The wind swept across the frozen plains of Karovia, carrying with it the dull rumble of engines and the steady rhythm of marching boots.

  An army was coming.

  Columns of soldiers stretched across the landscape as far as the eye could see. Dark uniforms moved in perfect formation, their rifles slung across their shoulders. Tanks rolled forward beside them, metal tracks grinding against the frozen earth. Behind them came long lines of artillery and supply trucks, their wheels cutting deep scars into the snow-covered roads.

  The sound of the army was constant.

  Engines.

  Boots.

  Metal.

  War.

  Villages along the road stood silent as the column passed. Doors hung open, windows shattered. Smoke drifted lazily from houses that had been burned days earlier. Chickens wandered through empty streets, pecking at frozen dirt where people had once lived.

  The people had fled.

  Those who had not fled… were gone.

  At the front of the advancing column rode a single black horse.

  The man sitting atop it was calm, almost unnervingly so.

  General Konstantin Draeven.

  A long scar ran from his cheek down to his jaw, pale against the cold redness of his skin. It was old—years old—but it gave his face a permanent hardness, as though war itself had carved the mark into him.

  Black leather gloves covered his hands as he held the reins loosely.

  Even in the bitter cold, he wore them.

  They were as much a part of him as the scar.

  Behind him rode a small group of officers, their horses snorting in the cold air as the massive army continued its slow advance.

  One of the younger officers glanced ahead nervously.

  “General,” he said cautiously, “our scouts report the city is less than five miles ahead.”

  Draeven said nothing.

  His gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

  The column marched on for another mile before the road climbed into a low ridge overlooking the valley beyond.

  Draeven pulled his horse to a stop.

  The officers behind him did the same.

  Slowly, the army continued to move past them like a dark river of steel and cloth.

  Draeven reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of field glasses.

  He raised them to his eyes.

  Below the ridge lay Veligrad.

  The city spread across the valley beside the river, its stone buildings clustered tightly together within old defensive walls. Smoke drifted upward from several parts of the city, thin gray threads twisting into the morning sky.

  Even from this distance, faint flashes of gunfire could be seen along the outskirts.

  The fighting had already begun.

  Draeven lowered the glasses slightly, studying the city in silence.

  Behind him, the young officer shifted in his saddle.

  “General… should we wait for the rest of the division to arrive before moving in?”

  Draeven did not answer immediately.

  His eyes returned to the field glasses.

  He watched the city burn.

  A faint breeze moved across the ridge, tugging at the long dark coat hanging from his shoulders.

  Finally, he lowered the glasses completely.

  The officer waited.

  Draeven tightened one of his black gloves slowly, pulling the leather snug across his fingers.

  Then he spoke.

  “No.”

  The single word was quiet, but it carried the weight of command.

  The officers straightened instantly.

  Draeven looked back toward the endless columns of soldiers marching across the plains behind them.

  Thousands.

  Infantry.

  Armor.

  Artillery.

  More than enough.

  He turned his horse slightly, facing the valley.

  “We take the city.”

  Orders spread quickly through the army.

  Messengers rode down the lines. Officers began shouting commands. Trucks turned from the road and rumbled toward the ridge. Soldiers broke formation and began hauling heavy artillery cannons into position.

  Massive guns were dragged into place along the hilltop, their dark barrels slowly lifting toward the distant city.

  Crewmen loaded the first shells.

  The air was silent except for the wind and the clank of metal.

  Draeven watched it all without expression.

  One artillery captain approached and saluted.

  “Guns ready, General.”

  Draeven nodded once.

  “Fire.”

  The first cannon roared.

  The explosion shattered the quiet morning, the thunder of the blast echoing across the valley. The massive gun kicked backward as smoke erupted from its barrel.

  Seconds later, a distant explosion blossomed inside Veligrad.

  Then another gun fired.

  And another.

  Soon the entire ridge thundered with artillery.

  Shells screamed through the sky toward the city.

  Miles away, inside Veligrad, windows shattered as the first explosions tore through the streets.

  Fires began to spread.

  Buildings collapsed.

  And the siege of Veligrad had begun.

  As the artillery crews dragged the heavy guns into position along the ridge, a pair of soldiers approached with a prisoner.

  The man looked to be a farmer.

  His clothes were simple and worn, his boots caked with frozen mud. His hands were tied behind his back with rough rope, and his face was pale with fear.

  One of the soldiers stopped a few feet from Draeven and saluted.

  “General, sir. We found him hiding near the road. He was watching the column.”

  The farmer quickly shook his head.

  “I wasn’t spying,” he said desperately. “I swear it. I was just trying to find my family. They ran when the soldiers came.”

  His voice trembled.

  “I have children. Please… I was only looking for them.”

  The young officer beside Draeven shifted uncomfortably.

  “What should we do with him, General?”

  Draeven studied the man quietly.

  For a moment, the only sounds were the distant rumble of trucks and the scraping of artillery being dragged into position.

  The farmer’s breathing grew faster.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  Draeven stepped closer.

  The farmer’s eyes widened as the tall general stopped in front of him. Up close, the scar across Draeven’s face looked even harsher, the pale line cutting across his skin like a crack in stone.

  Draeven spoke calmly.

  “War is not cruelty.”

  The farmer blinked in confusion.

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  Draeven continued.

  “It is necessity.”

  Then he turned slightly to the soldiers.

  “Shoot him.”

  The farmer froze.

  The soldiers hesitated only for a moment before pulling him away from the ridge.

  The man began begging now, his voice cracking as they dragged him across the frozen ground.

  “Please—please, I didn’t do anything—”

  The shot echoed across the hillside a few seconds later.

  Draeven didn’t look back.

  Instead, he watched the artillery crews finish positioning the guns.

  Moments later, an artillery captain approached and saluted.

  “Guns ready, General.”

  Draeven nodded once.

  “Fire.”

  The first cannon roared.

  The wind swept across the frozen plains of Karovia, carrying with it the dull rumble of engines and the steady rhythm of marching boots.

  An army was coming.

  Columns of soldiers stretched across the countryside as far as the eye could see. Dark uniforms moved in rigid formations, rifles resting on their shoulders. Armored cars rattled along the road, their metal frames clanking as they rolled over frozen ground. Supply trucks followed behind them, packed with ammunition and equipment.

  War moved forward like a machine.

  Villages along the road stood silent as the army passed. Doors hung open. Windows were shattered. Smoke drifted slowly from houses that had burned days earlier.

  The people had fled.

  Those who had not fled were gone.

  At the front of the column rode a single black horse.

  The man sitting atop it looked calm, almost unnervingly so.

  General Konstantin Draeven.

  A long scar cut across the left side of his face, stretching from cheek to jaw. Years old, pale against his skin, it gave his expression a permanent hardness. Black leather gloves covered his hands as he held the reins.

  Even in the cold, he never removed them.

  Behind him rode several officers.

  “General,” one said cautiously. “Scouts report the city is less than five miles ahead.”

  Draeven said nothing.

  The column marched another mile before the road climbed into a low ridge overlooking the valley.

  Draeven stopped his horse.

  Below him, spread across the valley beside the river, lay Veligrad.

  Smoke already rose from parts of the city.

  Draeven lifted his field glasses.

  He watched the fighting for several silent moments.

  Behind him, an officer shifted nervously.

  “General… should we wait for the rest of the division?”

  Draeven lowered the glasses.

  “No.”

  He tightened the fingers of one black glove.

  “We take the city.”

  Orders spread quickly.

  Artillery crews dragged massive cannons onto the ridge.

  Soldiers hammered metal supports into frozen ground as shells were loaded into the breeches of the guns.

  Then two soldiers approached with a prisoner.

  The man looked like a farmer. His hands were tied behind his back.

  “We found him watching the column,” one soldier said.

  The farmer shook his head desperately.

  “I wasn’t spying. I was just trying to find my family.”

  His voice trembled.

  “I have children.”

  The officer beside Draeven glanced at him uneasily.

  “What should we do with him, General?”

  Draeven studied the man calmly.

  “War is not cruelty,” he said.

  The farmer looked confused.

  “It is necessity.”

  Draeven turned slightly.

  “Shoot him.”

  The soldiers dragged the man away.

  The gunshot echoed across the ridge.

  Draeven never looked back.

  An artillery captain approached and saluted.

  “Guns ready, General.”

  Draeven nodded once.

  “Fire.”

  The first cannon roared.

  Inside Veligrad, the battle was already raging.

  Gunfire cracked through the streets as Karovian soldiers fought desperately to hold their positions. Smoke drifted between the buildings while civilians ran in every direction, trying to escape the chaos.

  The Markov family was among them.

  Anya ran beside her mother, gripping Misha’s hand tightly as they pushed through the crowd.

  Behind them, Viktor stayed close, guiding them through the panicked civilians flooding the streets.

  Soldiers shouted orders nearby.

  “Fall back!”

  “Hold the barricade!”

  Another burst of gunfire echoed down the street.

  A group of Karovian soldiers rushed toward a barricade made of overturned carts and sandbags.

  Then the artillery shell landed.

  The explosion ripped through the street.

  Stone shattered. Fire burst from the impact as the barricade vanished in a cloud of smoke and debris.

  Several soldiers were thrown violently to the ground.

  Others didn’t move at all.

  For a moment the Karovian line collapsed.

  The soldiers who survived began retreating, dragging the wounded with them.

  Without the defenders holding the street, the path forward suddenly opened.

  Civilians surged through the gap.

  “Now!” Elena shouted.

  They ran.

  People shoved past each other in panic as the family followed the flood of civilians trying to escape the fighting.

  Another shell screamed overhead.

  It exploded behind them with a deafening blast.

  The ground shook.

  Misha stumbled.

  Anya pulled him up immediately.

  “Keep moving!”

  Gunfire echoed closer.

  The enemy was pushing deeper into the city.

  They turned onto another street just as a second explosion struck nearby.

  Debris rained down.

  A jagged piece of stone slammed into Viktor’s side.

  He cried out and collapsed to the ground.

  “Papa!” Misha screamed.

  Anya dropped beside him.

  Blood was already spreading across his coat.

  Viktor tried to push himself up but winced in pain.

  “I’m okay,” he said through clenched teeth, though it was clear he wasn’t.

  Gunfire echoed from the next street over.

  Soldiers were shouting again.

  The battle was getting closer.

  Anya looked down the road.

  They had made it this far.

  But now Viktor was injured.

  And the army of General Konstantin Draeven was entering Veligrad.

  Anya’s hands trembled as she pressed against the wound in Viktor’s side.

  Blood seeped between her fingers, warm against the cold morning air.

  “Papa, stay still,” she said quickly.

  Viktor tried to sit up, his face pale with pain. He clenched his teeth, breathing hard as the sounds of the battle echoed closer through the streets.

  Gunfire cracked somewhere nearby.

  Shouting followed.

  Misha stood frozen beside them, tears running down his face.

  “Elena…” Viktor said weakly.

  His wife knelt beside him, gripping his arm.

  “We’re going to get you out of here,” she said.

  Viktor shook his head.

  “No.”

  Another burst of gunfire echoed from the next street.

  Then came the sound of boots.

  Heavy boots.

  Marching.

  All of them froze.

  At the far end of the street, shapes began to appear through the drifting smoke.

  Enemy soldiers.

  Dark uniforms moved between the buildings as they advanced cautiously, rifles raised as they searched the street.

  They were getting closer.

  Viktor grabbed Elena’s sleeve.

  “You need to go,” he whispered.

  Elena stared at him.

  “We’re not leaving you.”

  “You have to.”

  He winced as another wave of pain shot through him.

  “You had your chance to leave the city,” Viktor said quietly. “Don’t lose the chance to live too.”

  Misha shook his head violently.

  “No! Papa, no!”

  Viktor reached out and grabbed his son’s shoulder.

  His voice softened.

  “Listen to me, Misha.”

  The boy was crying now.

  “You have to take care of your mother,” Viktor continued. “And your sister.”

  Anya felt something tighten painfully in her chest.

  “Papa—”

  Boots scraped against stone at the end of the street.

  The soldiers were closer now.

  One of them shouted something in a harsh voice.

  They were searching the buildings.

  Viktor looked at Elena again.

  “Take them,” he said.

  “Please.”

  Elena’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t move.

  Then Anya stood.

  Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

  “We’re not leaving him,” she said.

  Elena looked up at her.

  “Anya—”

  “There.”

  Anya pointed quickly.

  Across the street stood an abandoned apartment building, its windows shattered and its front doorway hanging crookedly from broken hinges. The inside was dark, the entrance half buried in rubble from nearby explosions.

  “Inside,” Anya said.

  Another burst of gunfire echoed nearby.

  The soldiers were moving down the street now.

  They didn’t have time to argue.

  “Help me,” Anya said.

  Elena grabbed Viktor under one arm while Anya lifted the other.

  Viktor groaned as they pulled him up.

  “I told you to go,” he muttered weakly.

  “Too late,” Anya said.

  They half-carried, half-dragged him across the street toward the abandoned building as the sounds of marching boots grew louder.

  Misha ran ahead and pushed open the broken door.

  “Quick!”

  They slipped inside the dark abandoned building, stumbling into a dusty hallway littered with fallen plaster and shattered glass. The air smelled stale, as if no one had lived there for weeks.

  Anya and Elena eased Viktor down carefully against the wall.

  Everyone froze.

  Boots marched past the building outside.

  One soldier stopped.

  For a moment, the world seemed to stop with him.

  Anya held her breath.

  The soldier’s shadow moved across the broken doorway.

  Then another voice shouted from farther down the street.

  The soldier moved on.

  The boots faded slowly into the distance.

  Only then did anyone breathe again.

  Misha clung to Elena, still shaking.

  Anya looked down at Viktor.

  His face was pale.

  The blood on his coat was spreading.

  Outside, artillery thundered again somewhere across the city.

  Veligrad was falling.