Chapter 49: Back to the present…

"We’ve got the cargo secured, Commander," The last member called out from the rear. He had quickly turned around to check on the cargo after realizing what the gate guards were doing. "But the paths are clogging up fast. Every second we stand here talking, the gap under those gates gets smaller. We’re going to get locked in."

"This is most probably then not a sparring or training match..." Resven mumbled softly to himself, his brow furrowed in realization.

Maeve looked over at Resven. "Resven, she’s right. If we get trapped inside these walls when whoever is up there fully unleashes, the fallout alone could crush us. Even if they are able to contain the fight up there, we should not linger in the city... We need to make a choice right now."

Resven stood completely still. His brow knitted into deep, hard ridges. He could feel it—that terrifying, heavy throb of energy crashing down the mountainside. It was an absolute suffocating density that their current power could barely handle. If those gates were dropped, who knew what would happen?

"We should leave, we don’t need to be a part of anything happening now," said Resven, his voice sinking into a sharp, cutting command that instantly silenced his squad. He turned his back on the burning palace, his eyes fixed on the closing gap at the main exit.

"Gunnar, Yrsa—take the point," Resven ordered sharply. "We’ll burst through if we have to... a fight like this one will not end just that easily and I don’t intend to be an accidental casualty caught in the cross fire."

"On it!" Gunnar roared, lifting his massive tower shield and locking it tightly with Yrsa’s heavy armor.

"Maeve, Doric, watch the flanks," Resven continued, stepping into the center of the formation next to Maeve. "We hurry out of the citynow, before those gates drop completely and all of hell breaks loose. Move!"

The five of them snapped together like a single, solid machine. With Gunnar and Yrsa leading the charge, their heavy prow plowed straight through the terrified crowd, racing the dropping iron grates to secure their escape.

***

Back to the present...

The encampment of House Osric could not be called a bustling scene of activity, as only a few warriors were scattered across the area. Telarin and his group had taken up posts at the newly constructed watchtowers.

Keren and his squad were taking their much-needed rest in the cabins and campfire areas, whilst the two groups of Adara and Mestin had decided to take to a bit of sparring at the training grounds...

A cloud of dirt and sawdust erupted, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and pine wood. Around the training, ten warriors stood in a loose circle, shouting and slamming their fists against their thighs.

In the center of the ring, two men were deadlocked. They wore only rough canvas tunics and trousers. Bare skin glistened with sweat under the pale sun. They wielded wooden weapons.

The warrior from Mestin’s squad, a broad-shouldered brute named Thorvald, threw himself forward with a massive wooden greataxe. He swung it in a brutal, horizontal arc that swept through the air, aiming straight for his opponent’s ribs.

"Keep your feet planted, Thorvald! Put your back into it!" Mestin bowed from the sidelines. He was leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed over his massive chest, a smile splitting his aging face.

His opponent, a leaner, sharp-eyed warrior from Adara’s squad named Joran, didn’t try to block. He kept his knees bent, using his agility to smoothly drop flat under the crushing swing. The heavy oak axe passed inches over his head.

Before Thorvald could recover his balance from the missed strike, Joran pivoted on his heel, driving the butt of his wooden short-spear straight into Thorvald’s exposed flank.

Thwack!

The wooden impact echoed across the clearing, and Adara’s side of the ring erupted into wild cheers.

"Beautiful move, Joran! Keep him dancing!" Adara called out. She leaned back on a low wooden bench next to Mestin. Her legs were elegantly crossed, and her eyes locked onto the sweating fighters. A thoroughly amused smile played on her lips.

She slowly turned her gaze upward and let it slide up the giant beside her. A playful, teasing glint showed in her eyes. "Your boys have plenty ofpower, Mestin, but they swing as if chopping down stubborn trees. It’s tragic, really. If you can’t hit the target, all that mass becomes dead weight."

Mestin chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Give it a second, Adara. Wood doesn’t break bones, but it still bruises. Thorvald can take a hit... just watch."

In the ring, Thorvald barely even flinched from the spear strike to his ribs. He grunted, resetting his stance instantly. Instead of backing off, he used the momentum of his previous miss to spin completely around, bringing the heavy shaft of the axe downward like a hammer.

Joran tried to bring his spear up to parry, but the sheer force of the two-handed downward smash was too much. The wooden weapons clashed with a loudcrack, and the force of the blow drove Joran right down to one knee, the dirt exploding around his boots.

"There it is! Drive him into the dirt!" one of the men standing around the grounds screamed from the sidelines, pumping a fist in the air. The rest of the strike-force squad started chanting Thorvald’s name, their voices booming across the camp.

"See that?" Mestin pointed a thick finger at the ring. "Your boy is fast, I’ll give him that. But when my guys lock you down, agility doesn’t mean a damn thing."

Adara let out a sharp, mocking little laugh, her eyes widening in mock astonishment as she stared up at him. "My, my, Mestin. A whole three sentences in a row? Careful now, you’ll strain your jaw if you keep up that sort of reckless chatter."

Her amused smirk vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cool, calculating look as she turned her eyes back to the ring.