Mountain Pass Peril
The narrow ledge wound along the cliff face, barely wide enough for two riders side by side. Roland's heart pounded in rhythm with his horse's hooves as he guided his mount with steady reins. Below, the valley floor yawned a thousand feet down—one misstep meant a deadly plunge.
Talia rode just ahead. "Keep your eyes on the rock," she warned, voice low. "Loose shale can send you over."
Roland scanned the overhangs. Sunlight glinted on damp stone, spotting cracks where frost had pried the cliff apart. He spotted a section where fresh debris had collected—stones no larger than his fist, likely fallen overnight.
Ahead, a scout named Bren burst ahead to clear a ladder snagged on the wall. As Bren reached out to steady it, the ridge groaned. A sudden crack echoed through the pass: a slab of granite high above shifted, then plummeted.
"Rockslide!" Roland shouted, urging his horse into a swift side‐slide. He threw Bren aside as the first volley of boulders hurtled down. Bren tumbled clear, but smaller rocks shattered his forearm guard. Roland slashed his sword at a massive boulder, deflecting it, but the roar of falling stones drowned all thought.
He found himself scrambling on hands and knees, boulders rolling past his boots. One colossal rock slammed into the ledge's edge, sending a shockwave that nearly unseated his horse. Roland locked himself to the wall with a desperate grip.
When the slide finally ceased, dust and silence blanketed the pass. The path ahead lay buried under a mountain of stone, the path behind unreachable. Roland's chest burned as he fought to catch his breath. He turned to Bren, who lay half‐buried beneath gravel.
Desperate Rescue
Roland scrambled down into the rubble, ignoring the danger of further falls. He ripped away stones one by one, voice echoing in the narrow pass: "Bren! Bren, can you hear me?"
Bren groaned, blood trickling from his temple. "Roland… help…"
Roland's shoulder slammed into a boulder, but he pressed on, prying away debris and unstacking fractured rocks. Each movement brought fresh shards cascading down, but Roland held the larger stones back with his shoulder, shouting for help.
Moments later, two more scouts arrived—Lira and Talia—wedging themselves into the narrow chamber. Together, they lifted the largest rocks, freeing Bren's pinned leg. Blood pooled beneath the scout, but he smiled weakly.
Roland tore a strip from his cloak to bind Bren's wound. "You'll ride with me back," Roland said. "No more heroics for you."
Bren laughed through the pain. "Just… keep going."
---
Reforging Bonds
The forced detour had stretched the miles behind them, and Roland led the now‐broken party around the slide via a hidden goat trail that snaked up the mountain's flank. The path was steep and uncharted, roots and stones threatening every step. As dawn's light gilded the peaks, the travelers paused at a ledge overlooking the ravine of their peril.
"Look," Lira whispered. "We survived together."
Roland nodded, studiously brushing dust from his boots. "We need each other if we're to reach the summit." He rotated his sword hilt in his hand—an unspoken vow to defend his comrades as they had defended Bren.
A moment of silence passed, then Talia broke it. "Let's move. The Dark Lord's forces are closer than we thought."
They pressed on, the ordeal forging a shared resolve stronger than any single blade.
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Summit Arrival
As afternoon shadows stretched across the pass, the path leveled into a plateau. There, at last, they found the remains of an ancient watchtower—its stones hewn in the same style as the marsh ruins, its runes still faintly glowing where the ward magic lingered. Beyond it, the valley opened to a vast encampment: hundreds of tents, banners snapping in wind, armor glinting beneath the sun.
Roland's breath caught. This was the Dark Lord's advance guard in full array—a massive staging ground for the coming assault. Cavalry units lined the field, siege engines in position, and scout patrols weaving through the tents.
He raised his arm, signaling to Sir Alaric's hidden scouts arrayed on the far ridge. At his command, arrows streaked across the valley, striking drums that awakened every soldier below. Chaos erupted as knights scrambled for their lances.
On the ridge, the allied forces emerged: knights of Glenmere, spearmen of Blackwood, archers of Stonebridge, and Fenwood's militia—Roland, Talia, and Lira at their forefront. Their unified banner flew above them: a silver griffin on a field of emerald, symbol of Ardenia's alliance.
A thunderous roar answered them from the enemy camp. The Dark Lord's generals appeared atop a dais of crimson silk. Ritual horns sounded. The ground trembled as magic flared in the valley below—blue‐white energy coursing along lines of power in the soil.
Roland gripped his sword. This is the first real battle between our united front and the Dark Lord's amassed legions.
He turned to Alaric. "For Ardenia."
Sir Alaric nodded once, steel in his eyes. "For Ardenia."
And with that, the allied charge thundered down the ridge, descending as one into the valley of danger—ready to stop the Dark Lord's advance or fall together in defense of the realm.