Another one charged, Senjar stabbed him through the stomach, and kicked him away.
He didn't feel fear. The only thing he felt was terrible emptiness inside him.
In this chaos, someone grabbed his shoulder.
"Enough," came a voice, it was deep, rough and familiar.
"You're done."
Senjar turned to see. His father stood before him, blood was running down his left arm, his armor was blackened and cracked. His hair were soaked with sweat. His face was hard, but his eyes... they were tired. Too tired.
"Father-" Senjar tried to say something, but Drogmar pulled him close.
"You must go," Drogmar said.
"Take what's left. Kaelric waits by the east tunnel. Survivors from the tribe are already out."
"I can still fight Lord Father-"
"No." Drogmar gripped him tighter.
"The walls are broken. The city is burning. We have lost this place."
A crash echoed from the keep behind them. The roof of the great hall collapsed in flames.
Senjar looked around. The last of Harkoraal warriors were falling back toward the rear of the fortress. Everything was covered in smoke. There were Bodies everywhere Harkorall and Morhaal alike. But the enemy was still swarming.
"I won't leave you, Father." Senjar said.
"You must." Drogmar said.
"I have failed son, but you,"
"You are Arl now. The future of Harkoraal depends on you."
Drogmar gave the wolf-marked sword into Senjar's hands. It was warm, heavy, and stained dark.
He looked at the sigil one last time-a wolf on the black banner.
"Kaelric knows the path," Drogmar said.
"Go, and lead as you see fit."
Senjar's mouth was dry. He didn't knew what to say.
His father Drogmar didn't wait for a reply. He turned to the palace gate, raised his axe, and with his personal guards marched straight to the Morhaal warriors.
Senjar watched until his father disappeared into the smoke.
He stood there for a moment, still holding the sword in his hand, the weight of it digging into his hand like a brand. For a moment, the world was strangely quiet, though the battle had not stopped.
It was still going on. The fire, the screams, the roar of Morhaal war cries, they were all still there. But they felt distant now.
Senjar turned to the tunnel, grit his teeth, and ran.
The path to the east tunnel was half-choked with rubble and burning timber. He passed dead warriors, both friend and foe. Some reached toward him with empty hands. Others stared without eyes. He didn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
At the edge of the inner keep, he saw the gate barely standing. Just beyond it, Kaelric stood with his sword drawn, barking orders at the last line of Harkorall warriors.
"Hold the flank!" Kaelric shouted. "Don't let them break through!"
When he saw Senjar, he took one step forward and met him halfway.
"You made it," Kaelric said.
"My father didn't," Senjar replied. His voice was firm and didn't shake.
Kaelric looked at the sword in his hand. His expression changed just slightly. He nodded once.
"You're Arl now," Kaelric said.
Senjar didn't argue. He turned to face the warriors gathered near the tunnel entrance.
"Pull the wounded ones to the front. Fighters to the rear. Shields up. We move now," he said.
They looked at him young, blood soaked, untested.
But no one dared to challenge him.
Kaelric stepped beside him. "We've got fewer than three hundred fit to fight. Maybe less."
"Just three hundred?" Senjar inquired.
"There are more but scattered in parties. We will meet them near the borders of the Empire." Kaelric replied.
"We'll use the forest," Senjar said.
"Split into four bands. Quiet. Fast. Anyone falls behind, they find their own way."
"And if the Morhaal catch us?" Kaelric asked.
Senjar looked back at the smoke rising behind them.
"Then we kill them in the trees."
Kaelric smiled faintly. "Spoken like a Harkorall."
The tunnel was narrow, hidden behind a broken altar in the stone wall. It sloped down into the dark.
Senjar stepped through first.
The survivors followed.
The tunnel was very cold and it was also wet, it was carved deep through stone by hands long dead. The walls were narrow, and the air in it smelled of old dirt and damp iron.
Footsteps echoed behind Senjar slow, tired, but moving.
The deeper they went, the quieter it became.
No fire. No screams. Just breathing. Shuffling boots. The sound of cloth brushing against stone.
Senjar walked at the front with Kaelric beside him. Behind them, the line of survivors stretched into the dark. Some limped. Some held onto others. There were women with children. Old warriors too hurt to fight. Teenagers gripping bloodied weapons they had never expected to use so soon.
Senjar held the sword close. Its weight reminded him what he now was.
Not a son.
Not a fighter.
But a leader.
When they reached the tunnel's end, Kaelric moved ahead and pushed open the heavy stone door. A sharp gust of air rushed in, carrying the scent of pine and smoke. Beyond the doorway, the trees of the Smoke-Eater's Wood stood tall and shadowed, branches swaying like they were whispering secrets to the wind.
Senjar stepped out of the tunnel first. The ground was soft and cold beneath his boots.
The survivors came out behind him, one group at a time, blinking at the light, coughing from the air.
He turned to them and saw them fully for the first time, his people.
Not warriors.
Not an army.
Just people running from fire.
Kaelric came to his side. "This is what we have left."
"How many?" Senjar asked.
"Just under twelve thousand. About half can fight. The rest… they need time. Food. Rest."
"How many we have here?"
"Less than thousand."
Senjar nodded slowly. His eyes didn't leave the tree line.
"We'll rest when we reach the border."
He turned to the crowd. His voice rose loud enough to carry.
"Split into bands of one hundred. Kaelric and I will lead the front. Keep your weapons close and your mouths shut. We move through the forest, and we don't light fires. The Morhaal are close, and they're not finished."
No one spoke. But they listened.
That was enough.
He raised the sword and pointed toward the shadows.
"Go."
The forest was thick with mist by the second night.
Trees rose tall and twisted around each other, their roots tangled like old bones. The Harkoraal moved quietly between them, they were careful not to snap branches or speak too loud. Even the children seemed to understand every sound could be death.
Senjar walked near the front, sword strapped across his back, eyes scanning every shadow.
Kaelric kept count.
"Scouts say we're two days from the old border ridge. If we move fast, we can reach the river pass before they catch up."
"They're already behind us," Senjar said.
Kaelric looked over. "You saw something?"
"I felt something."
That feeling became fact before the hour passed.
A rider came fast from the rear. His horse was lathered, and his face was pale.
"Morhaal trackers," the scout said. "They found our trail. Small group no more than twenty. But they're close. Too close."
Senjar didn't hesitate.
"Tell the wounded to keep moving. I want ten riders with me and Kaelric, archers only. We end this now."
Kaelric raised a brow. "Could send others to handle it."
Senjar met his eyes. "They're following me. I'll answer for it."
"I will go with you, my Lord." Kaelric said in a requesting tone.
Senjar just nodded.
They turned off the main path with ten of their best, silent men who knew the forest as well as their own hands. The night was thick, but they moved with purpose.
It didn't take long to find the Morhaal.
Twenty of them lightly armed scouts stalking through the brush, heads low, voices hushed.
Senjar didn't give them the chance to speak.
He gave the signal.
Arrows flew.
Three Morhaal dropped before they even looked up. The rest scrambled. Senjar drew his sword and charged.
His blade found a throat. Kaelric drove his spear through another man's chest.
The ambush lasted less than a minute.
When it was over, the ground was wet with blood.
Senjar stood in the middle of it, breathing steady.
One Morhaal still lived, barely. A boy. Maybe sixteen. A cut across his leg had dropped him. He looked up at Senjar, shaking, mouth open.
"How many are behind?" Senjar asked the boy.
"Don't know the exact number." Boy replied with fear in his eyes.
Senjar raised his sword.
The boy dropped his blade and whispered, "Mercy, please"
The sword came down.
Kaelric said nothing.
No one did.
They left the bodies for the crows.
And so the wolves marched.