Darian reined Bright Spear to a halt behind the grassy knoll. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the plains as he dismounted and patted the warhorse's flank.

  "Stay," he whispered.

  Bright Spear whinnied his assent.

  Darian patted Bright Spear again. Then he climbed to the crest of the hill, crouched low, and closed his eyes. With practiced focus, he reached through the Warsong link and cast Warsight. The familiar vertigo washed over him as his perception shifted.

  Suddenly Darian saw through different eyes—the world from just above and behind Bran's shoulder. The blacksmith's broad back filled his vision. His muscles were tense beneath his simple tunic. To Bran's left was Thomwell. The gangly farmer was clutching a makeshift banner that fluttered in the breeze. The cloth was rough-spun and hastily dyed, but the embroidery, though crude, depicted the unmistakable Ironheart Crest: a steel-gray heart framed by two straight swords. The word "courage" arced over the heart, while "honor" curved beneath it.

  Bran's right hand gripped a warhammer that spoke of his noble past. It wasn't some unwieldy battlefield tool, but a finely balanced weapon worthy of a master warrior—three feet of polished shaft wrapped in expensive leather that had somehow survived the years. The silver hammerhead gleamed in the sunlight, flat on one face for crushing blows, wickedly spiked on the other for puncturing armor. On his left arm rested a battered kite shield. Its once-bright heraldry was now faded but still visible, depicting the gauntleted fist that once heralded the Fell Handed Duke's presence on the battlefield.

  Bran is right where he belongs, Darian thought with satisfaction.

  Through the Warsong link, Darian felt the nervous energy of the thirty-one villagers positioned behind the gnoll with Bright Spear. They were out of the line of sight from any of Westbridge Garrison's vantage points, but they were still visibly nervous and unsettled. Their fear manifested as a slight tremor in his War Frame analysis:

  Rebel Footmen – Morale: 42% (?3% from pre-battle jitters)

  The Westbridge Garrison loomed before Bran. It wasn't a singular building but a fortified compound, with stone walls fifteen feet high surrounding its perimeter and archer towers reinforcing the corners.

  The sturdy iron gate stood closed, flanked by Imperial banners that carried Malevora's Imperial Crest—a violet serpent rampant against a crimson field dotted with black roses. Smoke rose from several chimneys within, suggesting a well-established force.

  Darian recalled what he'd seen during his earlier scouting endeavor: the compound had a training yard, a granary, servant quarters, and a barracks capable of housing fifty fighting men. Westbridge Garrison was located in too remote a location within the Empire to warrant the presence of an Imperial Officer. Its commander was an Imperial master sergeant, with a veteran sergeant serving as the second-in-command, and four corporals—well, three, now—answering to both sergeants. The master sergeant stayed in a small house at the heart of the compound, while the veteran sergeant bunked with the rest of the men.

  Darian returned his focus to the present as shouts of alarm and anger erupted from the garrison's walls.

  The lookouts had spotted Bran and Thomwell.

  Darian watched through Warsight as Bran halted just beyond crossbow range, with Thomwell nervously fidgeting beside him. The blacksmith planted his feet wide. It was the stance of a man who wouldn't be moved. And then he banged his hammer against his shield three times. The sound echoed across the open field—a challenge impossible to ignore.

  The garrison's gates creaked open. Darian counted as twenty Imperial soldiers marched out in formation. Their armor gleamed in the afternoon sun, but their faces betrayed uncertainty. At their head walked a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face weathered by decades of service. His posture spoke of military discipline, but his expression held only regret. The stripes of a veteran sergeant adorned the chevron on the upper right sleeve of his uniform.

  Darian shifted his Warsight perspective and zoomed in on the sergeant's face. The man's eyes darted between Bran and the banner. He grimaced with displeasure before setting his mouth in a grim line.

  "Markus Glenn," Bran called out, his voice carrying across the field. "Been a while."

  The sergeant sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "Branwell. I hoped you'd fled when that squad didn't come back." He took a step forward. "Master Sergeant Beyris sent me to check on them. I planned to march these lads in circles until nightfall. Give you time to disappear." His eyes flicked to the banner. "But here you stand with a banned symbol raised high. You've left me few options."

  Darian turned the War Frame upon Glenn and his men.

  Imperial Demi-Platoon

  Offense: 40

  Defense: 45

  Morale: 60% (wavering)

  Special Abilities: None

  Weakness: Conflicted Loyalties

  "What's the difference, Markus?" Bran asked, just as Darian had instructed him. "Between the men who came for me and these soldiers beside you now?"

  Glenn snorted, a harsh sound without humor. "The difference? It's plain as day." He gestured to the men behind him. "These lads are Veyltharions, born and raised. Most hail from these very Plains. A few come from Stormwatch Coast."

  He spat on the ground. "That squad sent to fetch you? Azgraburian imports. Malevora brought them in by the shipload when she took the throne. Filled her army with them. Filled her court with their ministers. Men with no ties to our land, our ways."

  Darian grinned, his strategy unfolding perfectly. He'd anticipated Glenn's answer when he'd coached Bran on what to ask. The Imperial sergeant had just confirmed what Darian needed—divided loyalties within Malevora's forces.

  Tactical Advantage: Identified

  These Veyltharion soldiers wouldn't fight with the same fervor against their own people. And if their sergeant already harbored doubts...

  Darian adjusted his War Frame analysis:

  Imperial Demi-Platoon

  Morale: 60% → 50% (?10% from Conflicted Loyalties)

  The pieces were falling into place.

  Darian watched through Warsight as Bran shifted his weight. The Fell Handed Duke widened his stance, obviously preparing for what came next.

  "Where are they, Markus?" Bran asked. "The Azgraburians in the garrison. I don't see them out here with you."

  Glenn's laugh held no humor. "Up on the walls, watching. Master Sergeant Beyris too. Content to let us Veyltharions do the fighting and dying while they lounge about. They'll take credit for your capture, of course."

  Darian adjusted his Warsight, panning up to the garrison walls. Sure enough, he spotted them—soldiers in darker uniforms with distinctive curved helmets that the ones sent to capture Bran also wore. Their postures suggested amusement rather than readiness for battle.

  Typical Azgraburian arrogance, he thought, as the War Frame assessed these soldiers.

  Imperial Azgraburians

  Offense: 40

  Defense: 35

  Morale: 75

  Special Abilities: None

  Weakness: Overconfidence

  Bran's voice pulled Darian's attention back. "What if there was a fight that actually meant something, Markus? Not this..." He gestured dismissively at the field between them. "A real fight. One that could restore our nation to its rightful state. One that could drive these unwelcome guests from our borders."

  Darian's grin grew deeper. Bran was playing things exactly to their rehearsed script. If Darian had any worries about the Fell Handed Duke being too arrogant or headstrong to follow his orders, those worries were now gone. Branwell Ironheart was as worthy a follower as the leader he would become, with Darian's guidance.

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  Glenn rubbed his stubbled chin. "Me? I'm game. I'm old. No children to mourn me. I live only for the fight now." His face hardened as he glanced back at his men. "But these lads? I won't have them die uselessly in some doomed uprising." He turned back to Bran with a grimace. "No disrespect, Branwell, but you don't have what it takes to go against Malevora's regime."

  The sergeant sighed. "The sensible thing would be to clap you in irons right now. Keep you in the holding cell until the Imperial Wardens arrive in a few days."

  Darian nodded to himself. Everything was going as he'd planned. The Imperial Wardens—Malevora's secret police—were not due to be in this part of the Golden Plains for at least the next two days. That was enough time for Darian to make sure that when they did, they would be facing a full-blown rebellion rather than an assortment of frightened peasants.

  "You're right, Markus," Bran admitted. "I don't have what it takes." He paused, then added, "But I know someone who does."

  Before Glenn could ask for clarification, angry shouts erupted from the garrison walls. Darian shifted his Warsight again to see a red-faced man in ornate armor leaning over the battlements.

  "Veteran Sergeant Glenn! What's the delay? Capture the traitor now!" the man bellowed.

  Master Sergeant Beyris – Commander Status: Agitated

  Glenn's shoulders tensed. Beyris barked another order, and a cacophony of movement and noise erupted from behind the walls.

  Darian's War Frame assessed the changing situation:

  Tactical Alert: Enemy Reinforcements Incoming

  Minutes later, the garrison gates opened wider. Thirty more soldiers marched out in tight formation, led by a strutting figure Darian immediately identified as Master Sergeant Beyris. The man wore enchanted scale armor that gleamed with a faint blue aura. At his hip hung a sword with a blade wreathed in mana—the telltale sign of a potent enchantment.

  Darian clutched the hilt of his sword and gestured to the rebels clustered around Bright Spear to get ready. The garrison commander had been lured out, just as he'd planned, and the time to strike was swiftly approaching.

  Darian watched through Warsight as Master Sergeant Beyris stalked up to Glenn. The man's face flushed with anger, his cheeks nearly as red as the Imperial banner fluttering above the garrison.

  "What is the meaning of this delay?" Beyris snapped, spittle flying from his lips. "I gave you a direct order to apprehend the traitor!"

  Glenn stood at attention, his face an expressionless mask. "Sir, I was attempting to resolve this situation without bloodshed."

  "Bloodshed?" Beyris barked a laugh. "This man is a traitor to her Imperial Majesty, to whom you owe your fealty and your miserable existences! You will shed every drop of blood in your body to apprehend him, if need be!" He turned to the Veyltharion soldiers. "Seize that man and his pathetic banner-bearer. Now!"

  The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. None moved forward.

  "Did you not hear me?" Beyris shouted. His hand dropped to the hilt of his enchanted sword. "I gave you an order!"

  Darian seized the opportunity. Through the Warsong link, he reached out to Bran.

  "Perfect," he sent to the blacksmith. "Push harder. Make him lose control. The Veyltharions already fear and doubt him—heighten that fear."

  Bran nodded almost imperceptibly, then raised his voice. "What's wrong, Beyris? Need Veyltharion blood to do your dirty work?" He planted his feet wider, hammer held loose but ready. "Come arrest me yourself. Or bring your Azgraburian dogs. Leave these good men out of it."

  Darian smiled as he watched the Veyltharion soldiers' reactions. Several straightened their backs. Others shifted their weight, subtly putting distance between themselves and the Azgraburians.

  Glenn took three deliberate steps to the side, placing himself apart from Beyris. The veteran sergeant's face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with something Darian recognized immediately—the look of a man who had made his choice.

  Beyris's face contorted with fury. His hand clenched around his sword hilt, knuckles white. "This is insubordination! Treason!" He wheeled on Glenn and the Veyltharion soldiers. "You stand with traitors against your Empress?"

  The word hung in the air like a thunderclap.

  Treason.

  Darian observed the immediate transformation. The Veyltharion soldiers' faces hardened. Their postures shifted subtly—stances widened, hands drifted to weapons. Where moments before there had been reluctance and unease, now Darian saw cold calculation in their eyes, tempered by fear.

  Treason was a capital offense, and in accordance with Malevora's laws, punishable by the execution of the traitor and his entire bloodline. Beyris had just condemned the Veyltharions and their families to death.

  But they'd be damned first if they let the Azgraburian master sergeant carry out that sentence.

  Through his War Frame, Darian registered the change:

  Imperial Veyltharion Soldiers

  Morale: 50% → 75% (Unified Purpose)

  Allegiance: Shifting

  Glenn drew his sword. Several of his men did the same.

  Beyris's eyes widened as he realized the mistake he'd made. Several of the other Azgraburians seemed to have come to the same conclusion, too. Their weapons rasped from their sheaths with steely sighs against leather.

  Twenty Veyltharion soldiers now stood against thirty Azgraburian interlopers.

  Perfect, Darian thought.

  Darian watched the tableau unfold with clinical precision. Through his War Frame, he tracked every movement, every shift in posture that signaled the coming violence.

  Beyris's face twisted into a mask of rage. "Treacherous Veyltharion dogs!" Spittle flew from his lips as he drew his sword from its ornate scabbard. The blade burst into brilliant orange flames that danced hungrily along its length. "You'll burn for this!"

  Before Glenn could raise his weapon in defense, Beyris lunged forward. The flaming sword carved through the air in a blazing arc. It connected with Glenn's neck just above his collar. The veteran sergeant's expression shifted from determination to surprise as his head toppled from his shoulders. His body remained upright for a heartbeat before it crumpled to the ground.

  Blood sprayed across the dirt. The Veyltharion soldiers froze in horror.

  "Kill them all!" Beyris roared.

  The field erupted into chaos. Veyltharion soldiers clashed with Azgraburians in a cacophony of steel against steel. Bodies pressed against bodies. Shields locked. Swords thrust between gaps in defenses. Men screamed in pain and rage.

  Time to move.

  Darian sent commands through the Warsong link, his thoughts sharp and precise.

  "First squad, reinforce Bran. Second squad, flank the Azgraburians."

  The rebels responded with practiced coordination that—thanks to Darian's Warsong—belied their amateur status. Ten villagers broke from their position behind the hill, their boots pounded across the open ground. They formed a protective ring around Bran and Thomwell, crude pitchforks extended outward like a bristling hedgehog.

  "Stay close!" Bran shouted as he hefted his warhammer. "We advance!"

  Darian tracked Bran's movements through Warsight as the blacksmith-turned-rebel leader advanced with his makeshift squad. The War Frame immediately quantified the changes Darian had suspected would occur:

  Rebel Footmen (Bran's Squad)

  Offense: 25 → 30 (+5% Bran Leadership)

  Defense: 30 → 45 (+15% Protective Formation)

  Morale: 40% → 65% (+25% Ironheart Presence)

  "Impressive," Darian muttered. The numbers confirmed what he already knew—Bran's noble blood and natural leadership transformed these peasants into something resembling actual soldiers. His presence alone bolstered their courage, while his tactical commands improved their effectiveness.

  Bran shouted to his men as they pushed forward. "Shield wall! Don't break formation!"

  The Warsong's effects buoyed the rebels' responsiveness to Bran's orders. Moving with frantic fervor, the rebels locked their makeshift shields—repurposed barn doors, wagon covers, and metal cooking pots—into a crude but effective barrier. They advanced toward the chaotic melee where Veyltharions and Azgraburians hacked at each other.

  An Azgraburian broke from the main fight and charged at Bran's squad. The man's curved sword slashed downward.

  "Hold!" Bran commanded. His will resonated down the threads of mana linking him to his squad. The War Frame's analytical scope shifted accordingly.

  Commander Effect: Steadfast Resolve

  Defense: 45 → 60 (10 seconds duration)

  The rebel line seemed to tighten, and the peasant directly under the arc of the Azgraburian's blade held his ground and raised his shield. The Imperial soldier grunted as his blow struck the shield and stuck there for a crucial second. Bran stepped forward and swung his hammer in a wide arc. His movements appeared stiff, and Darian could see that his timing was off by a fraction.

  The hammer missed its mark. The Azgraburian yanked his sword free and laughed.

  "That the best you got, old man?" he taunted.

  Darian frowned. Bran's combat skills showed decades of rust. The War Frame reflected this:

  Bran Copperfield

  Combat Readiness: 60% (Rusty)

  The Azgraburian thrust his sword at Bran's chest. Bran twisted aside, and the blade sliced air where he stood a moment before. He stumbled slightly, off-balance.

  "Protect the flanks!" Bran shouted to his men. "Don't let them surround us!"

  Commander Effect: Heightened Awareness

  +15 Defense against all flanking attacks (10 seconds duration)

  The rebels adjusted their formation, creating a protective half-circle around their leader. Two villagers jabbed their pitchforks at approaching Azgraburians, forcing them back.

  Bran is a field commander who bolsters the defenses and resolve of his troops, Darian noted, as he adjusted his evaluation of the Fell Handed Duke. If I can pair him up with another field commander who is offensively oriented, the regiments under their command will be highly effective when working together.

  The first Azgraburian attacked again. Bran parried the blow with his hammer's haft. Through the Warsong link, Darian could feel how the impact sent vibrations up Bran's arm. The Fell Handed Duke winced but held firm.

  Something changed in Bran's eyes. A memory, perhaps. Muscle memory awakened in his limbs. His next movement flowed smoother, quicker.

  Darian noted the shift in his War Frame:

  Bran Copperfield

  Combat Readiness: 60% → 75% (Skills Returning)

  Bran planted his feet in a wider stance. It was the posture of a trained warrior, not a blacksmith. He gripped his hammer with renewed confidence. When the Azgraburian lunged again, Bran sidestepped with unexpected grace.

  The hammer swung in a perfect arc. It connected with the Azgraburian's helmet with a sickening crunch. Metal folded inward. The soldier dropped to his knees, then fell face-first into the dirt. He didn't move again.

  Excellent. Darian left Bran to command his squad and directed his second team with equal precision. Ten more rebels circled wide around the battlefield. They moved with the speed of men unburdened by heavy armor. Each clutched stones or makeshift slings. Two carried hunting bows—the only real weapons among them besides Bran's hammer.

  "Target the Azgraburians only," he reminded them over the link he shared with them through Warsong. Avoid hitting the Veyltharions."

  The flanking rebels took position on a small rise that overlooked the melee. Stones flew through the air. One struck an Azgraburian corporal in the temple. The man dropped to his knees, stunned. A Veyltharion soldier seized the opportunity and drove his sword through the man's chest.

  The two archers—Gareth the tanner's son and Mikal the shepherd—nocked arrows to their bows. Their hands shook but steadied as they drew. Their first volley missed its mark. The second found targets. An Azgraburian soldier fell with an arrow in his throat. Another squealed and clutched at the feathered shaft protruding from a gap in his thigh armor.

  The Veyltharion soldiers the Azgraburians were engaged with pressed their advantage, driving back their foes and cutting down one of them in the process.

  But the ground the Veyltharions gained was swiftly lost as Beyris pushed himself to the forefront of the melee and cut down a Veyltharion soldier who blocked his path. "Peasant scum!" he shrieked. "I'll gut every last one of you!"

  Darian calculated the odds through his War Frame.

  Azgraburians: 23 remaining

  Veyltharions: 16 remaining

  Rebel Footmen: 32 (unbloodied)

  Tactical Advantage: Surprise element achieved

  He drew his sword. It was time to join the fray.