The rebel camp buzzed with activity as word of Alric’s plan spread like wildfire. Fighters sharpened their weapons, scouts returned with reports from the mountains, and messengers relayed Iridia’s orders to fortify key chokepoints. The mountains were treacherous terrain, perfect for guerrilla warfare—but the stakes were high, and the mood was grim.

  Alric stood in the center of the camp, surrounded by a group of Iridia’s trusted lieutenants. A rough map of the valley lay spread across a wooden table, its surface marked with charcoal lines indicating trails, cliffs, and potential ambush points.

  Iridia leaned over the map, her finger tracing the routes. “The vanguard is camped here,” she said, tapping a spot near the southern edge of the valley. “They’ll have to move north to reach us, and this pass”—she pointed to a narrow gorge flanked by steep cliffs—“is their most likely route.”

  Alric nodded, his mind racing. “If we control the high ground, we can force them into a bottleneck. Archers on the cliffs, skirmishers in the pass. Hit them hard, retreat before they can regroup, and draw them deeper into the mountains.”

  Iridia’s sharp blue eyes fixed on him. “It’s a solid plan, but there’s one problem. They won’t march blindly into a trap unless they’re provoked.”

  Alric’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s where I come in.”

  The room fell silent. The lieutenants exchanged uneasy glances, and Iridia’s brow furrowed.

  “You’re proposing to what? Walk up to their camp and wave a flag?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

  “Not exactly,” Alric said. “I’ll lead a small group to strike their camp—enough to make them think we’re desperate and disorganized. They’ll chase us into the mountains, right into the trap.”

  “You’re insane,” one of the lieutenants muttered.

  Iridia folded her arms, her expression hard. “You realize the risk you’re taking, don’t you? If this fails, you’ll be dead, and we’ll lose our best chance at uniting the rebellion.”

  “I know the risk,” Alric said firmly. “But this isn’t just about strategy. It’s about sending a message. The people need to see that I’m willing to fight alongside them, not hide behind a title.”

  Iridia stared at him for a long moment, then let out a sigh. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if you die out there, I’m blaming you.”

  Night fell over the valley, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The rebel strike team moved through the shadows, their footsteps silent on the rocky ground. Alric led the group, his obsidian dagger gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The air was cold, biting at his exposed skin, but the heat of adrenaline kept him moving.

  Ahead, the enemy camp stretched out like a sleeping beast. Torches cast flickering light over the rows of tents, and armored figures patrolled the perimeter.

  “Kaelion,” Alric whispered, his voice barely audible. “What do you see?”

  The Echo’s spectral form materialized beside him, his golden eyes scanning the camp. “They’re spread out, but the guards near the supply wagons are on high alert. That’s where you’ll hit them hardest. Fast, then out.”

  Alric nodded, signaling to the rebels behind him. They moved into position, spreading out along the edge of the camp. Alric’s heart pounded as he drew closer to the wagons, the dagger’s weight grounding him.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Kaelion’s voice sounded in his mind, sharp and steady. “Remember, boy. Strike with precision. Don’t waste time.”

  Alric’s hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger. “I know.”

  He raised his hand, and the rebels sprang into action.

  The first explosion came from the far side of the camp, where one of the rebels had set fire to a stack of barrels. Flames roared to life, illuminating the night as shouts of alarm rang out.

  Alric darted toward the supply wagons, his movements quick and fluid. A guard stepped into his path, sword raised, but Alric struck first, the dagger slicing through the man’s armor like butter. The obsidian blade pulsed with dark energy, and the guard crumpled to the ground.

  “Move!” Alric barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

  The rebels set fire to the wagons, their torches igniting the oil-soaked wood in a matter of seconds. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning supplies, and the enemy camp descended into chaos.

  Soldiers scrambled to contain the flames, their shouts overlapping in a cacophony of panic. But Alric didn’t stay to watch the destruction.

  “Fall back!” he shouted, waving the rebels toward the mountains.

  The plan worked almost too well.

  By the time Alric and his group reached the first chokepoint in the mountains, the enemy was hot on their heels. Dozens of soldiers poured into the pass, their torches casting eerie shadows on the cliff walls.

  Alric stood at the center of the narrow gorge, his dagger in hand. Behind him, the rebel archers were hidden among the rocks, their bows drawn and ready.

  The enemy captain—a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a voice like thunder—raised his sword, his expression twisted with fury. “Prince Alric!” he bellowed. “You’ll pay for your treachery!”

  Alric raised his chin, his golden eyes gleaming. “Come and take me, then.”

  The captain snarled, spurring his men forward. The soldiers charged into the pass, their armor clanking as they closed in on Alric.

  “Now!” Alric shouted.

  The rebels struck with brutal precision. Arrows rained down from the cliffs, cutting through the enemy ranks like a scythe through wheat. Boulders rolled down the slopes, crushing men and horses alike.

  Chaos erupted as the soldiers tried to regroup, their formation broken by the sudden assault. Alric moved through the chaos like a shadow, his dagger flashing as he struck down anyone who came too close.

  Kaelion’s voice rang in his mind, calm and commanding. “Keep moving. Don’t let them surround you.”

  Alric obeyed, weaving through the battlefield with a precision that felt almost unnatural. The power of the Echoes burned in his veins, and for a moment, he felt invincible.

  But then, a familiar chill washed over him.

  “Alric…”

  The whisper cut through the noise, sending a shiver down his spine. He staggered, his vision blurring as the battlefield seemed to tilt around him.

  “Not now,” he growled through gritted teeth.

  The voice grew louder, more insistent. “You cannot escape me, prince. The blood will claim its due.”

  Kaelion’s presence flared in his mind, hot and protective. “Ignore him. Focus!”

  Alric shook his head, forcing the whispers aside as he plunged back into the fight. The battle raged on, but the weight in his mind refused to lift.

  By dawn, the enemy vanguard had been shattered. The survivors fled back toward the valley, their morale broken and their forces decimated. The rebels regrouped on the cliffs, their cheers echoing through the mountains.

  But Alric felt no triumph.

  He stood at the edge of the battlefield, his hands shaking as he stared at the bloodstained dagger in his hand. The whispers had faded, but their echoes lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of the cost of his power.

  Iridia approached him, her expression a mix of relief and concern. “We did it,” she said. “They won’t be able to march on us for weeks, maybe longer.”

  Alric nodded, his gaze distant. “It’s a start.”

  Iridia frowned, studying him closely. “You’re pale. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Alric said quickly, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. “Just tired.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press the issue. “Rest while you can,” she said. “We’ve bought ourselves some time, but Mordain won’t stop coming. And neither can we.”

  Alric nodded, though the weight in his chest only grew heavier.

  As the rebels celebrated their hard-fought victory, Alric turned his gaze toward the horizon. The mountains had bought them time, but he knew the war was far from over.

  And in the shadows of his mind, the Echoes stirred.