The ride to Glenmere that night was tense. Roland led Talia and Lira along the winding frontier road, every shadow between the trees a potential ambush. Above them, clouds scudded across the moon, sometimes revealing its pale face, other times plunging the road into near-darkness. Roland's mind raced through every line of the prophecy and every scrap of knowledge he'd gleaned—his grip on the reins tightened with each step.
Suddenly, a low rumble echoed through the pines. Talia halted, hand on her crossbow. "Sounds like… drums?" she whispered.
Roland's heart pounded. "Enemy scouts—no, war drums." He turned in the saddle. Through a break in the trees, he saw flickering torches behind a distant crest—a small force moving toward Fenwood.
Lira leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "That's not reconnaissance. That's an advance guard."
Roland nodded grimly. "We can't let them reach Fenwood unopposed." He spurred his horse forward. "We warn Ivor—and perhaps delay them ourselves."
They galloped on, the dull drumbeats growing louder. As they crested the rise, Glenmere's wooden palisade came into view, torches lining the walls like a crown of fire. Roland reined in at the gates, shouting, "Marshal Ivor! The Dark Lord's advance guard approaches—!"
Guards flung open the gates. Roland slid from his mount, Talia and Lira dismounting behind him. He pounded on the command tent door. A weary Ivor emerged, surprised eyes widening.
"Marshal—I bring urgent warning. An enemy force marches this way, at least two hundred strong. They'll be at Fenwood by dawn if unopposed."
Ivor's jaw tightened. "Then we must hold them here." He rallied a handful of soldiers inside the tent. "Sound the alarm. Prepare the barricades. Captain Lyra—bombard their flanks with flaming arrows. Sergeant Vale—ready the traps along the creek. Roland—lead us in scouting their numbers at first light."
Roland saluted. As Ivor turned to marshal his forces, Roland caught his breath—he felt that familiar weight of being at the center of events, though he was no hero. He mounted a led horse and, with Talia and Lira, rode toward the soft drumbeats echoing in the valley.
Dawn's first light was a blood-red glow on the horizon, lending surreal color to the morning mist. Roland counted four distinct camps—each bristling with banners of the Dark Lord. They were probing skirmishers, testing Glenmere's defenses. Roland gestured to Talia and Lira.
"Split up—harass their perimeters. Draw them in here." He pointed toward prepared traps in a marshy bend. "I'll lead a feint through the northern ridge."
Talia nodded crisply and melted into the mist. Lira followed, twin daggers flashing. Roland spurred his horse along the ridge, sword raised. As he broke into their camp, the startled scouts froze. Roland dropped into a low guard, sword slashing across pikes and halberds. A cacophony of cries filled the air as Talia's flaming arrows arced over the ridge, setting tents alight.
Roland feinted back toward the ridge's edge, drawing a dozen scouts in pursuit. Then, with a signal—a raised arm—he wheeled back toward the marsh. The trapped scouts—led by Lira—fell upon them with brutal precision, and tendrils of smoke from burning tents churned into the red dawn.
Within minutes, Roland and his allies had routed the advance guard. Scouts fled into the forest, and Roland watched them scatter, chest heaving. His throat went dry with adrenaline.
He turned back to the ridge, where Ivor's banners now appeared, soldiers forming ranks behind their flags. The advance guard was broken; the main force would hesitate at the sight of an emboldened defense.
Roland rejoined Talia and Lira, hatred and relief in their eyes. "Well done," Ivor called. "You've bought Fenwood time."
Roland exhaled, tension easing. "Time enough to unite under the prophecy, perhaps." He looked toward Glenmere's walls, torches still burning, citizens pouring into the streets. "We must rally every hand—and remind them that unity is all we have."
---
Back at Fenwood, word of the skirmish traveled faster than the dawn. Roland, Talia, and Lira led a procession of scouts, militia, and townsfolk into the market square, where the empty platform still stood. Roland climbed the steps, the crowd parting in anticipation.
He raised his voice: "People of Fenwood! The prophecy did not come to doom us, but to warn us. We have faced the Dark Lord's advance guard—and we will face them again under the red moon. Our lives depend on unity: city walls and country fields, nobles and peasants, scouts and knights. Let us stand together—arm in arm—and show them that Ardenia will not break!"
A roar rose, shaking lanterns and rattling shutters. Villagers slung muskets over their shoulders, farmers gripped pitchforks, and children pressed against their parents' legs, eyes shining. Roland felt a swell of hope. The prophecy's grim verses had sparked panic—but from panic had emerged determination.
Maria, the baker's daughter who had lost her father in the raid on Westmarch, stepped forward and raised a bread-loaf aloft. "We fight for our homes!" she cried.
Old Farmer Haldor banged his scythe against a barrel. "For our fields and families!"
Knights in battered armor raised lances. "For Ardenia!"
Roland stepped down, heart full. Amidst the throng, Talia and Lira returned nods of approval. The prophecy had become a rallying cry, not a death sentence.
---
That night, under the blood-red moon, Fenwood's defenders lined the walls. Roland stood atop the parapet beside Sir Alaric, who wore grim determination.
"They'll come in waves," Alaric said, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of the Iron Pass. "Last chance to speak words of comfort."
Roland opened his mouth, then realized there were no words—only solidarity. He clasped Sir Alaric's gauntleted hand. The hero looked at him, eyes narrowed, then allowed a tight nod.
Below, the defenders braced. Lanterns were doused; torches set aflame to cast flickering shadows. In the valley, the Dark Lord's army emerged—a sea of black and red, banners snapping in the wind.
Roland gripped his sword. Flames licked the sky. The prophecy's final verse played in his mind, but this time he heard not despair, but challenge:
> "If blade or blood do not end the tyrant's reign,
All shall fall to sorrow's unending pain."
He looked to Sir Alaric, then to the united faces of Fenwood. Tonight, we wield blade and blood—together.
As the first charge thundered against the gate, Roland lifted his voice in a roar that joined the battle cry of an entire town. The moon bled overhead, but Fenwood did not falter.