Kingdom of Verdwryn

The air in the main camp was thick with tension, the scent of damp earth mingling with the acrid tang of burnt wood from the cooking fires. In the heart of the camp, Captain Garren stood before a weathered map spread across a sturdy table. His sharp gaze swept over the gathered squad leaders, each of them a battle-tested warrior or mage.

Alric Veylan stood tall among them, his fiery red hair catching the light of a nearby lantern. Beside him stood Michael, his arms crossed as he listened intently, the strategist role unofficially his within Alric's squad. The three other leaders were no less imposing, each flanked by their second-in-command.

"Listen up," Garren began, his voice a razor slicing through the murmurs of the camp. "Intelligence from the front suggests Zeranthian forces are planning a large-scale assault on Outpost Halford. If they take it, the entire western flank of Verdwryn's defense crumbles. That outpost holds the supply line for this region."

He jabbed a finger at the map, emphasizing the significance of the location. "The outpost's garrison is undermanned. You four squads will reinforce it. Hold the line at all costs."

The leaders exchanged tense glances. Michael's mind raced with questions, but he held his tongue, letting Garren continue.

"The enemy is bringing mages—fire and lightning affinity from the reports—and at least two barbarian-class warriors known for their berserk state. Expect chaos. Your mission is to repel the attack, ensure the survival of the supply line, and minimize casualties among the garrison. You'll leave at dawn."

Alric nodded curtly, his sharp eyes scanning the other leaders. "We'll need to prepare traps and use the terrain to counter their numbers."

One of the other leaders, a stocky knight named Darran Clyne, snorted. "You mean we rely on trickery? A real defense is about steel and grit, not sneaky magic."

Another leader, Riona Taves, a slender mage with an air of quiet authority, interjected, "If it saves lives and buys us time, I don't care if we use magic, traps, or divine intervention."

The last leader, a wiry scout named Veyric Marne, smirked. "Traps or not, the key will be controlling their mages. If we let them dictate the battlefield, we're all dead."

Garren slammed his palm on the table. "Enough. Work out your strategy on the way. Just make sure that outpost stands by the time I hear from you again."

As the leaders saluted and dispersed, Alric's squad gathered around him. Torval grinned despite the tension. "Looks like we're in for a proper fight."

"Proper? We're walking into a bloodbath," Kara muttered, her tone clipped but steady. "We'd better be ready."

Michael stayed quiet, his mind already churning with possibilities. The real work would begin on the march to Halford.

The four squads traveled together in uneasy silence at first. The terrain changed from open fields to dense woodland, the narrowing paths forcing the groups to move in closer proximity.

Michael used the opportunity to observe and converse with the other squads.

Darran Clyne's Squad:

Leader: Darran Clyne (Knight)Second-in-command: Erena Vol (Spearman with minor wind affinity)Members: Mixed melee fighters, heavily armored. Darran's squad was known for their resilience and straightforward tactics.Personality: Blunt and brash, but undeniably courageous. Darran disliked relying on anything he deemed "cowardly," which included magic-heavy strategies.

Riona Taves's Squad:

Leader: Riona Taves (Mage, ice affinity)Second-in-command: Solren Fiske (Crossbowman with ice-enhanced bolts)Members: A balanced mix of ranged and melee fighters. Riona's squad specialized in controlling the battlefield with freezing spells.Personality: Quietly disciplined, their icy demeanor matched their abilities.

Veyric Marne's Squad:

Leader: Veyric Marne (Scout, wind and earth hybrid)Second-in-command: Pallas Greve (Dagger-wielding rogue with poison tactics)Members: Highly mobile and adept at guerrilla warfare. Known for quick, precise strikes.Personality: Veyric was sarcastic but sharp, and his squad shared his flair for improvisation.

Michael engaged each leader during breaks in the march, gathering insights into their strengths and weaknesses. By the time they reached Halford, he had a rough plan sketched in his mind.

The outpost loomed ahead, a series of wooden barricades and hastily reinforced walls. The soldiers stationed there looked haggard, their faces pale from days of constant skirmishes. The garrison commander greeted the squads with visible relief.

"The Zeranthians have been probing us for days. Their main force will hit us by nightfall," he warned.

Michael and Alric's squad wasted no time, working with the other squads to set up defenses.

Set traps in the forest approach: pits, spiked logs, and hidden snares powered by earth and wood magic.

Position ranged fighters on the barricades, focusing fire on incoming mages.

Designate each squad to cover a specific segment of the perimeter, with Michael's traps creating chokepoints.

Darran grumbled but complied when Alric backed Michael's strategy. Even Riona and Veyric seemed impressed by the thoroughness of the plan.

As the final rays of sunlight bled into the horizon, the air around Outpost Halford grew dense with the promise of violence. The Zeranthian war horn shattered the tense silence, its guttural bellow echoing through the forest like a hunter's cry. Michael stood atop the barricade, surveying the treeline with cold focus. He gripped the hilt of his sword, the wood of the handle worn smooth under his fingers.

"They're coming," Seren's soft voice murmured. The archer stood beside him, her wind-enhanced arrows nocked and ready.

Beneath them, the squads waited. The garrison soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the reinforcements, their expressions grim. The smell of oil and sharpened steel hung heavy in the cold night air.

From the shadows, the Zeranthian forces poured forth like a tide.

Two massive figures led the charge, hulking barbarians with painted faces and bodies glistening with sweat. Their axes gleamed in the flickering light of the torches. Behind them came the enemy mages—one cloaked in a halo of fire, the other crackling with arcs of electricity.

Michael felt the tension in the air sharpen as the Zeranthians moved into the kill zone. The traps he and the others had worked tirelessly to set were ready.

"Hold!" Alric's voice cut through the chaos.

The first wave hit.

The forest floor came alive as Michael's traps sprang into action. Hidden pits claimed the lives of several Zeranthians, their screams blending with the guttural war cries of their comrades. Thick roots, imbued with Michael's wood magic, erupted from the ground, ensnaring limbs and dragging enemies into jagged spikes below.

Riona's ice magic froze entire clusters of attackers, leaving them vulnerable to volleys of arrows from Seren and her team.

"Concentrate fire on their mages!" Alric shouted, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. A massive fireball erupted from his palms, colliding with the enemy fire mage's shield. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, the explosion illuminating the carnage in vivid, fiery detail.

Despite the initial success, the Zeranthians pushed forward. The barbarians, undeterred by the traps, waded through the chaos with terrifying strength. One of them smashed through a barricade, splintering wood and sending defenders flying.

Michael leapt into action, directing the squads to plug the breach. "Gregor! Wall, now!"

The towering earth mage slammed his fists into the ground, raising a stone barrier that temporarily stemmed the tide. The barbarians roared in frustration, hacking at the wall with their axes.

The Zeranthian lightning mage targeted the barricades, sending arcs of electricity through the defenders. Screams of agony rang out as soldiers convulsed, their armor searing into their flesh. Michael felt the hair on his arms rise as the mage's power crackled through the air.

"Seren, take him out!" Michael barked.

The archer nodded, her movements fluid as she took aim. Her wind-enhanced arrow sliced through the air and struck the mage in the shoulder, forcing him to retreat momentarily.

Meanwhile, the Zeranthian fire mage countered with an inferno, igniting part of the wooden barricade. The flames spread quickly, casting eerie shadows over the battlefield.

Michael's squad fought fiercely. Torval engaged one of the barbarians, his shield barely withstanding the relentless onslaught of the axe. A misstep left him open, and the barbarian's weapon crashed down, splitting the edge of Torval's shield and cutting deep into his arm.

"Torval!" Michael yelled, abandoning his post.

With a surge of wood magic, he summoned roots that lashed out, binding the barbarian's arms and legs. The massive warrior snarled, struggling against the bindings, but Michael drove his blade through the barbarian's throat, ending his rampage. Blood sprayed, warm and viscous, soaking Michael's arm.

Torval collapsed, clutching his arm. "It's… not deep," he gasped, though his pallor betrayed the pain he was in.

"Kara!" Michael called, and the healer rushed over, water magic glowing faintly as she tended to Torval's wound.

The Zeranthian forces pressed harder, their numbers overwhelming. Michael realized they were trying to flank the outpost.

"Veyric! Take your squad to the left flank!" he yelled.

The scout leader gave a sharp nod, his team vanishing into the shadows. Moments later, explosions rocked the enemy ranks as Veyric's squad detonated pre-placed traps.

But the Zeranthians retaliated with savage ferocity. Darran's squad was caught in the middle of the melee, the knights struggling to hold the line against the second barbarian and his retinue.

"Push them back!" Darran bellowed, his voice hoarse.

Riona's ice magic slowed the enemy advance, but the Zeranthian fire mage countered, melting her frozen defenses. One of her squad members fell, their screams cut short as an enemy blade found its mark.

Michael's mind worked frantically, piecing together what remained of their forces. The Zeranthians were faltering, but so were they. Alric's relentless barrage of fire magic had left him pale and drained, though his attacks had taken a toll on the enemy mages.

With a final push, Michael directed Gregor to collapse part of the earth under the remaining Zeranthians, creating a sinkhole that swallowed the last barbarian and his group. Alric's magic surged one final time, engulfing the enemy mages in a conflagration that left nothing but ash.

The battlefield fell silent.

Smoke and blood hung in the air, the ground littered with the dead and dying. Of the four squads, more than half their number lay lifeless or gravely injured. Michael's squad, battered but intact, regrouped at the center of the outpost.

"We held," Torval said, his voice hollow.

Michael looked around at the carnage, his chest tightening. "At what cost?"

Alric stepped forward, placing a hand on Michael's shoulder. "You did well. Without your traps and strategy, we'd all be dead."

Michael didn't reply, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The battle was over, but the war was far from won.