The mobile command pavilion thrummed with quiet intensity.

Kael stood at the center of a rune-lit war table, its surface shimmering with an active projection of the Virelion border bastion—an angular fortress pressed against a steep ridge, its walls reinforced with layered wardstones and prideful banners.

Around him, his war council gathered in practiced silence:

Brannik, the stocky Runebrick tactician, arms folded across his broad chest, tunnel schematics floating before him.

Lirana, the lead Raveni scout commander, perched lightly on a branch-like support beam, eyes gleaming with predatory focus.

Nyaro, crouched near the map's southern edge, tail swishing with coiled readiness.

And Rimuru—half-bouncing, half-hovering above the table, slime body pulsing with eager light.

Great Sage's voice projected softly through the chamber:

"Enemy force composition: approximately 600 remaining defenders. Outer defenses weakened by supply losses. Current morale—fragile."

Kael traced a line across the projection, marking three key points.

"They'll expect a frontal push," he said, voice steady. "They'll stack mages and ward channels at the main gate."

Brannik grunted. "We won't give them the time."

He tapped his schematic. "Our breach team finishes the lower tunnel by dawn. We come up beneath their supply yard—cause enough chaos to draw their rear forces."

Lirana's voice followed, sharp and calm. "Meanwhile, Raveni strike teams will take the high branches—entanglement nets first. Once their archers are blind, we control the walls."

Kael nodded. "And while they fight shadows from below and above…"

He looked to Nyaro, then across the whole council.

"I lead the gate charge. Blazebinder will open the breach. The Ember Guard moves in precision teams. No wide brawls. No heroics. We box them in."

Great Sage: "Probability of formation collapse—78% with synchronized timing. Adjusted success rate increases to 89% if aerial disruption precedes ground breach by 17 seconds."

Rimuru twirled. "I'll handle the countdown."

Kael folded his arms.

"We do not ask them to surrender," he said quietly. "We make surrender their only choice."

The room pulsed with quiet agreement.

Kael looked to each commander in turn.

"Positions in two hours. Final checks in one. We strike before the sun's highest arc."

Brannik gave a sharp nod. Lirana smiled thinly. Nyaro's claws flexed with anticipation.

And as the council dispersed, Kael remained at the table for one breath longer.

His voice, low, to Great Sage:

"They called me Ashbrand. Let's remind them why."

The earth groaned with quiet heat.

Brannik's team moved in near silence, deep beneath the outer bastion of Virelion's eastern ridge. The Runebrick dwarves had worked without pause—twelve hours of reinforced tunneling, guided by Flame Scout scry-maps and Great Sage's precise calibrations.

Now, they were nearly beneath the supply yard—a vulnerable heart of the bastion, hastily stockpiled after the River Spine loss.

Brannik crouched beside the tunnel's lead breach point, running calloused fingers along the ashstone seam. A faint wardline pulsed through the rock—unstable, incomplete.

"Too rushed," he muttered. "They thought depth alone would stop us."

Great Sage's voice flickered through the linked comm bead:

"Proximity threshold achieved. Outer ward compromised by 6%. Recommend synchronized disruption with surface team."

Brannik grinned.

"Tell the elf we'll be singing to her soon."

Behind him, his dwarves readied their breach packs—low-yield seismic grenades designed to disrupt without full collapse. Controlled chaos. Enough to fracture supply stacks and sever mana conduits.

He turned to his second.

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"Timer: twenty seconds on my mark. The surface will dance first."

From above, the signal came—Raveni scouts had begun their entanglement assault. The outer towers were already binding.

Brannik bared his teeth.

"Mark."

A low thrum filled the tunnel as runes activated.

Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen...

Above, the first muffled shrrrk of vine nets unspooling echoed through the stone. Distant shouts followed—Pride soldiers scrambling beneath green-slicked battlements.

Three. Two. One—

The breach packs detonated with a deep, resonant whump.

The supply yard above cracked open—crates toppling, ward anchors sputtering, mages thrown off their feet as the earth heaved.

Brannik's team surged upward through the breach.

Axes gleamed. Mana disruptors hummed. Silent, grim-faced dwarves burst into the heart of Virelion's rear line.

And beneath their advance, Brannik roared:

"Forge open the path! The stone walks with the flame!"

Atop the dense canopy beyond Virelion's eastern bastion, the forest breathed with quiet purpose.

Lirana crouched on a broad ashbark branch, her longbow strung, eyes narrowed through the green-dappled shadows. Below her, the outer wall's parapets bristled with archers—uneasy, distracted by distant tremors from the dwarven breach below.

Perfect.

She tapped the braided vine loop at her wrist. The signal pulsed through the Raveni strike teams hidden across the treetops.

One pulse—bind.

Without a sound, living vines unfurled from prepared net-packs—enchanted with Raveni seed-runes and woven through with predatory mana. They lashed across the battlements in synchronized waves.

Archers turned—too late.

The first wave of nets bound arms and torsos to stone. Ballista crews found their gears locked beneath twisting roots. Arrow slits grew wild with green tendrils that forced their frames wide—leaving defenders blind.

Above it all, Lirana whispered:

"Grow."

At her command, thorned vines pulsed—tightening their grip, sapping the defenders' strength through subtle mana drain.

The second signal came—strike.

From the treetops, Raveni archers and beastkin warriors leapt, gliding through the air with practiced grace. Bare feet landed on stone, blades whispered from sheaths, and bows sang in eerie, hushed rhythm.

Virelion's outer line collapsed into chaos.

"Archers down! Cut the vines!" "Too late—something's in the walls!"

Lirana moved like liquid through the green-choked battlements, cutting down two panicked soldiers with swift, silent strikes.

A flick of her wrist sent an updated signal through her repeater link:

"The walls are green. The walls are ours."

From the far ridge, Kael—watching the flow of battle through a scry feed—nodded once.

Phase Three was ready.

The eastern sun had not yet cleared the ridge, but the bastion gate already glistened with sweat and steel.

Kael rode at the front of his Ember Guard column—no fanfare, no banners—only the controlled thunder of hooves on hardened earth. The linked repeater teams flanked him in staggered formation, their eyes sharp beneath soot-streaked helms.

Ahead, the main gate of Virelion's border bastion loomed—ward runes flickering unevenly, archers panicked along the green-choked walls, and smoke rising from the shattered supply yard beyond.

Great Sage: "Structural stability of gate—41%. Ward lattice weakened by Raveni disruption. Recommended breach point—lower right anchor node."

Kael's gaze remained cold.

Rimuru pulsed cheerfully over his shoulder through the repeater net:

"They're too busy cutting vines to aim."

"Good," Kael said.

He raised Blazebinder.

Mana surged through his core—steady, deliberate, focused. Flames coiled along the blade in a spiraling dance, heat bending the air.

The Ember Guard parted to the sides, covering the flanks with precise repeater volleys. Arcane rounds struck ward anchors and tower crests, keeping the defenders pinned.

Kael rode forward alone, dismounted before the gate, and planted his feet on the cracked stone.

One breath in.

Then he spoke:

"Flame Vortex Lance."

A roaring spiral of crimson-gold flame erupted from Blazebinder's edge, lancing into the lower gate seam with surgical precision. The ward lattice buckled—sigils snapping like brittle glass.

The gate shuddered.

Then, with a thunderous crack, it split along the targeted breach line—collapsing inward in a controlled breach, leaving a clear path through the smoke.

Kael's voice cut through the comm net:

"Advance."

The Ember Guard surged forward, disciplined and tight—no wild charge, no waste. Linked repeaters laid suppressing fire into the courtyard beyond, every volley timed to cover movement.

Kael moved at the center of the formation—Blazebinder drawn, gaze locked ahead.

Not a siege.

A precision strike.

As they crossed the threshold, Rimuru's voice chimed with satisfaction:

"Now they'll remember what Ashbrand means."

The inner courtyard of the Virelion bastion was a maze of smoke and shattered command tents.

Kael moved through it like a blade through water—Blazebinder glowing faintly at his side, his eyes sharp beneath the rising haze.

Around him, the Ember Guard advanced in perfect rhythm. No frenzied shouts. No wild slaughter. Every repeater volley struck with purpose—ward pylons shattered, choke points cleared. Raveni scouts flowed down from the walls in silent leaps, binding panicked defenders with living root-threads.

And from beneath the courtyard stones, the dwarven breach teams surged upward, axes and shields crashing through what remained of the inner supply bunkers.

Virelion's forces staggered.

Their commander—a tall, gold-armored veteran—rallied a final defense line near the central well. But even as he shouted orders, half his troops cast wary glances to the walls, where green-slicked vines still writhed. Others stared at the Ember Guard's calm advance—disciplined, unrelenting, not the raging force they had been told to expect.

"Hold! Form ranks—don't give them the breach!"

But the line had already fractured.

A Raveni archer sent a root-arrow through the lead banner's pole. A dwarf's concussive grenade sent two defenders sprawling. And Kael—without a word—raised Blazebinder and walked straight through the thinning line.

Great Sage: "Enemy formation collapse—imminent. Morale degradation at 67%."

It was enough.

First one squad broke—turning and fleeing toward the side gates. Then another. Within moments, half the remaining Virelion soldiers threw down weapons, hands raised.

The rest vanished through escape routes, discipline forgotten.

Kael halted at the well's edge, Blazebinder still drawn but held low.

He surveyed the courtyard.

Silent.

The Ashbrand had taken their bastion—not in fury, but in flawless, layered precision.

Nyaro approached, her claws slick with ash. "Half fled. The rest surrendered."

Rimuru floated overhead, gleefully narrating: "And the walls did fall, one green root at a time…"

Kael sheathed Blazebinder and turned.

"Secure the wounded. Take no vengeance."

He looked once at the fallen Pride banners along the inner walls—burned, tangled in vines, half-shattered.

A small smile touched his lips.

The flame had entered.

And the walls had broken.

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