The war council convened beneath the shadow of the Citadel's inner spire, where the air still smelled faintly of ash and spent qi. Lords, captains, and elders of the Gale stood around a wide stone table, its surface inlaid with old maps and new blood. Outside, the frost had begun to thaw, but the cold lingered in their bones. No songs marked the morning. Only silence, and the echo of what had been lost.
Altan stood at the head of the table, silent as voices argued around him—territory gains, prisoner counts, future risks. When he finally raised a hand, the room fell still.
"We don't wait for the next hammer," he said. "We march toward the hand that held it."
Gasps, murmurs, then nods. There was no room left for half-measures.
The Gale army, now tempered by fire and sacrifice, had not emerged unscathed—but neither had they broken. Of the warriors who defended the Citadel, 80% survived. Their scars were proof, not shame. The numbers stood: 2,000 Stormguard remained, along with 10,000 regulars and 3,000 support archers. Their ranks were leaner in warmages—many had been expended in the defense—but the remaining ones had learned to conserve their strength with brutal precision. One such mage, burned across half his face, now cast fire through his left hand alone, his other clenched permanently to a staff.
Before strategy took hold, they honored the dead. Ten thousand warriors bowed their heads beneath a pale dawn. No speeches were given. Only a breath held by all as names were whispered into the wind.
In the weeks after the siege, the Chasm revealed more secrets. Deep within hidden chambers and long-sealed valleys, reserve forces stirred. From the shadowed hollows of the mountain spine, 3,000 more Stormguard emerged, their armor blackened from subterranean rites, their eyes quiet and sharp. In a secret gorge west of the Citadel, 10,000 more regulars—young men and women trained in silence—marched into the light. They were the hidden blade, now unsheathed.
Supply convoys that tried to bring aid to the remnants of the Zhong army were harried constantly. Khulan's riders—female scouts and light cavalry—struck from the mists like phantoms, disappearing before a counterstrike could be formed. With them rode rangers and war mages, their ambushes woven with sudden storms and fire-veiled misdirection. Horses vanished into tree-lines. Arrows guided by qi pierced through iron helms. Screams rose and died in the fog.
As the Gale forces gathered, a new banner arrived from the eastern grasslands: the Qorjin-Ke. They brought few warriors, but the strength they carried was not measured in steel or numbers. They came riding beside dire wolves—massive, sinewed creatures with fur like storm shadows and eyes that gleamed with lunar fire. Falcons circled high above them, wings cutting across the wind with practiced grace. Their presence quieted even the rowdiest veterans. No fanfare announced their arrival, only the soft rhythm of paw and hoof and the cry of a sky-borne scout.
The Qorjin-Ke were a tribe apart, long elusive even to steppe kin. They were said to speak with beasts, to vanish into the wind, to live in the space between stories and stars. They had never sworn allegiance to any banner, nor bent knee to any warlord. They listened instead to older voices—those of claw and wing, breath and stone.
Their gift was ancient, woven through breathwork, binding rituals, and sacred chants lost to most of the world. Beast and human shared not command but communion. And they offered this gift freely.
Their leader dismounted. His cloak rustled with bone charms, feathers, and leathers scarred by claw and fang. His face was weathered, not by age but by wind and vision. He looked first to the wolves, who sat in silent stillness, then to the falcons overhead, their wings tilting as if in unspoken agreement.
"I saw the battle through the eyes of hawks," he said, his voice carrying like a prayer across stone. "I felt the dying howl of wolves who ran beside your fallen. We watched from shadowed ridge and frost-covered sky. We were not summoned, yet my beasts howled when the Citadel bled. They chose to mourn your dead. And so did I."
He stepped closer, eyes fixed on Altan. "The old blood sings in them. It sings in you. I would be deaf to ignore it. If they run with you, then so do I. Let me ride beside your storm. Not for gold. Not for pride. But because my kin—man and beast—have chosen your path."
Altan met the man's eyes, and in them saw no subservience, only kinship forged by instinct and fire. He gave a single nod.
"Then join our pack."
One more weapon added to the storm. One more soul sworn, not by oath or coin, but by the wind and the bones that listened.
Altan divided his forces. Twenty-five percent would remain—Stormguard and archers enough to guard the steppe, defend the Citadel, and watch over the families and elders. The remaining seventy-five percent would march on the Zhong Empire. Not as raiders. Not as rebels.
As reckoning.
War loot was gathered from the ruined siege lines. Zhong armor, weapons, and shields were collected—those too damaged were melted down by Gale blacksmiths working day and night. Forges sang beside funeral pyres. The people of the steppe—herders, artisans, smiths—gave what they had. Horses were shod. Spears straightened. Arrowheads counted and blessed. The sound of steel shaping steel echoed into the canyon like a promise.
One month passed.
Then came the march.
The Gale army flowed across the steppe like a tide reforged. War drums pounded in slow unison, reverberating through soil and spirit alike. Banners of ash-gray and blood-red snapped in the wind. Stormguard in black lamellar led each column, flanked by archers and regulars who moved with grim discipline. Behind them rolled the supply carts and blacksmith wagons, their wheels carrying the weight of vengeance and future.
The earth vibrated with their passing. Herds shifted in the distance. The sky, once indifferent, seemed to hush.
The steppe's old songs were sung once more. Low and steady, like a hum rising from the chests of thousands, it spread from rank to rank. It was not joyous, but resolute. A melody of oath and memory, rising with each beat of the drum. It carried no words, yet every warrior understood its meaning.
They were not just warriors. They were the children of ruin, marching home through enemy gates.
And they would not stop until the Empire remembered who had once been burned, and who now returned with fire of their own.