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ROGAR

T he ambush unfolds with the precision of a master craftsman's work, each element falling into place exactly as Zahra planned.

From my concealed position overlooking the main approach, I watch dark elf forces advance into what they believe is a conventional defensive engagement.

Their formation speaks of arrogant confidence—tight ranks, coordinated magical support, the measured advance of troops who expect victory through overwhelming superiority.

They have no idea they're walking into a killing ground designed by someone who learned warfare in the cruelest school imaginable.

"Northern force is in position," Grimna's voice carries through the communication crystal, barely audible over the sound of approaching enemies. "Ironjaw warriors report ready."

"Southern team confirms siege equipment neutralized," comes Khela's report. "Bloodfang contingent moving to secondary positions."

The coordination between allied forces exceeds my most optimistic projections.

Warriors who've feuded for generations now work with seamless efficiency, united by tactical necessity and inspired leadership.

Zahra's ability to forge cooperation from ancient rivalries represents a diplomatic achievement that might matter more than any military victory.

"Eastern assault force entering the canyon," I report, studying the advancing dark elves through carefully concealed observation points. "Approximately forty fighters, including what appears to be noble-born command element."

The commanders are obvious even at distance—their elaborate armor catching morning light, their mounted positions marking them as too important for foot travel.

Among them, I recognize the distinctive silver hair and cruel features of Lord Dravik, the dark elf noble whose hatred for escaped slaves has become legendary throughout the borderlands.

His presence confirms what intelligence suggested: this isn't merely a punitive expedition, but personal vendetta elevated to military campaign. Dravik has committed significant resources to recapturing one human female, driven by the kind of obsessive pride that blinds tactical judgment.

Perfect for exploitation by warriors who understand how arrogance becomes vulnerability.

"All units, maintain concealment until the signal," I command through the crystal network. "Remember—we control the timing of this engagement."

The dark elf advance continues with textbook precision, their formation designed to overwhelm fixed defensive positions through coordinated magical bombardment followed by close assault. Standard siege tactics that have served them well against conventional enemies.

But we're not conventional enemies. We're desperate people fighting for survival, guided by someone who's learned to turn every disadvantage into potential weapon.

"Movement in the settlement," reports one of Dravik's scouts, his voice carrying clearly across the canyon. "Minimal defensive activity, possibly evacuated."

The observation aligns perfectly with our deception plan.

The settlement appears abandoned except for token resistance, encouraging the dark elves to commit forces to occupation rather than maintaining careful overwatch.

Their magical scouts detect the presence of defenders, but not the carefully concealed ambush positions that ring every approach.

"Advance to occupation positions," Dravik commands, his cultured voice carrying the silk-wrapped steel typical of dark elf nobility. "Secure the primary structures, establish control of defensive positions. The escaped sacrifice is here—I can sense her magical resonance."

His confidence in that assessment makes my chest tighten with protective fury.

Zahra's presence does indeed register to magical senses, but not from the location Dravik assumes.

She's positioned with the primary ambush force, ready to coordinate the devastating surprise that will turn this confident advance into desperate retreat.

The dark elf formation enters the settlement proper, their attention focused on buildings that appear to contain minimal resistance.

Magical probes sweep through empty structures while advance scouts clear apparent defensive positions.

Everything proceeds exactly as planned, drawing enemy attention toward prepared kill zones.

"Signal ready," I whisper into the communication crystal.

"Confirmed," Zahra's voice replies, carrying steel-edged anticipation. "All units report final positioning complete."

The moment stretches taut as a bowstring as dark elf forces spread throughout the settlement, their formation now extended and vulnerable to coordinated assault. Dravik himself has moved well forward, confident in his magical protections and the overwhelming superiority of his forces.

Time to demonstrate the cost of such confidence.

"Execute," I command.

The ambush erupts with devastating suddenness.

Concealed warriors emerge from prepared positions, their weapons already in motion as surprise transforms tactical advantage into crushing superiority.

The coordinated assault strikes from multiple directions simultaneously, turning the dark elves' extended formation into a liability that prevents mutual support.

Chaos magic tears through the morning air as enemy sorcerers attempt defensive casting, but their spells target positions we abandoned minutes ago.

Meanwhile, allied clan forces emerge from concealment at optimal range, their weapons finding targets before the dark elves can organize coherent response.

The beautiful precision of the assault fills me with fierce pride as I watch tactics conceived in desperation achieve devastating effectiveness. This is what unified command can accomplish—not just the sum of individual clan capabilities, but exponential multiplication through perfect coordination.

But even as victory unfolds according to plan, I spot the danger that threatens to transform triumph into catastrophe.

Dravik's personal guard—elite miou warriors whose magical capabilities exceed standard dark elf forces—have recognized the ambush for what it is and moved to extract their commander from the killing ground.

Their coordinated withdrawal threatens to preserve the most dangerous enemy leader while sacrificing expendable troops to cover their escape.

Unacceptable. Dravik's survival means inevitable future attacks, his pride and hatred ensuring continued pursuit of the woman who's become central to my existence. This battle represents our only chance to eliminate a threat that will otherwise consume years and countless lives.

"Grimna, take command," I order, already moving from my observation position toward the extraction route. "I'm pursuing the command element."

"Rogar, negative! That's suicide without support!"

"Then provide support," I reply, cutting communication as tactical necessity overrides friendship.

The chase leads through terrain I know like my own heartbeat, but speed becomes critical as Dravik's guards establish overwatch positions designed to prevent pursuit.

Their rear-guard actions speak of professional competence, each position chosen to maximize defensive advantage while covering the primary withdrawal.

But professional competence assumes rational tactical behavior from pursuing forces. It doesn't account for chieftains driven by protective fury who'll risk everything to eliminate threats to their claimed mates.

I catch the extraction party at the canyon's narrowest point, where rock walls funnel movement through a natural chokepoint. Perfect terrain for ambush, if timing and positioning prove adequate to overcome numerical disadvantage.

My war axe takes the first guard before he can complete his warning shout, the double-headed blade shearing through armor and bone with mechanical precision.

The second warrior manages to raise an alarm before my follow-up strike silences him permanently, but damage control becomes irrelevant when surprise achieves its primary objective.

Dravik wheels his mount to face me, violet eyes blazing with hatred that transcends tactical consideration.

His elaborate armor gleams with protective enchantments, and chaos magic crackles around his hands like captured lightning.

Every inch the deadly noble whose reputation has spread terror throughout the borderlands.

"The orc chieftain," he says, his voice carrying cultured menace. "How convenient. Killing you will enhance the lesson your escaped pet's public execution provides."

"Come and try," I growl, settling into combat stance as his remaining guards move to flank my position.

What follows tests every skill acquired through decades of warfare.

Dravik fights with the lethal precision of someone trained from childhood in magical combat, his spells weaving defensive barriers while chaos energy seeks gaps in my guard.

His guards coordinate with professional efficiency, their attacks timed to exploit the openings his magic creates.

But fury has its own tactical value. The protective rage that drives me forward proves stronger than magical barriers, my war axe carving through defenses powered by desperation rather than mere technique. Each strike carries the weight of personal stakes that transcend military objectives.

The first guard falls to a blow that shatters his spine, the sound echoing off canyon walls like breaking stone.

The second requires more effort, his magical protections absorbing punishment before finally yielding to sustained assault.

But their elimination comes at cost—multiple wounds seep blood through my armor, and exhaustion begins to weigh on muscles pushed beyond sustainable limits.