Chapter 16: Battle at Aurelian

Kael stood atop the eastern wall, eyes scanning the horizon as scouts relayed reports. The wind whipped his cloak behind him, and smoke from old fires drifted faintly in the air. Injured soldiers had been moved into the chapel and sealed safely inside. The rest were already in position.

“We’ll split the defence,” Kael said, turning to his officers. “Carter, take your unit and reinforce the southern gates. Hold it at all costs. Dalric, secure the eastern gate with me. That’s likely where they’ll strike—direct path, minimal elevation.”

“Yes, Vice-Captain,” both replied in unison.

Kael’s jaw was tight, his instincts sharp, but his information limited. The enemy’s position and formation weren’t clear yet, and scouts had barely returned before contact.

He signalled his second-in-command. “Have any of our runners returned from the north?”

“No, sir. Nothing from that side yet.”

Kael frowned. “Odd. Keep eyes on the ridgelines. If they try anything smart, we’ll see it coming.”

But they didn’t.

The wind howled as Caelan and Raye galloped hard along the rugged forest path, their horses kicking up dry earth and leaves. Around them, the fifty soldiers under Caelan’s command rode in tight formation—silent but alert.

Aurellian wasn’t far now—just over the final stretch of low hills and past the tree line.

Raye’s eyes darted along the horizon. “We should be able to see the town from that rise,” he said.

Caelan nodded and spurred his horse forward. As they crested the ridge, the town of Aurellian came into view—its wooden walls intact, a few banners fluttering in the breeze. But it wasn’t the town that caught their attention.

It was the movement to the north.

“There,” Raye pointed.

A group of soldiers in dark armor—Vaerond’s colours—moved swiftly through the outer woods, approaching the town’s northern edge.

“They’re flanking the town,” Caelan muttered. “Kael won’t see that in time.”

Another group of enemies had already begun their approach toward the eastern front—the more obvious attack route—which would keep Kael and his men occupied.

“They’re setting a two-pronged attack,” Raye said grimly.

Caelan pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a sharp stop. Dust swirled around his boots as he turned to the men.

“We split here,” Caelan barked. “I’ll lead thirty to intercept the eastern advance from behind. Raye—”

“I’ll take the rest and cut off the northern flank,” Raye said quickly, his expression already steeling. “We’ll push them back before they reach the gate.”

“Good,” Caelan said. “Cut fast and strike hard. We can’t let them breach the walls.”

Raye gripped the hilt of his sword and nodded. “Understood.”

Caelan turned to the men. “Twenty with Raye—move!”

The soldiers obeyed without question. As the two forces separated and began to descend the hills, Aurelian’s fate now rested on the precision of Caelan’s charge and the fury of Raye’s flank.

Trumpets sounded, and Kael’s eyes snapped forward. Riders—Vaerond’s—charged the eastern line in formation. Arrows loosed from Aurelian’s walls met them halfway, but they had brought shields and moved smartly. The defence held, but the pressure was real.

Kael shouted to his men, “Hold the line! Push them back, don’t let them reach the gates!”

Swords clashed. The eastern wall lit up in chaos. And that’s when the message came.

A soldier rushed to Kael’s side. “Sir! Movement reported from the north—we’re being flanked!”

Kael’s eyes widened. “What? The north was supposed to be clear—”

“It isn’t anymore!”

The northern gate groaned under sudden pressure. A smaller force—silent and deadly—was scaling ridges and trees. Kael hadn’t fortified that side; the enemy had anticipated it. Just as the first of Vaerond’s strike force reached the top of the slope, Raye burst through the trees.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t warn.

He surged forward.

The wind howled as his boots slammed down the incline, kicking up dust and leaves. His wooden sword—scarred and cracked from training—was gripped tightly in both hands. A low hum began to rise around him, a glow pulsing faintly from his skin.

Flickering. Unstable.

But alive.

The nearest enemy didn’t even get the chance to turn fully before Raye crashed into him, smashing his sword straight into the man’s chest with a sickening crack of broken ribs. His aura flared with the impact—wild, unfocused—but the force was undeniable. The man crumpled without a sound.

Another turned, slashing upward.

Raye ducked low, spun his blade under the man’s arm, and drove it into his gut. Wooden though it was, the sword cracked again—but Raye’s aura flared through it like fire, amplifying its strength. The enemy’s eyes widened in disbelief as he dropped to his knees.

The others shouted now—stealth abandoned.

They charged him.

Three at once.

Raye backed into a wide stance, aura now sputtering erratically around his arms like licking flames. He couldn’t hold it steady—but it was enough. He parried the first, sidestepped the second, and slammed his elbow into the third’s throat with a brutal grunt.

He exhaled sharply, sweat flying from his brow. His fingers twitched again—still aching from hours of training.

Hold, dammit. Don’t flicker now—hold.

He pushed, his aura sparking like lightning. A brief surge of power flooded through his limbs, and for a few seconds, he moved like fire itself—cutting one soldier down with a spinning strike, deflecting a spear thrust with his bare forearm wrapped in shimmering energy.

But the aura collapsed again, faltering like a candle in the wind.

Raye dropped to a knee, panting—but just as the last two enemies moved in for the kill—

A soldier from Aeldenmarch’s force slammed into one of them from behind, followed by others pouring down the ridge. The ambush had turned on itself. Raye looked up through messy bangs to see the tide shifting as his reinforcement squad took control.

Still kneeling, Raye drove his sword into the earth, using it to push himself to his feet.

One more enemy remained, charging at full speed—likely a captain. Raye barely had the strength to raise his blade again.

But he didn’t need to.

His aura sparked one last time—brief, brilliant—and he stepped forward, driving his cracked blade clean into the man’s side with a bellow. The strike landed with raw, desperate strength. The enemy dropped with a cry, and silence fell again.

Raye stood there, chest rising and falling hard, the wooden sword splintered in his grip, aura fading like smoke around him.

He’d held the flank.

He’d protected the gate.

As the seventh body fell at Raye’s feet, his breath heavy and ragged, the enemy lines rippled with panic. His sword, now bloodied and chipped, was still firmly in his grip—its purpose not yet finished.

The soldiers of Aeldenmarch, following right behind him, saw the gap he had carved. With a cry of war, they surged forward, pouring through the flank like a flood through a broken dam. Their blades met startled foes, and within seconds, chaos took root within the ranks of Vaerond’s strike force.

From the town’s southern wall, a scout rushed to Kael, breathless and excited.

“My lord Kael! It’s Prince Raye—he’s struck from the flank with soldiers of Aeldenmarch! They’re engaging the enemy at the northern gate, and the rest of Aeldenmarch is flanking the enemies at the eastern gate!”

Kael’s eyes widened, a surge of adrenaline rushing through him—not just from the relief of reinforcement, but from knowing Raye had come himself.

“Raye…” he muttered, a brief smile breaking through his otherwise hard expression.

Without wasting another second, Kael barked out orders, his voice rising above the clash of steel.

“Signal the eastern group! Push forward—we’re sandwiching them! Tighten formation at the southern gate! Don’t let a single one through!”

The morale among the Ember Knights and Aurellian defenders surged. They regrouped, reinforced by the knowledge that the enemy was now caught between hammer and anvil.

The battle turned.

Surrounded and confused, Vaerond’s strike team faltered. Their chain of command—lacking any real leader—crumbled under pressure. Some fought on, others tried to flee, but with every passing moment, their numbers dwindled.

In the heart of the skirmish, Raye fought beside the Aeldenmarch soldiers. Though exhausted, he moved with precision and fury, his aura occasionally flickering back to life in faint bursts—just enough to tip each duel in his favor.

Kael pushed through the southern gate with a squad of knights, linking up with the eastern side where the final pockets of resistance still stood.

By the time Caelan joined Raye at the edge of the battlefield, the fight was nearly over.

A few final clashes rang out, and then—silence.

Bloodied blades lowered. The town of Aurellian stood.

Kael approached, sheathing his sword. He looked at Raye—drenched in sweat and blood, barely standing—and grinned.

“You really do love dramatic entrances.”

Raye chuckled, wincing from the pain. “You’d miss me otherwise.”