The assembled forces of Litwick stood around the Warchief’s former tent, milling about and celebrating their triumph.

  The victory had cost them dearly. Two mages, eighteen Silver-ranks, and thirty-nine Iron-ranks had given their lives to achieve it.

  Tremil had strained his soul, and while Tion had found a drought capable of soothing it, it would be a long while before the old mage would be able to cast again. Quinea, the Guildmistress and the strongest adventurer in the city had lost an arm fighting the Warchief, though she didn’t seem to mind all that much. There would be a healing circle waiting for her once they returned.

  Rowan felt a sense of satisfaction wash over him as he observed the crowd. He’d done his job, and the rest of them had too. The mages had held back a cohort of shamans almost double their number, while the Silver and Iron-ranks fought against a tide of goblins that outnumbered them greatly.

  It had cost them sixty good men and women, yet they’d won. They had defeated the goblin threat.

  Rowan closed his eyes, resting his head against an overturned cart and letting his thoughts settle.

  He knew the battle would have long-lasting effects on the city. Losing this many of their strongest adventures was a hurdle that would take time to overcome. Yet it wasn’t as bleak as it seemed.

  He glanced towards the far side of the camp where Nemir stood surrounded by eight unfamiliar faces—all of them newly minted Silver-ranks. Rowan smiled, feeling immensely proud of his friend.

  The battle may have cost them a lot, but as his mother used to say, the hottest flame forged the hardest steel.

  As Rowan sat there, watching the exhausted adventures talk amongst themselves, a familiar redhead started making her way towards him.

  “Hey,” she said, plopping down next to him.

  Rowan smiled. “Hey.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

  She looks… spent, Rowan thought, taking in her blood caked hair and the tired slump of her shoulders.

  Annie arched an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’re gawking at me?”

  “Just thinking about how good you look with blood all over your face,” Rowan shrugged, trying to hide his smile. “It really compliments your hair.”

  “Good?” She snorted. “I look like I got run over by a wagon.”

  Annie pulled on her curly locks, scraping the blood off with her nails. Rowan noticed the slight blush that colored her cheeks, but decided not to mention it. She may have been tired, but he doubted she’d hesitate to smack him upside the head.

  “How’d your fight go?” she asked.

  “I punched him to death.” Rowan grinned. “You should have seen it. The little bastard didn’t know what hit him.”

  Annie’s eyes widened, and she let out a loud laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You fought a Yellow-core mage, and you won by… hitting him?”

  Rowan nodded. “Yup. Smashed his skull against the ground,” he wiggled his fingers. “Got brains all over my hand though. Could have gone without that part.”

  She shook her head, still laughing. “Hells, I wish I could have seen that.”

  “What about you? I saw you chasing after Laith. That was…” he trailed off.

  Annie waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, it was dangerous. I know,” she smiled to herself. “It was worth it, though.”

  “You figure something out?” Rowan asked, his eyes flickering to Laith.

  She noticed his gaze and nodded. “I think I’ll be able to advance as soon as I hit Iron V. I felt something at the end there. It was like…” she bit her lip. “Like my spear wanted to punch through their defenses.”

  “That’s amazing,” he said, his smile widening. “Litwick is going to see a lot of new Silver-ranks after a battle like this one.”

  Annie sighed. “We’re going to need them,” she said softly, her voice tired. “We lost eighteen of our best warriors. It’s going to be a challenge keeping the surrounding Wilds clear without them.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Rowan said, gesturing towards the group of newly minted Silver-ranks. “There’s eight new ones already. Give it a few months, and there’s going to be more of them than what we started with.”

  “You’re probably right,” she conceded. “But there’s still a difference between someone who just got access to their Aura, and a warrior who’s already familiar with it.”

  To that, Rowan could only nod.

  They spent the next few minutes in comfortable silence, their shoulders resting against each other as they observed the camp.

  “Guildmistress!” a panicked shout suddenly shattered the calm atmosphere. “Come quick, you have to see this!”

  It was a scout that had spoken, and Rowan immediately felt his stomach drop.

  What did he see? Why is he so frantic?

  Quinea, true to form, immediately dropped her conversation with Laith and rushed towards the scout.

  Rowan exchanged a worried glance with Annie, both of them quickly standing up and moving toward the commotion.

  “...at least five-hundred, maybe more,” the scout spoke, his breathing ragged as he pointed towards the ridge at the end of the clearing.

  Quinea’s eyes hardened as she followed the scouts' frantic gestures. She muttered something under her breath, and for a brief second, her usual composure faltered.

  Rowan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw them. Goblins—hundreds of them. Warg riders and hobgoblins, approaching like a tide. A seething mass of bodies racing towards them, silhouetted against the clear blue sky.

  “Gods…” Annie whispered next to him. “There’s too many of them.”

  Rowan felt the exhaustion that had slowly been receding rush back in full force. His legs felt weak, and the knowledge that another battle awaited them nearly overwhelmed him.

  He looked at the ring on his finger, hesitating.

  I could leave.

  The thought came to him unbidden. He had his teleportation tokens. He could hand them out to the people closest to him. Send them out to one of the many regions and hope they found their way to a nearby settlement.

  With an iron grip, he stuffed that thought back into the recesses of his mind.

  He was the Duke of Eiselyth. He wouldn't run like a coward.

  Nemir, who had been talking to the newly minted Silver-ranks, caught sight of the approaching horde. He went still, the color draining from his face. “We don’t have the numbers,” he muttered, gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. “Not after…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Around them, the adventures who had been celebrating just moments ago, sharing stories of their valor, now stood frozen in shock. Their hard fought victory slowly turning to ashes in their mouths.

  A murmur spread through their ranks like wildfire. The Iron-ranks were the first to react—faces pale, weapons held loosely in their trembling hands.

  “There’s no way,” one of them muttered, eyes wide with terror. “We can’t fight a force like that,” his voice wavered. “We’re dead… we’re all dead!”

  Rowan watched as the panic spread. Another adventurer dropped her sword, her eyes brimming with tears as she slumped to her knees. “No, no, no! We’re supposed to be done! We won!”

  Others began backing away, some stumbling over the dead, others whispering prayers to whatever gods they followed.

  “Steady!” Laith’s shout broke through the chaos like a whip. The large warrior planted his axe into the ground, glaring at the retreating adventurers. “Get it together! You’re adventures for god's sake!” his deep voice boomed. “We beat them once, and we’ll do it again!”

  He gripped his bloodied axe, pointing the massive weapon at the oncoming horde. “Let them come,” he snarled. “They’ll die like all the rest of them.”

  “And what about when we run out of strength?” a voice called out. A young swordsman, blood scattered across his armor. “Half of us are barely standing!”

  The question hung heavy in the air. Rowan wanted to smack the young man upside the head, but he knew there was no use. Fear and panic had gripped their hearts. It had barely been an hour since the battle ended, and now they faced another horde of possibly greater number.

  “We hold the line,” Quinea answered, her voice resolute. She stood to her full height, her spear held over her shoulder. “No matter what. We hold the line, we fight, and we kill until we’re the only ones left standing.”

  Quinea’s Aura flared, a golden glow surrounding her despite her injuries. Her single arm held the blood-caked spear high as she stood defiantly in front of the gathering troops like a port in a storm.

  Rowan’s heart raced as he stood next to her, feeling the weight of her words. He saw the resolve growing in the adventurer’s eyes—their fear still lingered, but beneath it something stronger grew.

  Determination.

  He traced the ring on his finger, coming to a decision.

  Turning towards her, he spoke quickly, his heart beating rapidly. “I have a plan.”

  Quinea looked, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Jamis, now isn’t the—”

  He raised his hand, cutting her off. A flash of anger flickered across her face, but he spoke before she could say anything. “I have weapons, armors, potions. As good as what I gave to the Grove. Enough to outfit every single person here.”

  Her anger quickly turned to confusion. She took him in, noticing the seriousness of his expression. “Truly?” she asked, obviously doubtful.

  Rowan nodded firmly. “Yes. I need you to organize them by what weapon they carry. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She hesitated for only a moment before nodding back, a hopeful look in her eyes.

  Turning towards the assembled mages, he tuned out her commanding shouts.

  “Walls,” Rowan said, his voice firm. “We need walls.”

  Velora frowned, shaking his head. “We shouldn’t waste mana, there are—”

  Before she could finish, Rowan pulled out a carton filled with mana-potions, each one glimmering with a soft blue glow.

  “Walls. Now.”

  Without checking if his orders were followed, he turned back to the assembled adventurers. Time was of the essence. They had barely minutes before the horde reached their position, and if they wanted to have any chance of surviving, they needed to be quick.

  Rowan’s mind raced as the adventurers pulled themselves together, their faces still etched with fear and exhaustion. Quinea’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the camp as she divided them into groups, snapping them to action.

  The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him like a vice. His ring felt heavier than ever, the significance of the moment sinking into his bones. Once he fully opened the Vault, there would be no undoing it. Rumors would spread, whispers would travel beyond Litwick, and powerful eyes would turn towards this insignificant settlement.

  He would have to leave—flee the region before those whispers turned into action.

  But he already made his choice.

  These people needed him now. He could deal with the consequences later.

  West. I’ll need to go west. To the Stormspire Heights, or the Onyx Delta. As far from Litwick as possible.

  Rowan flared [Iron Will], forcing the tremor from his hands.

  It’ll take months before anyone important hears about what I’m about to do. And that’s if we survive.

  Whoever came looking wouldn’t connect it to him. Rowan Athlain was dead—an unawakened failure who died half a year ago far, far to the north of here. Just him being an Orange-Core mage should be enough to erase any suspicion.

  This is reckless, but I don’t have a choice, he told himself. I’m not going to let them all die. Not when I can help.

  Taking a steadying breath, he sent his perception into his ring. A heartbeat later, a cascade of gleaming weapons and armor spilled into the clearing. The air hummed with energy as more items emerged from the Vault, a veritable dragon’s hoard unfurling before the stunned adventurers.

  “Swords!” Rowan shouted, already turning to the next group.

  The crowd stilled, staring at the treasure now lying at their feet. Rows of swords, gleaming breastplate, gauntlet and shields, all shining with the unmistakable glow of enchantments.

  “What… what is this?” one of the Iron-ranks stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Where did it all come from?” another voice, equally bewildered, called out from the back of the crowd.

  But Rowan didn’t stop. He reached the group of archers and started pulling out more items. Enchanted bows with strings that gleamed like silver, quivers filled with arrows enchanted for piercing, helmets adorned with runes that helped with aiming.

  The confusion was palpable. Whispers ran through the crowd like wildfire, growing louder with each new piece of equipment that appeared. Faces turned from Rowan to Quinea, to each other, as if they were trying to understand what was happening.

  “MOVE!” Quinea’s voice broke through the confusion as she picked up a sword and thrust it into a waiting adventurer's hands. “Suit up! Grab what you need and get ready! We don’t have time to waste!”

  The man blinked, frozen in disbelief, but still he gripped the sword firmly in his hands. That seemed to spur the others on, and the adventurers jolted into action. One by one, they began arming themselves. Swords were belted, armors were strapped on, and potions were passed around like lifelines.

  “Drink one now and hold another if you get injured!” Rowan shouted. “It’ll deal with the exhaustion.”

  On and on it went. Spears and axes, warhammers and greatswords. Everyone got exactly what they needed.

  The shift was subtle at first. Confusion gave way to wonder, wonder transforming into hope. He could feel the atmosphere shift as more adventures stepped forward, taking the enchanted gear he offered.

  The Silver-ranks stared at him like he’d grown another head, and he could see more than one glancing at his ring. But Rowan didn’t care. He felt like a man possessed, pulling out armor and weapons faster than the adventures could process. They were starting to move with him, taking items without questions, their panic quickly fading.

  Some of them exchanged bewildered glances, still trying to comprehend how this much equipment had materialized out of nowhere. Yet they pushed those questions aside. The weapons crackled with energy, the armor gleamed with protection, and for the first time since the scout had raised the alarm, there was a glimmer of belief in their eyes.

  “We might actually survive this…” someone muttered, barely loud enough to be heard, but the words carried through the camp like a prayer.

  Rowan handed a halbert to a grizzled Silver-ranked adventurer, a member of Laith’s party. The man stared at the weapon for a heartbeat before gripping it tightly. He gave Rowan a sharp nod and returned to his team.

  Behind him, Velora and the mages worked furiously. Walls of earth began to rise around the camp, hastily constructed but sturdy enough to slow the incoming horde. A makeshift barricade.

  Quinea returned to Rowan’s side, her gaze sweeping over adventurers as they armed themselves. “By the gods,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I won’t even ask.”

  Rowan didn’t look at her. His mind was still racing, thinking if there was anything more he could do. He closed his eyes and delved back into the Vault, taking a box and filling it to the brim with enchanted rings.

  “Probably better that way,” he answered, calling over a group of adventurers and handing them the box. “Make sure everyone gets one. They’re enchanted with [Wind Barrier]. It’s not going to stop a lethal blow, but it’s enough to deflect an arrow or a wayward thrust.”

  The young woman nodded, rushing back towards the crowd.

  Rowan glanced up, watching as the adventurers began to form lines, their new gear giving them a renewed sense of purpose. Their fear wasn’t gone, not completely, but it was no longer crippling.

  He closed his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath, his hand brushing against the surface of his ring. Once this battle was over, word of what he’d done would spread, questions would be asked. And Rowan had no plans on being here when they were.

  The Grove made their way towards him, looking at him with equal parts confusion and awe.

  Omi broke the silence, glancing down at his daggers with a frown. “Well now I don’t feel special anymore.”

  Rowan laughed, the comment cutting through his runaway thoughts and grounding him. “Sorry about that,” he replied. “I could ask them to give all of it back if you want?”

  “Probably best if you don’t,” Omi said with a grin.

  Nemir walked up to him and clapped him on the shoulder, a serious expression on his face. “You’ve bought us a chance.”

  Rowan nodded. “Now we just have to use it.”

  They settled in beside him, moving to the top of the walls to stare at the approaching horde. The goblins had crested the ridge and were halfway across the clearing already. Hundreds of them, snarling and screaming, rushing towards them.

  “You owe us some answers after we win,” Annie spoke softly next to him.

  Rowan glanced at her, nodding slowly. “After the battle.”

  There wasn’t a point in hiding his identity anymore. Not to them. After the battle, he’d be gone. Leaving his friends behind.

  Rowan pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. Now wasn’t the time for them, he needed to focus. The goblins would be upon them in minutes.

  Turning around, he looked at the adventures, now standing stronger, braver. Seeing them like this, he knew he made the correct choice. They were ready, their weapons gleaming, their stances firm.

  Rowan clenched his fists, steeling himself for the battle to come.