Chapter 417: The Shadow in the Valley
The Shadow in the Valley
Sun rose slowly into morning, bleeding golden light across jagged peaks. On the ridges, mist clung to crags before reluctantly yielding to warmth, rolling down like pallid smoke into the deep valley below. The world lay still, too still—a virgin wilderness poised between beauty and terror.
Above, a single bird sliced through the skies, its wings wide and unyielding as it surfed the winds. Its shriek rang out, shrill and coarse, ripping through the silence. The call traveled for miles, but only strengthened the stillness that came after.
Down in the valley, there was unnatural stillness. No wind shook the leaves of the thin trees. No buzzing insect broke the air. But underneath that stillness, a sound began to build—first far away, a muffled, beating rhythm against rock.
The rhythm became louder.
Hooves.
A hundred, a thousand, then more.
The pounding grew into a steady roar, reverberating through the cliffs as if the mountains themselves trembled at the approach. The sound pressed against the valley walls, carrying with it the weight of inevitability. And then, from the fog of distance, the first black banners appeared.
An army.
Rank upon rank, armor black and shadow-forged, flooded into the valley in grim silence. Their plates glowed dimly in the sun, a sea of black metal undisturbed except where insignias were stamped upon their shields. There were no chants, no vaunts, no pipes to ride with them. Only iron-shod hooves and boots pounded against the earth.
At the front rode seven warhorses, battle-bred beasts that stood above ordinary stock. Their armor glimmered in black and silver patterns, steel hammered into a form meant to inspire fear and deflect the worst of blows. Each horse bore a commander, faces stern, eyes sharp, their presence alone shaping the men behind them into iron.
And before even them rode one man.
His armor was distinct, a rich royal blue with inlay of silver that flashed like ice on steel. On his brow was a circlet, simple yet unmistakable, the sign of kingship. His horse was a beast of unmatchable strength, its mane braided in the hues of his house. His eyes, a piercing blue like a frozen lake, swept the valley like a hawk gauging prey.
King Aurelian.
Moonstone’s monarch, owner of its banner, shatterer of its foes.
He would not speak, but his silence spoke more loudly than any battle shout. His men marched after him into the valley not with shout, but with the soft assurance of men marching gladly towards death if their king decreed it.
They had picked this route—along the Treeroot Valley, a region shunned by so many. Old legends spoke of terrors in this place: a canyon where old deities had spilled blood, where roots went so far down that they became knotted up with titanic bones. Merchants shunned it, hunters vowed never to set camp within its borders. Some said that the valley consumed sound, leaving only the whispers of the dead.
But Aurelian had taken this path, and his troops followed.
Time was more important than superstition.
He required the valley’s shortcut, regardless of its accursed name.
For hours, there was only the constant march. The sun climbed higher, staining the cliffs in golden light, but the heat never touched the king. His eyes were always on the horizon, seeking, computing. His intuition—heightened over the decades of war—whispered warning.
And then he saw it.
At first, nothing but a blur. A smear across the far haze. But Aurelian squinted, and the blur coalesced—shapes, unnatural on the flatness of the valley floor.
He pulled on the reins, reining in his horse. His commanders saw, their horses coming abreast of his. Behind them, the army’s steps adjusted, an ocean shifting to the king’s caution.
"My lord?" one of the seven asked, voice low, respectful.
Aurelian did not respond immediately. His eyes fixed on the figures in the distance, unblinking, waiting. His jaw clenched.
One soldier out of rank rode forward. He was young, his voice faltering but sincere. "Your Majesty... there. What is that?"
The man’s words shattered the stillness. All saw the horizon.
Aurelian’s hand relaxed against his reins. His voice, when it came, was rough enough to rasp stone.
"I know." His brows furrowed, his tone edged with restrained fury. "Let’s go. We’ll see what waits for us."
The commanders exchanged glances, but none questioned him. They gave the order, and the march resumed, though the men’s steps were heavier now, laden with unease.
The blur became distinct with each step. Not shapes of men, but wagons—rows of them, propped haphazardly against the valley’s plain. Each was worn, weathered, its wheels sunk deep into the earth as if pulled and left. They were without horses, without oxen. They were propped against each other like drunkards, barely standing, loaded with bundles of dried grass that bulged abnormally.
The air was colder.
What sorcery is this?" one commander cursed under his breath, his hand on the blade of his sword.
Another spit to the side. "Abandoned stores? Or. bait?"
A rumble of discomfort rippled among the closest soldiers. Armor groaned, hands fluttered toward weapons, horses snorted as if they could feel their riders’ tension.
King Aurelian did not speak. His stone-like face was impassive. But deep within him, his blood seethed with recognition. His gut, which had been trained over years of surviving ambushes, sieges, and plots, howled the word he would not yet say.
His horse moved restlessly, nostrils flaring at the rank of old grass.
The carts were too straight.
Too aligned.
Too intentional.
They weren’t artifacts left behind. They were pieces on a board.
Aurelian’s blue eyes grew cold. He lifted one of his gauntleted hands very slowly, the signal to stop. His whole army froze, as if the valley itself had ordered them to.
"Back away," he commanded, his deep voice cold and cutting, each syllable trembling with menace.
The commanders glared at him, but none of them rebelled. The leading ranks relaxed their pace, falling back, the quiet so profound it defined every noise more clearly—the jingle of bridles, the clumping of hooves, the ring of metal.
But the king’s eyes remained on those wagons. They stood there in unnatural stillness, their shadows lengthening in the sun of noon.
Something was awry.
Too awry.
The valley, previously quiet only, now seemed to be watching.
Each ridge, each stone, each shadow crushed down upon them like unseeing eyes.
Aurelian breathed slowly, his breath misting even in the sun.
His stomach whispered the truth, cold and merciless.
This was no accident.
This was no lost convoy.
This was a trap waiting to strike.