Korets stood in the middle of the open steppe, which gradually turned into swamps to the south. For the people of Ceradan, it was both a beacon and a boundary—a line beyond which the kingdom’s laws grew weaker, and the king’s protection became conditional. Those who passed Korets could rely only on themselves. Yet the absence of control was not only a risk—it was also an opportunity. And many were eager to seize it.

  In the swamps and around the ruins of White Hold, deposits of Glass crystal could be found. Its price rose with every mile closer to the capital, and with demand came those willing to take the risk. This trade kept the villages beyond Ceradan from falling into ruin. Even in the middle of the marshes, they remained necessary—as staging points for Glass seekers. The locals hosted them in their homes, offering shelter, food, water, and a chance to wash and rest before another raid into the mire. Many of the seekers came from the mountain clans, searching for Glass for their chieftains, their craftsmen, and their wars.

  For years, this fragile order endured—held together by profit, silent agreements, and the reluctance of greater powers to look too closely.

  Unable to stop the smuggling of Glass, King Serain chose another path: to legalize its import, but tax it at the first settlement under Ceradan’s control. The sum depended on the quality of the ore. The purest Glass—used for the weapons of the Suggestors and for fine adornments—was mined only in Korosten. Lower- and mid-grade ore, however, was found in the swamps. The tax on it was moderate, and soon Korets and Mosun became the chief beneficiaries of the new policy.

  Service in Korets turned into a gold mine. Over the years, the warriors who had once truly held back the mountain clans were replaced by men seeking profit. Assignments to the fortress were sold for money, rotation lists were shaped by family ties rather than merit, and bribes became an ordinary part of garrison life. Complaints from seekers and border villagers were constant, and each grievance only increased local sympathy toward the mountain clans.

  Eventually, the situation grew so unruly that Serain, who usually avoided direct interference in Mosun’s affairs, turned to Irakli with a demand: restore order in Korets—the place that had transformed from Ceradan’s beacon into a fortress of corruption.

  Irakli agreed and began gradually reshaping the guard stationed in Korets. The reforms moved slowly. Orders stalled on paper, old networks resisted, and local corruption proved more resilient than expected. Still, one decision was carried through: a detachment of young soldiers was sent to the fortress under the command of the seasoned officer Demetrius, who was granted special authority to enforce change.

  Demetrius had once been a Glass Seeker in the swamps himself. He knew these lands not from maps or reports—he knew them by the taste of marsh water and the feel of unstable ground beneath his boots. That was why several men in his detachment had been born beyond Ceradan’s borders; he trusted those who had seen the frontier not only from behind fortress walls. Demetrius himself was a native of Mosun and understood well that Korets was more than a customs post—it was a fragile boundary between order and chaos.

  He received his appointment only days before an armada of Rejected was discovered in the Black Forest. At the time, it seemed like another difficult but routine assignment—to restore order in the garrison, curb the bribes, and reestablish discipline. He did not yet know that very soon he would be commanding the fortress that would be the first to face an army numbering in the hundreds of thousands.

  The evacuation of Korets moved slowly and with difficulty. The fortress that was meant to serve as a forward stronghold had, over the years, turned into a half-comfortable border post. With no regular rotations, soldiers had lived here for years, arranging the barracks like private homes: chests, extra beds, carpets, copperware, even furniture brought from Mosun. Packing up this “domestic life” took more time than preparing for battle.

  They had lost the habit of rapid marches, of the order “formed up in an hour.” Most were in poor physical shape, softened by steady income from customs duties and bribes, and long since forgotten how they had once repelled the mountain clans in open field.

  The only fully combat-ready unit was Demetrius’s detachment. When they learned of the evacuation, they assembled quickly and without argument. Demetrius sent part of his men with the first supply columns to Mosun to reinforce the western bank. The rest remained on the walls and out in the steppe before the fortress—watching, checking signal posts, ready for a sudden strike.

  The columns were delayed. Wagons stood beneath the gates, overloaded with chests and sacks. Soldiers hauled everything—from wine stores to personal trophies. They argued with the drivers when they refused to take more. Shouting, shoving, threats. Time was slipping away.

  Demetrius watched it all with a mixture of disgust and cold calculation. The fortress had been overrun by greedy, well-fed functionaries. Once they had condemned Mosun’s corruption, calling themselves “the last honest line of the kingdom.” But the moment they gained access to the flow of Glass and customs revenue, they became part of the same system. The only difference was scale.

  Now that the system was about to face an army that did not negotiate.

  He forced himself not to look at the disgrace. Instead, he turned his horse and rode away from the fortress toward one of the observation posts on a nearby hill. From there, the steppe lay open like a map in his palm.

  The day was too bright for war. The sun stood high; scattered trees still held their leaves, though green was surrendering to yellow. The grass shimmered in shades from dull gold to rust-red. Even the marshlands, usually bleak, looked almost picturesque.

  A quiet beauty that did not yet know it would soon be torn by hooves and blood.

  Demetrius scanned the horizon—and his gaze caught movement. A dot. A figure. A rider.

  He recognized him before the shout carried on the wind. The scout was galloping at full speed, his horse nearly spent, foam flying from its mouth.

  “Rejected!” the cry reached him. “Rejected on the horizon! Large formations! Moving this way!”

  Demetrius did not wait for details. He wheeled his horse and raced back toward Korets.

  The walls were already alive with motion—guards rotating, craftsmen hauling the last wagons inside, archers checking bowstrings. Now it all had to be clenched into a fist.

  He rode into the courtyard and spoke without pause:

  “Drivers—ride for Mosun! Everyone else, faster than the walls!

  Soldiers—ready your weapons! Take defensive positions! Prepare to repel cavalry assault! Archers—to battle stations! Arrows ready! Draw bows!”

  The commands were scattered in all directions.

  Steel rang. Gates groaned. Men ran up the stairs to the walls; others dragged crates of arrows; others checked the locks of the embrasures. Korets, which a moment ago had breathed calmly, now tightened itself, preparing to receive the blow.

  On the horizon, dust was already rising. And this time, it was no scouting party.

  The drivers bolted from the fortress courtyard as fast as they could. The wagons—overloaded with chests and sacks only a minute before—now rattled down the steppe road toward Mosun. Some soldiers tried to leap aboard on the move, grabbing at the sides, the ropes, the rear beams. Some slipped and fell into the dust along with their belongings. Others managed to cling on—and vanished with the column, leaving only curses behind.

  The rest ran on foot. Discipline shattered faster than government-issue chests. With every man who fled, the resolve of those who remained thinned.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But not for all.

  Some of the guards remembered who they had once been. Mostly men of middle age or older—those who still recalled true raids of the mountain clans, the cold nights on the walls, the smell of blood instead of wine. They slowly formed ranks, raised their shields, tightened their straps.

  Movement was already visible on the horizon—dark shapes, rapidly growing. Units of Rejected advanced toward the fortress, moving with confidence, without scouts, as if they already knew they would be met here.

  Demetrius rode forward so he could be seen.

  “Hold the line!” His voice was sharp and clear. “Prepare to finish them once they pass the outer works! Archers—do not fire until they cross the mark! Conserve your arrows! Hold the flanks! Do not let them encircle us!”

  He kept his gaze fixed on the steppe.

  “There aren’t that many. We’ll throw them back.”

  It was not entirely true. But it was necessary.

  The fighters from his detachment spread out—two or three to each local unit. They took their places beside them, straightened shields, adjusted formations, and offered brief words of support. Their calm confidence worked better than any speech.

  Korets, which an hour earlier had been packing chests, now struggled to remember that it was a fortress.

  The cavalry of the Rejected swept across the steppe like a light wave. Light armor, few shields, maximum speed. Such a force was insufficient to storm a fortress—but more than enough to intercept and slaughter a retreat. They knew they would catch the garrison in motion. They had wagered on tempo.

  The defenders of Korets managed to form ranks. Demetrius built the core of the defense from the few disciplined soldiers available, positioned the archers, and secured the flanks. But the riders did not charge head-on. They veered sharply, bypassed the fortress, and surged into the rear—toward those who were fleeing.

  The hunt began.

  The deserters ran in chaos: some into the open steppe, some toward the swamps, some stumbling as they tried to hide in folds of the terrain. No order, no command, no resistance. They were overtaken quickly. Cavalry blades worked without pause.

  The supply columns had escaped.

  Their owners had not.

  Bodies lay in the dust among scattered chests, copperware, spare blankets, and wine—the same clutter that had replaced their battle gear for years. The belongings survived. The men did not.

  When the last fugitive was cut down, the riders halted. They did not attack the fortress—there were too few of them for a direct assault. Instead, they seized the road to Mosun and made camp, sealing off retreat. They were waiting for reinforcements.

  From the wall, Demetrius watched the dust settle over the steppe.

  He had two options: break through now, while the enemy was still thinly spread, or lock the gates and hold a silent defense, buying time for Mosun. With every passing minute, more Rejected forces drew nearer. The decision had to be made at once—and this time.

  Demetrius studied the situation without speaking. Hold the walls, and they would suffocate slowly under smoke and stone. Break out, and they might carve a path through—if they were fast enough. If not, they would die in the open. He looked over the men: faded cloaks, dented armor, faces lined not by fear but by years. They had guarded the borders of Korets once. Now they stood tired, breathing hard in the cold night air. Below the walls, movement—reinforcements gathering. The enemy was preparing. The fortress could still hold. The passage was narrow, the walls high. Supplies were thin but not gone. Time could be bought. But time would not change who they were.

  Demetrius drew breath to order them back to their positions when a hoarse shout cut across the wall. “I will not die in this fortress! We charge! We break through!” Petros. Stripped of command days ago. Publicly. Deliberately. A proud man forced to stand aside while a younger officer took his place. He stepped forward, gray hair catching the torchlight. “Demetrius! Give the order. Let us die standing, not buried.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then someone answered him. Another followed. Voices rose—not polished, not heroic, just raw. “We break through!” Men straightened. Spears lifted. Not because they believed in victory, but because they preferred movement to waiting.

  Demetrius felt the shift. Not inspiration. Not certainty. Just a decision. “Archers—aim. Cavalry, with me. We strike the flank. Infantry—hold until we open a gap, then push through it. No stragglers.” He turned toward the gates. “Move.”

  His voice cut through the air as cleanly as steel through flesh. No shouting, no theatrics—only cold resolve. The men moved at once. Each knew his place. Each understood there might be no road back.

  The riders gathered around him swiftly—heavy horses striking sparks from stone, steam rising from their nostrils. Metal rang against metal. The smell of leather and sweat mixed with bitter torch smoke. Beyond the walls, in the dark, the enemy did not yet know that they were about to become prey.

  Archers took new positions along the walls of Korets. Bowstrings drew in unison—a dull, familiar sound like the tension before a storm. Below, along the road, the Rejected were spread loosely, unguarded. They expected another volley from the walls, the slow death of a trapped garrison. They did not expect a sortie.

  The gates opened with a heavy groan. Cold night air rushed inward.

  “Forward!”

  Demetrius charged first. The cavalry surged after him like a dark tide. The archers loosed their volley—arrows tore downward into the Rejected, ripping through their relaxed formation. Several bodies fell at once; others scattered in confusion.

  The enemy reacted late, but not foolishly. They sought cover behind trees, behind shields, behind the carcasses of their own horses. They spread to the edges of the road, trying to form knots of defense. Shields caught some arrows, others snapped mid-flight—but the essential damage was done. Their shape was broken.

  The cavalry of Korets gave them no time to recover. The hit was brutal and precise. They slammed into the flank like a blade between ribs, punching the first breach through the Rejected line. They split the ranks, stretched them thin, and forced each man to fight alone.

  Close combat erupted.

  Speed vanished. What remained was steel against steel, parries, heavy breathing, and the cries of the wounded. Horses fell with their riders; hooves slipped in mud and blood. Shields splintered. Metal screamed.

  The riders of Korets were outnumbered—but not outmatched. They held formation, secured the ground they had carved out, preventing the flank from closing again. Behind them, the infantry advanced—dense, heavy, relentless.

  Demetrius fought at the forefront. He deliberately drew more attention than any other. He kept moving—changing direction sharply, striking, stepping back, cutting in again. He never let the enemy fix their focus on him. A few Rejected tried to encircle him, but he shattered the attempt before the ring could close.

  He did not shout. He did not swing his blade for spectacle. His strikes were short, precise, and economical. Each one was a sentence passed.

  Around him formed the epicenter of the fight—a burning point where the fate of the breakout was being decided. And as long as he maintained that tempo, the enemy could not reform.

  The flank faltered.

  When the Rejected began tightening the ring around Korets’ riders, the infantry entered the fight.

  They advanced heavily, not as swiftly as they once had. Veterans of old wars, backs wrapped in bandages, scars aching in the cold. Some limped. Some held their shields lower than they wished. But when the order came, they remembered.

  They remembered youth. They remembered their first battles. They remembered what it meant to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  They crashed into the Rejected ranks without elegant maneuvers—brutally, with body, with weight, with experience. They hacked at horses’ tendons, dragged riders to the ground, smashed shields into faces, knocked men underfoot, and finished them with short, heavy blows. They shouted not from fury, but from strain—forcing one more breath of strength from their lungs.

  The younger Rejected had not expected such pressure. They were faster, more numerous—but unprepared for this dirty, crushing closeness. Unprepared for old soldiers who used their own mass as a weapon. For veterans who did not chase victory, they suffocated the enemy until he broke.

  The pressure proved too much.

  The Rejected line wavered, then splintered. Some began to fall back; others shouted orders lost in the chaos. The retreat became disordered. They were not yet fleeing—but they were no longer advancing.

  The defenders of Korets were tiring fast. Breath came ragged, arms grew heavy, blades dipped lower. Blood on armor cooled, mixing with sweat. But it was enough. The enemy was withdrawing, and they would need time to regroup.

  They were not given that time.

  Demetrius and his men carved a corridor for withdrawal—narrow, but clean. He personally checked the flank, forcing two Rejected groups back with sharp counterattacks. The space was held tight, without panic.

  They managed to pull out several wagons—sacks of provisions, bundles of arrows, and medical packs. The wounded were bound on the move: rough bandages, quick knots, a swallow of water—and forward. No wasted words.

  The column moved toward Mosun.

  Unlike previous garrisons that had dissolved by morning, these marched in order. Cavalry guarded the rear, infantry held the center, scouts slipped along the flanks. Every few dozen steps—a glance back. Every rustle in the dark—checked.

  Evening settled slowly. The forest breathed dampness; cold drifted from the swamps. Far off, cries could be heard—the enemy gathering again, but no longer close.

  They had lost the fortress.

  But they had preserved the core.

  And now the core moved toward Mosun—exhausted, bloodied, but alive.