The sun had barely risen over the jagged peaks of the Borderlands, but the temperature was already well below freezing. The wind howled through the valley, biting exposed skin like invisible teeth.

  Duke Thorne stood in the high observation tower of the central keep. His hands were clasped behind his back, his black armor absorbing the meager light. Beside him stood Instructor Hargan and several veteran commanders of the Ironhold garrison.

  They were looking down at the "Battlefield."

  "Ninety against thirty," Hargan noted. "Roland has the numbers and the firepower."

  The twenty or so nobles in command, led by Roland and the elite of Section A, were shouting orders. They sat on the few horses available or huddled in heavy cloaks, while the seventy commoner students were forced to dig trenches in the frozen earth, set up tents, and carry the heavy equipment. The commoners looked exhausted, shivering and resentful.

  "Numbers make men confident," Thorne muttered, eyes fixed on the field. "And confidence makes them careless."

  Inside the walls, it was a different story.

  Alaric’s Battalion 3, thirty commoners moved with clockwork precision. They were warm, having spent the night in the barracks.

  And they were cooking.

  Duke Thorne sniffed the air. The scent of savory beef stew, heavy with garlic and potatoes, wafted up from the courtyard and drifted over the walls, right into the noses of the starving attackers.

  "Psychological warfare," Thorne muttered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "

  "Alaric has turned the fortress into a kitchen," Hargan laughed softly.

  Down on the field, Roland von Varcrest sat on a horse, looking every bit the noble commander. He wasn't shouting like a child. He was following the textbook: Shields in front, Mages in the back.

  "Standard formation," Alaric observed from the ramparts. "Predictable."

  The Siege Begins!

  "Advance!" Roland ordered, his voice amplified by wind magic. "Shields up! Take the ramp!"

  Bormun led the vanguard, stomping forward with his massive tower shield. They moved confidently toward the main gate.

  "Now," Alaric signaled.

  Silan tipped the cauldrons. Hundreds of gallons of water cascaded down the stone ramp. In the freezing wind, it turned the slope into a sheet of black ice instantly.

  The result wasn't graceful.

  The front line of the vanguard hit the ice. Boots skidded as heavy armor clattered against stone. Bormun slipped, flailing his arms, and slid backward, knocking into the two students behind him. They went down in a heap of metal and cursing.

  Roland grimaced. It wasn't a total disaster, but it was embarrassing. His perfect formation was ruined.

  "Hold position!" Roland shouted, annoyed. "Don't charge blindly! Use the spikes on your boots! Mages, melt a path!"

  It was a slow, clumsy recovery. The Fire Mages had to step forward and blast the ground to create traction. It took time and wasted mana. And all the while, Alaric’s commoners on the wall were raining down blunt training arrows.

  Roland, humiliated and furious, pointed his sword at the heavy wooden gates.

  "Burn it!" he screamed. "Focus all magic on the gate! Blow it open!"

  Lucia hesitated. "Roland, that’s reckless. If we destroy the gate, the fortress is compromised for real…."

  "Do it, Saintess!" Roland snapped. "Or are you siding with the peasant?"

  Lucia flinched. She raised her staff. A beam of concentrated light joined the torrent of fire and wind from the other mages.

  BOOM!

  "The gate is breaking," Silan warned.

  Alaric nodded. "Unlock it."

  Silan pulled the heavy iron bar. The gates of Ironhold creaked open, just a few feet.

  Roland saw the opening. He signaled a halt.

  "It's open," Bormun said, getting back to his feet. "They're giving up?"

  Roland narrowed his eyes. "No. It's a trap."

  He was smart enough to know that. But he looked at the situation. He had sixty heavy infantry behind him. Alaric had thirty lightly armored commoners. Even if it was a trap, Roland believed his brute strength could smash through it.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  "Shields up!" Roland commanded. "Tight formation. We push through. Whatever they have inside, we crush it."

  This was his mistake. He trusted his strength too much.

  Roland led the charge into the gatehouse tunnel. The twenty elite nobles of Section A followed him, eager for payback.

  They burst into the inner courtyard.

  "Contact!" Roland shouted, raising his sword.

  But there was no one to fight. The courtyard was empty.

  Roland paused, looking around. "Where..."

  CLANG!

  The heavy iron doors slammed down behind them, sealing the tunnel.

  Roland spun around. He ran to the bars, grabbing them. They were solid iron. He looked back at the courtyard, another gate slammed down at the far end.

  They were caged.

  Alaric appeared on the wall above, looking down with a bored expression.

  "You knew it was a trap," Alaric said. "But you came in anyway."

  Roland glared up at him, gripping the bars. "I have sixty men right behind me. They'll tear this gate down."

  "Your men are leaderless," Alaric corrected. "And you are in a kill box."

  Around the rim of the wall, thirty crossbows clicked as they were leveled at the trapped nobles.

  "Surrender, Roland," Alaric said calmly.

  Roland looked at the crossbows. He looked at Bormun, who shrugged helplessly. He had been outplayed.

  "Surrender?" Roland laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "To a trick? To a coward hiding behind a wall?"

  He pointed his blade at Alaric.

  "Come down here," Roland challenged. "Fight me. One on one. If you win, my army surrenders. If I win, you open the gates."

  Silan whispered to Alaric, "Don't do it. We have them trapped. We can just wait them out."

  Alaric looked down at Roland. He knew it was a waste of time. Strategically, he had already won. But looking at Roland’s eyes, burning with mana and determination, Alaric felt a flicker of curiosity.

  He is the top student of Section A for a reason. I want to see it.

  "Fine," Alaric said.

  He vaulted over the parapet, dropping fifteen feet and landing silently in the courtyard inside the cage.

  Roland didn't waste a second.

  "Confirma," Roland whispered.

  His body glowed with the standard reinforcement magic, but then he began to layer spells.

  "Creo Terra: Light-Weight." "Creo ventus: Gale Boost."

  Alaric’s eyes widened slightly. He’s reducing his mass with Earth magic while accelerating with Wind?

  Roland vanished.

  He moved with a speed that shouldn't be possible for a knight in armor. He was a blur of silver and blue.

  Alaric didn't try to see him. His eyes couldn't track the movement. Instead, he expanded his Mana Sense.

  Left.

  Alaric ducked instinctively. Roland’s blade slashed through the air where Alaric’s head had been a fraction of a second ago. The wind pressure from the swing cut Alaric’s cheek.

  Alaric countered, slamming his hand on the ground. "Ice Sheet!"

  The floor turned into a mirror of ice. Alaric expected Roland to slip, losing his momentum.

  He didn't. Roland adjusted his center of gravity instantly, using wind magic to skate over the surface rather than run on it. He spun, delivering a heavy kick to Alaric’s ribs.

  Alaric blocked, but the impact sent him skidding back ten feet.

  He’s fast, Alaric thought, shaking out his numb arm.

  Alaric clapped his hands. "Sonic Boom!"

  A shockwave of compressed sound exploded toward Roland, designed to disorient his inner ear and knock him off balance.

  Roland didn't flinch. He swiped his left hand. "Wind Tunnel."

  He manipulated the air pressure around him, bending the sound waves away. The sonic boom harmlessly passed him by.

  "Is that all?" Roland taunted, though he was breathing hard. "I expected more from the genius commoner!"

  Roland charged again. He was a whirlwind of strikes, high, low, feint, thrust.

  Alaric was on the defensive. He couldn't use his lethal spell. He had to defeat him without killing him. But Roland was relentless.

  He really is strong, Alaric admitted internally as he parried a strike that numbed his wrist. His spell weaving is flawless.

  Alaric prepared a counter-spell, his mind racing for a non-lethal solution.

  But suddenly, Alaric stopped.

  His Mana Sense, which was fully expanded to track Roland, picked up something else.

  It was a cold, oily dissonance. A rot in the atmosphere.

  Alaric froze mid-motion, his eyes snapping wide.

  Roland saw the opening. He swung his sword for a finishing blow. "Got you!"

  "STOP!" Alaric didn't block. He screamed, staring past Roland, staring at the gate.

  Roland halted his blade inches from Alaric’s neck, confused by the sudden lack of defense. "What? Giving up?"

  "Shut up," Alaric hissed. The color drained from his face. "Do you feel that?"

  "Feel what?"

  From outside the walls, the cheering of the students died down.

  Then came the scream.

  It wasn't a battle cry. It was the high-pitched, primal shriek of someone facing death.

  RRRIIIIP.

  The sound of the sky tearing open echoed through the fortress.

  "Open the gate!" Alaric roared at Silan on the wall. "OPEN IT NOW!"

  "But the duel—"

  "IT'S NOT THE GAME!" Alaric screamed, panic cracking his voice. "OPEN THE DAMN GATE!"

  The doors lifted. Alaric sprinted past a confused Roland.

  Through the tunnel, they saw the nightmare.

  The sky had cracked. A purple rift hovered above the rear lines of the attacking army.

  A creature stepped out. Eight feet tall. Chitinous black armor. Scythe-arms.

  A Void Stalker.

  It stood over the defenseless Mage Unit.

  Lucia stood frozen, staring up at the monster. The demon screeched a sound like grinding metal and raised its scythe to reap the Saintess.