Devourer

Minuvae sat silent in the trees as her fellows approached the external perimeter. This fight was going to be a bloody one. The loyalists were deeply entrenched. Once the defections hit critical mass, the elders pulled all remaining loyalists back to the secondary line.
The border with the Primordial Font and Old Voleria has been pulled back to a more defensible position. Unheard of until this point, but with the border with Old Voleria stuck in a standoff, it is not inconceivable that the enemy will attempt a two-pronged attack. Sure enough, once hte pull back began, the forces on the Volerian border moved in, with the Elves abandoning ground, the forest lost its bite against invaders.
Minuave peered across the large river. It was almost 100m, and she took out her map to check the status. It was a piece of magical parchment that showed the current rough situations across the front.
The red arrows symbolised Imperial forces.
Green shields symbolised Minuvae’s rebels.
Blue shields symbolised Elven Loyalists.


The fighting is heaviest along the 2nd Defensive Line West, where her rebel forces are locked in a brutal struggle to cross a wide, treacherous river. The Loyalists have fortified the banks, turning every attempt at passage into a costly gamble. Yet this sector is meant to draw their focus, and General Ordias has committed his most disciplined veterans to hold the line, bleed the defenders, and deny them the chance to manoeuvre.
At the same time, Ordias is preparing a third offensive: an amphibious strike along the eastern coast of the Elven lands. Imperial Marines and Naga shock troops will spearhead the assault, bypassing coastal defences to disrupt supply chains, cripple ports, and open a deep front in Loyalist territory.
Ordias’ campaign was a masterclass in layered pressure, an intricate trap designed to stretch the Loyalists until their strongest fortifications became liabilities. The Western Line was bait, the Eastern assault the hammer, and the coastal landing the coup de grâce. Once these strikes converged, the Loyalist command would face encirclement and the collapse of their entire front.
Minuvae grimaced as she recalled the strategy. Ordias called it the “Grand Battleplan Doctrine,” a sweeping design supplemented by the Hive’s “Mass Assault Doctrine” and “Mobile Warfare Doctrine.” Even in theory, it was terrifying.
The Averlonian Empire was unlike any other nation. Its numbers, resources, and technology were unparalleled, and its sheer mass alone was unmatched anywhere in the world. What other realm could field the overwhelming numbers of a humane empire, the naval supremacy of the Naga, the engineering mastery of the Dwarves, the raw destructive potential of the Vampires, and the iron resilience of the Lizardkin, all under one banner? And this did not even account for the Hive, a force that likely outstripped the combined strength of all the rest. Minuvae knew the truth. Averlon was no mere great power; it was a global superpower, the strongest faction in the known world by a wide margin.
She crouched on a branch, peering through the mist toward the opposite bank. The Loyalists had turned the far side of the river into a fortress, their archers firing from high in the canopy. Golden arrows flashed through gaps in the leaves, their runes glowing faintly as they struck tree trunks or sank into the dirt. Minuvae’s rebels responded in kind, their own sharpshooters hidden among the branches on her side, their enchanted arrows threading through fog and foliage. Below them, Imperial riflemen were dug deep into trenches reinforced with logs, firing bolts of magic from behind thick tree trunks.
The river was a hundred-meter-wide barrier, its surface scattered with debris and glowing fragments of spent enchantmented equipment. Fire traded across the water in steady rhythms, more about suppression than bloodshed. Few fell, but neither side relented, each volley serving to pin the other in place. The forest was alive with the crack of spellshot and the hiss of arrows, a low, constant thunder beneath the canopy.
Minuvae’s sharp eyes caught movement at the river’s edge below. Through drifting mist, a line of squat, angular shapes emerged from the treeline. Dwarven landing craft, their hulls plated with rune-etched steel, creaked forward on heavy wheels before sliding into the water with splashes that shattered the tense rhythm of the firefight.
The craft sat low in the river, armoured panels raised to shield the troops packed inside. Steam hissed from rune vents as hidden engines churned beneath the surface, propelling them toward the far bank. Dwarves hunched over the controls, their thick armour glinting faintly, while human riflemen knelt behind the side plates, firing disciplined bursts of magical bolts to suppress enemy archers. Each shot lit the mist with red flashes, slamming into the treeline opposite.
Golden arrows streaked from Loyalist nests high in the canopy, striking sparks off the armored hulls of the landing craft. Wards flared with each impact, glowing briefly before fading. Imperial rifles answered from the trenches, their spellfire cutting through mist and shadow as the craft surged forward.
A sudden flare of light from the far treeline caught Minuvae’s eye. An Elven ballista, hidden in the canopy, fired a massive rune-etched bolt that tore across the river. It struck the lead craft, detonating in a deafening blast that split the vessel apart, throwing soldiers into the water. Dwarves and humans flailed in the current as arrows rained down, and the burning wreck drifted downstream like a beacon of failure.
Then the river itself came alive. Pale, chitinous forms broke the surface as the Hive erupted from submerged tunnels, screeching as they rushed the far bank. Loyalists shifted fire immediately, shredding the first wave in a storm of arrows and magic, but the swarm kept coming, sacrificing itself to sow chaos. Amid the distraction, the surviving landing craft pushed through the barrage and slammed onto the shore.
Dwarves in heavy armor surged down ramps, followed by Imperial rifle squads and vampires moving with eerie precision. They fanned out, driving the defenders back step by step as Minuvae’s elves provided cover fire from the treetops. The Hive piled up in heaps at the water’s edge, but their assault had broken the Loyalists’ formation long enough for a foothold to form. The riverbank was now a contested beachhead, thick with smoke, blood, and magic.
On the near bank, Imperial engineers sprang into motion. Teams fired enchanted towing bolts across the river, each cable locking into place under Dwarven hands. Anchors glowed with fresh runes as the lines went taut, humming with mana. Soon, mithril plates etched with binding spells were sliding along the cables, each segment locking into place with heavy clicks as a bridge began to take shape over the misty water.
Arrows and spell-bolts hammered the work crews, but sharpshooters and riflemen laid down steady covering fire. Hive corpses littered the shoreline, forcing Loyalist archers to shift position and slowing their volleys. Plate by plate, the glowing bridge extended toward the embattled beachhead, a silver path of steel and magic that promised to turn this brutal crossing into a full-scale assault.
A sharp crack split through the forest, louder than the steady rhythm of rifles and arrows. Minuvae’s eyes snapped to the treeline where a hidden Elven ballista fired, its glowing bolt streaking across the misty river.
The projectile struck the bridge midspan, erupting in a deafening explosion. The cables snapped with a violent whip, glowing runes flaring and dying as shattered plates crashed into the water. In moments, the crossing was gone, leaving only burning debris drifting downstream.
“Bridge is down!” came the cry, but the chaos made it obvious. Loyalist fire intensified, arrows and spell-bolts hammering the exposed beachhead. Minuvae’s elves returned fire from the canopy, but the defenders pressed hard, forcing Imperial forces back to the river’s edge.
A red flare signaled the retreat. Landing craft surged forward, ramps slamming down as soldiers scrambled aboard under covering fire. Dwarves raised shields, rifle squads fired in tight bursts, and officers shouted orders over the roar of magic and steel. A ballista shot splashed wide, rocking one craft as engines pushed hard to pull away from the bank.
“Cover them! Get them out!” Minuvae barked, loosing an arrow at a Loyalist marksman before dropping to another branch to direct her rebels.
Minutes later, the boats were cutting through smoke and mist, retreating under fire. The shoreline was abandoned, littered with wreckage, blood, and the failed remains of the assault. The Loyalists’ hold on the far bank remained unbroken.
Minuvae grimaced. She knew how deadly her kin were on home ground, and even the mighty Imperial army was beginning to show cracks under their defence.
◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.♚.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦
Ordias stood over the campaign table, lamplight glinting off the polished map. Casualty reports lay neatly arranged: 4,000 dead, 14,000 wounded, and 2,000 awaiting magical treatment. The numbers were acceptable losses. The western front was stable, and the failed river assault had served its true purpose: to pin the Elven Loyalists and convince them the Imperials were committed to breaking the west.
His gaze lingered on the fortified riverbank marked with Elven Loyalist positions. Ballistae, treetop archers, and layered magical defenses had stopped the crossing exactly as expected. Even the Hive had been unleashed there, not in desperation but to strengthen the illusion that this was the decisive front. The Elven Loyalists believed they had blunted the Empire’s main attack, and that was exactly what he wanted.
Ordias shifted his attention eastward. That flank was thinly manned, guarded by a river as well, but narrower and far easier to cross. Imperial reinforcements were already on the march, columns of soldiers and siege units moving under cover of the western battle. The Elven Loyalists remained focused on holding their “victory,” unaware of the storm gathering to the east.
He tapped an armoured finger on a marked salient in the Elven Loyalist line along the western front. “Maintain pressure on the west,” he said evenly. “Keep them pinned. When the east falls, this position will become untenable. The western front will have no choice but to retreat or risk the salient being cut off.”
Ordias stood over the map table, fingers resting on its edge. “Adjutant.”
A young officer in polished armor stepped forward, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. “My lord.”
Ordias pointed to a sector of the salient on the western front, the tip of his armored finger clicking against the map. “Prepare another river crossing here. Minimal commitment. Make it convincing, then pull back.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ordias shifted his hand, tapping a nearby stretch of the defensive line. “Lighten fire after withdrawal. Hold in case they counter.”
The adjutant saluted crisply, boots sinking slightly into the packed earth of the command tent as he turned to leave. The soft rustle of canvas and distant shouts of messengers filtered in as Ordias stayed motionless, his glowing eyes fixed on the map, already calculating the eastern advance while the officer hurried off to relay orders.
Just as Ordias shifted his attention to another stretch of the line, he felt a powerful presence nearby. He glanced up and met a pair of sterling eyes set above shimmering pink scales.
“Didn’t expect the Great Beast to send you…” he said as Mahaila stepped into the command tent. Her sinuous Lizardkin disguise was flawless, every movement smooth and deliberate.
“Good to see you too, Grand General,” she replied dryly.
Ordias raised a brow as Crownless followed her in, silent and emotionless, clad in chitin armor and a faceless helm.
“Quite the force, then,” Ordias remarked. “The Great Beast must be growing impatient to send you, Malegaros, and… that thing.” He nodded toward Crownless.
“Crownless,” Mahaila said airily, resting a hand on the hilt of one of her rapiers. “That’s what they’re calling it.”
“If you can even call that a name,” Ordias muttered.
“The Great Beast named it,” Mahaila replied as she sat down. “That is one of his better choices. He once insisted the young princess’s hive hound be called
instead of
because it had more than one black spot.”
“Rational,” Ordias said calmly.
“Yes, the two of you would get along if naming things were a hobby,” Mahaila said dryly.
Ordias only raised a brow in response. The two stared at each other in silence for a moment before he turned slightly toward an adjutant.
“Fetch her some wine,” he said.
The officer bowed quickly and slipped out of the tent, leaving the map table heavy with unspoken words.
“Never knew you to be the hospitable type,” Mahaila said.
“Please. I was a member of the Vampire Courts,” Ordias replied, his tone even. “We know how to be hospitable… even if we rarely bother.”
The tent flap stirred as the adjutant returned, setting a bottle and glass before her. Mahaila lifted it, swirled the red, and gave a faint smile.
“Cathian Red. Expensive to bring this far from the vineyards.” She took a slow sip. “Should I be worried about poison?”
Ordias leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on her. “I have nothing strong enough to kill a Draconian. And certainly not you.”
Mahaila smirked over the rim of the glass. “So, you admit you’ve thought about it.”
Ordias allowed the barest curve of a smile. “I think about many things.”
“Good. I would be disappointed otherwise. Now then, onto business,” Mahaila said before downing the glass of wine.
“Agreed. As of now the plan is to wait until the Second Army reaches the eastern flank. After that, you and Crownless will strike at the eastern edge of the salient. A breakthrough there will serve as a spearhead for encirclement and should force a rapid retreat, preserving lives on both sides. Remember, we do not actually want to kill the Elves, only take control,” Ordias explained but paused, “Unless of course I get orders to hold and not attack due to some grander strategy I am not privy too.”
Mahaila raised a brow. “Yes, I know it sounds odd coming from me,” Ordias continued. “But strategy dictates tactics. And knowing your temperament, mercy, retraint or both will not be much of an issue, will it?”
Mahaila gave a slight nod, then looked over the map. “For the rebels, best we keep Minuvae alive. Most likely, she will be running the place once this is over.”
“Indeed. I have tasked a Briar to guard her. She will be a useful pawn against the Angels,” Ordias said, and Mahaila nodded in agreement.
Ordias glanced up at Mahaila before speaking again.