It was still dark out when the assembled forces of Litwick left the protection of the city walls, just over three hundred of them in all.

  Rowan stood among the contingent of mages—eleven of them total—yet only nine of them would be engaging the shamans. Their job wasn’t to win, but to delay. To hold back the enemy casters so the rest of their troops didn’t die to spells they had no way of countering.

  Five dozen Silver-ranks made up the tip of their assault—the blade that would clash with the hundreds of hobgoblins waiting for them. There was an air of calmness about them. In the way they moved. In the way they held themselves. These were seasoned adventurers, one and all, ready for the fight ahead.

  Their leader—the axe-wielding adventurer from Sheercliff—stood at the front with Quinea. They talked in low tones, occasionally glancing back at the column, their expression unreadable as they discussed strategy.

  Behind the Silver-ranks came the bulk of their forces. The Iron-ranked adventurers, numbering just over two hundred. The clink of their mismatched armor and weapons echoed in the predawn light, and Rowan could see the nervousness they tried to hide etched on their features.

  It was in the way they glanced around, gripping their weapons as if expecting an attack to come at any minute. Some were still young—barely older than the two brothers—heading out to get their first real taste of combat.

  These men and women—these adventurers, would serve as the bulwark against the horde. Holding them off while the strongest members dealt with the true threats.

  At the front of the Iron-ranked contingent marched the Crimson Grove, looking every inch the capable team that Rowan knew them to be, their new gear starkly contrasting to the basic armaments of the people behind them.

  Nemir’s enchanted greatsword hung across his back, the tip of Annie’s spear gleamed as the first rays of sunlight hit it, and Silvia’s bow was slung over her shoulder. Omi, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found, most likely testing out his new cloak.

  Annie caught Rowan’s eye, giving him a firm nod.

  They were ready. He made sure of that.

  With their gear, I’m pretty sure they could join the Silver-rank’s and not be a hindrance, Rowan thought proudly. But I can’t say I’m not glad they aren’t going to be a part of that particular meat grinder. They’ll still be able to fight a few hobgoblins. Just not all of them at once.

  The Guildmistress made a choice that shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.

  Someone needed to lead the Iron-rank’s. And with the expedition being vastly outnumbered, sparing an adventurer with an Aura just wasn’t in the cards. They needed all of them to confront the hobgoblin threat, which meant the Crimson Grove would have an important task of their own.

  Rowan ran a hand through his hair, watching as the assembled adventurers of Litwick marched out into the Wilds.

  It was at once a familiar sight, and a wholly new one.

  Throughout his youth, Rowan had seen forces that dwarfed this one leave the safety of Eiselyth’s walls. Most of those had made it back. But not all of them.

  Quinea interrupted his thoughts, waving him over.

  Rowan would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. He’d barely slept, with his mind going over everything that would, could, or might happen. Thankfully, his increased Vitality showed it’s worth.

  Kai nuzzled against his cheek, letting out a soft trill.

  “I know, I know,” Rowan sighed, scratching his beak. “But it’s hard not to worry.”

  His gaze flickered to the Grove, and the shakiness in his hands returned for barely a heartbeat before [Iron Will] snuffed it down.

  Rowan made his way through the crowd, stopping to return the greetings of a few familiar-looking adventurers as he did so.

  Quinea stood off to the side, talking with Laith and Velora.

  The man gave Rowan a polite nod when he joined them, an amicable smile on his weathered face. “We’ve not yet had the pleasure,” he said, extending a hand. “Laith Dewhorn, leader of the Broken Spears.”

  Rowan shook the man’s hand. “Jamis, of the Crimson Grove. And this is Kai,” his familiar straightened up on his shoulder, flapping his wings in greeting.

  Laith opened his mouth to say something, but Velora beat him to it. “Just Jamis?” she asked, her arms crossed. “It is customary for a mage to introduce themselves with either their House, Master, or place of learning,” her brows furrowed, looking at him appraisingly for a long moment. “Well?”

  Rowan suppressed a sigh.

  He’d hoped that the animosity she felt towards him would have been dealt with by now, but it seemed that wasn’t the case.

  Level: 25

  Body: Bronze V [5 Levels]

  Core: Orange [20 Levels]

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  The black-haired woman was probably around thirty, and she was a peak Orange caster. It seemed she was having trouble creating her tier-two affinity, with mages her age usually already moving towards Green. Though that didn’t mean she was weak. She’d had years to hone her magic and learn new spells, weaving her two affinities into a cohesive whole, even if she hadn’t combined them yet.

  It was somewhat understandable she expected to be the one to fight the apprentice.

  “Just Jamis,” he smiled, keeping his expression polite. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Velora Lonedew, right?”

  He’d asked around and found out that she was in the retinue of Lord Oslow, the ruler of Sheercliff and this region of the Verdant Vale. Litwick’s mayor was appointed at his discretion. But in reality, the Guild ran the city, so it wasn’t a direct vassalage. The mayor was a peak Iron bureaucrat, watching over that the right amount of taxes flowed northward. Rowan had never even seen the man, with him obviously preferring not to be surrounded by people whose job it was to kill monsters.

  Velora tilted her nose up, and Rowan saw a thousand pompous nobles in her expression.

  It was almost never pointed in his direction, but he’d seen it during feasts countless times before.

  “I’m sure it is,” she replied.

  I wonder how she’d react if I told her I was a Duke, Rowan thought, suppressing his amusement. But probably best not to do that.

  Antagonizing her didn’t seem like the smart option either, so he went with flattery instead.

  “I’ve heard how talented you are, so it truly is,” Rowan said with as much sincerity as he could muster, slightly bowing his head. “If the stories are true, I hope to be half as good as you with Wind magic once I spend more time with it.”

  She looked like a cat that caught a mouse. “So you agree that I should be the one to duel the apprentice?”

  “If you want to, I’ll gladly exchange our tasks,” Rowan said. Velora looked at him with a surprised expression, but before she could say anything, he continued. “But that would leave the rest of the mages without a capable leader. I’m only fighting a single shaman, while you’re going to be fighting against a whole cohort of them. If they’re allowed to wreak havoc, the upcoming raid is as good as lost.”

  Rowan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Our strongest mage should be there. Where you can make the most difference,” he glanced at Quinea. “I’ll follow what you decide, Guildmistress.”

  What he said wasn’t even a lie.

  Well, except the part about her being the strongest mage. That honor went to Tremil, and Rowan wouldn’t hesitate to put himself at the number two spot. He knew that might be hubris talking, but Rowan also knew that he was going to win that fight. A Warlock’s apprentice wasn’t going to beat him, no matter how strong.

  “I agree with him,” Quinea said. “We need you on the front lines. I can’t have the Silver-rank’s deflecting spells while fighting off the hobgoblins.”

  Refusing now would have just seemed childish, and Rowan had given her an acceptable reason to accept the seemingly ‘lesser’ post.

  Velora took a moment, thinking it through before nodding toward the Guildmistress. “You are right,” she said with her head held high. “It would be a dereliction of duty to do otherwise.”

  Rowan suppressed a smile.

  Well, that was easier than I thought it’d be.

  Velora looked toward the group of mages standing further away, straightening out her robe. “I better go speak to them,” she said, glancing toward Rowan. “Eldric’s grace.”

  Rowan nodded back, watching as the other mage strode away.

  Laith looked at him with a small frown. “Was that a social skill?” he asked, his tone unamused.

  “What? Of course not,” he immediately said. “I only have one skill, and it definitely isn’t that.”

  Seemingly unconvinced, Laith glanced at Quinea.

  The Guildmistress nodded. “Not a social skill,” she confirmed, the air around them suddenly resting heavier on their shoulders. “I’d have noticed.”

  The feeling disappeared a moment later.

  Her Presence felt strong, almost like some people Rowan had grown up around. But that was to be expected. Being the leader of a city’s Guild was a weighty post, no matter how remote the location.

  “Alright then,” she said, breaking the silence. “We’ve got a day's march ahead of us. Let’s talk strategy.”

  And as the expedition ventured further into the Wilds, that was exactly what they did.

  .

  .

  .

  As night fell on the second day of their march, the contingent reached the edge of a large clearing, deciding it was time to set up camp. There had been a few fights during the day, but nothing substantial. Monsters weren’t the smartest creatures around, but they weren’t stupid either. They knew to avoid groups as large as this one.

  The day’s march had been long but steady, and now that they were only a few hours away from their destination, the tension in the air was palpable.

  “Scouts and rogues! I want a perimeter every second we’re here,” Quinea shouted,

  her voice booming across the clearing. “Pair up, and keep close to each other. If you see anything green, shoot it.”

  From the map she’d show him, the freshly built goblin stronghold was in a valley another few hours north. So there was a distinct possibility that a raiding party would come across them during the night. Something that they’d rather avoid if possible.

  “Your team leaders should have already informed you about the watch rotation,” she continued. “Remember, no fires. Eat your rations and try to get some rest.”

  With her speech done, the Guildmistress turned around, walking over to the one of the few tents that had been put up. Rowan watched her go, debating whether to follow.

  His gaze wandered over to where the Iron-ranks made camp, watching as the Grove mingled with the others. Rowan wanted nothing more than to join them, spend this last night before the battle in the company of friends. But he knew he couldn’t do that.

  They had been given the duty of leading those men and women. To be the tip of their spear. Spending what little time they had left with those under their command was the smart thing to do. Rowan joining would only disrupt it.

  Sighing, he turned around and followed Quinea.

  Making his way through the makeshift camp, he walked by the various Silver-ranks sitting in groups. Some were chatting animatedly, not bothered in the slightest by what tomorrow may bring, while others meditated, tending to their weapons and armor, their expressions focused.

  Entering the tent, he was greeted by the sight of the strongest members of their force. Quinea and Tremil spoke over a map, pointing out different ways they could go about their assault. Laith sat nearby, talking with the group he’d brought from Sheercliff.

  “Ah, Jamis,” Tremil said as he saw him enter, waving him over. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

  This was it. It was time to make their last preparations. To go over their plans, duties, and expectations. All of them knew their roles—the parts they needed to play in order to eke out a victory against a foe that was threatening to destroy their home.

  The stakes had never been higher. If they lost here—against a tribe that wasn’t even at full strength—then Litwick would fall.

  Taking a deep breath, Rowan closed the tent flap and walked in.