The road out of Fenwood wound through rolling hills carpeted in autumn gold and scarlet. Roland Farter sat in the lead wagon, its wooden wheels creaking under the weight of supplies. The morning sun burned away the dawn mist, revealing distant peaks crowned with jagged snow—the Iron Pass lay just beyond them. Today, the allied force would cross into enemy territory for the final campaign.
Roland steadied his breath as the caravan crested a gentle rise. Below, a narrow valley slashed through the hills, its floor bisected by a winding creek. Tents and banners of Fenwood, Glenmere, Blackwood, and Stonebridge fluttered in the crisp breeze. Soldiers of every stripe stood at attention, their gazes fixed northward.
Sir Alaric rode past, horse's hooves clicking on packed earth. His armor gleamed, but his eyes betrayed the gravity of what lay ahead. Roland slipped off the wagon and trotted to meet him.
"Roland," Alaric said quietly, "today we march into the teeth of danger. Be ready."
Roland offered a firm nod. "I am, sir."
Ahead, the caravan slowed as it approached a wooden bridge spanning the creek—its planks fresh, iron‐banded, and guarded by militia in speckled mail. Beyond the bridge, the fork in the road: one path led through the high trail of deadly cliffs, the other through the bogs of Whispering Marsh. Both routes were perilous.
Roland joined Lira and Talia among the scouts. "Which path?" Lira asked.
Talia consulted a parchment map. "The high trail offers speed but a higher risk of ambushes and rockslides. The marsh is slower—mud, hidden pools—but offers cover."
Roland traced the routes in his mind. The prophecy warned of avalanches—rockslides. He remembered the near‐miss with sliding boulders in Chapter 14's original storyline. "We take the marsh. It may slow us, but the rocks are more certain."
Alaric overheard and nodded. "We will trust your judgment. Scouts, lead the way through the marsh. Remain vigilant."
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Through the Marsh
The caravan veered east toward the marshlands. Reeds and cattails swayed in knee‐deep water. Mists drifted just above the surface, obscuring the way. Soldiers trod carefully on makeshift plank paths; wagons followed on wooden rollers. Roland and the scouts struck out ahead, poles in hand to probe for hidden sinkholes.
The first hour passed in uneasy silence. Then, a muffled crack echoed—and the ground shuddered. Roland shouted, "Rockslide!" But there were no cliffs here. In the dim light, a wall of mud and debris surged through the marsh—an unnatural slide, perhaps triggered by enemy magic.
Roland leapt aside, grabbing Lira's arm. They stumbled but kept their footing as the avalanche roared past and buried the plank path behind them. Military cries rose in panic. Scouts rushed to clear the debris; Roland joined them, exposing broken timbers and half‐buried soldiers.
"Talia!" he called. She appeared, hauling free a trapped recruit. The soldier coughed, eyes wide. Roland directed two men to lead him back to the wagons. "Check everyone!"
Within minutes, the path was passable—thankfully, no fatalities—but the warning was clear: the marsh held unexpected dangers. Crimson dawn light filtered through mist, and Roland met Alaric's gaze. The prophecy's mention of rockslides had come true—on flat ground.
Alaric's voice was grim. "Magic or trap—either way, we'll need countermeasures." He turned to Lira. "Seek higher ground. We can flank around the worst sections."
Lira darted off, staff in hand. Roland and Talia guided the wounded from the mire. Soldiers rebuilt the walkway under Vale's orders, while alchemists scattered quick‐drying powders to harden mud. The march resumed—slower, more cautious, every step an exercise in vigilance.
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The Hidden Ruins
By midday, the caravan left the marsh and ascended a rocky outcrop, the path narrowing to a single track carved into the hillside. Roland rode alongside the cliffface, peering into a deep ravine below. There, half‐submerged in the creek, lay the crumbled remains of an ancient watchtower—the walls half‐fallen, ivy‐clad, and waterlogged.
Curiosity pulled Roland down to investigate. Talia and Lira followed. At the base, he found faded runes matching those in the original manuscript—runes of warding now broken. The ruins whispered of old magic… and of secrets waiting to be rediscovered.
Roland ran a hand over the stony carvings. "This was once a sentinel post. It held strong magic to keep invaders at bay."
Lira knelt, brushing moss from a carved symbol of a griffin. "Ardenia's ancient watch—lost in the Dark Lord's first war."
Talia studied the creek's flow. "Restoring these wards could shift the battle. We should mark this as a rally point."
Roland nodded. "We'll report to the alchemists and Cedric. Perhaps we can reactivate the wards."