The carriage careened toward the open gates of the obsidian base, its wheels splintering against the stone path. Three feathered arrows jutted from the rear chassis.

The horses foamed at the mouth as the driver yanked the reins, bringing the vehicle to a violent halt in the center of the courtyard.

The man tumbled out of the carriage door and collapsed onto the black glass floor. His coat was torn and covered in soot. He gasped for air, looking up as Iron-Scale and Krax approached him.

"They are burning my towns," he choked out, grabbing Iron-Scale’s boot. "The neighboring army did not march on the capital. They followed the tracks your raiding party left behind. They found the safe routes and assumed I am harboring Voranthar’s forces."

Krax crossed his arms and looked down at him. "Our tracks were meant to point toward Aethelgard refugees. Your neighbor is just using the raid as an excuse to seize your land."

The man scrambled to his knees. "I gave you the maps. I secured your border. You have to protect my people, or they will slaughter everyone and garrison their troops right outside your gates."

Rubedo watched the desperate display through his monitor. He calculated the shifting variables of the Tarnstead conflict. The false flag operation had successfully ignited the civil war, but the resulting fire was burning in the wrong direction.

If the neighboring forces secured the buffer zone, Rubedo would lose his geographical advantage and his silent staging ground.

"Krax is right," Rubedo said to his commanders. "The neighboring ruler saw an opportunity for a land grab and took it. We cannot allow him to fortify our doorstep."

Krax grinned and rested his hand on the hilt of his greataxe. "Do we march out and crush them?"

"No," Rubedo replied. "If we appear, Tarnstead will realize they are fighting a common enemy and unite against us. We need them to believe Voranthar is the one destroying their armies. Keep the Aethelgard armor on."

Iron-Scale tilted his head. "We deploy the strike team again?"

"Take five hundred fighters this time," Rubedo instructed Krax. "Equip them entirely with Aethelgard shields and broadswords. March into the buffer zone and intercept the invading army. I want you to butcher their commanding officers and break their frontline."

Krax nodded, understanding the strategy perfectly. "And the survivors?"

"Let the foot soldiers run away," Rubedo said, leaning back in his chair. "Route them back to their territory. Let them tell their ruler that Voranthar’s refugees massacred their vanguard. When the surviving soldiers spread that panic, Tarnstead will mobilize its entire military might against the capital to root Voranthar out."

Krax turned away from the trembling man and shouted orders across the courtyard. Hundreds of fighters abandoned their Vanguard plating and began strapping on the scavenged Aethelgard gear.

They gathered discarded helmets and weapons, preparing to march back through the safe routes.

Iron-Scale looked down at the man kneeling on the floor. "Get up. You have your protection."

A few hours later, Krax prepared his small army and disguised them as fighters.

"We are going for a quick training session! Do not fall behind!" They marched into the town.

Krax kicked open the gates of the burning town. The scent of smoke and copper filled the night air.

His fighters fanned out through the streets, clutching their scavenged shields and rusted blades. Up ahead, the invading soldiers were dragging sacks of grain out of a merchant storehouse.

Krax gave a hand signal. His fighters surged from the alleys and slammed into the looters with absolute brutality. Scavenged steel cleaved through leather armor. Krax drove his stolen blade through a squad leader’s chest and tossed him aside.

The foot soldiers panicked. Seeing the royal crests of Aethelgard on the attackers’ shields, they broke formation. They ran toward the town square in terror. Krax let the stragglers flee, knowing they would carry the horror back to their borders.

A deafening crack echoed over the rooftops. A sphere of condensed lightning tore through a stone watchtower, showering Krax with debris. He ducked behind a crumbling wall and peered into the plaza.

The invading army had brought heavy artillery. Three brass cannons sat in the center of the square. Mages frantically loaded another volley into the smoking barrels.

Krax instinctively reached for his internal energy to crush the weapons. He stopped himself immediately. Using his signature abilities would expose the disguise and ruin the entire operation. He had to destroy the cannons using only physical force.

He grabbed a heavy iron cart wheel resting against a nearby forge. He hefted the object over his shoulder. Sprinting out from cover, Krax hurled the wheel across the plaza.

It smashed directly into the side of the central cannon right as the mages triggered the firing mechanism. The impact misaligned the barrel. The lightning sphere detonated inside the brass chamber. The explosion leveled the artillery crew and flipped the remaining cannons into the dirt.

Krax walked through the settling smoke. An older man covered in gold-trimmed armor crawled away from the ruined cannons. Krax pinned him to the cobblestones with his boot.

The general stared up at the Aethelgard crest on Krax’s breastplate, his eyes wide with fear.

Instead of bringing the blade down, Krax hauled the general up by his collar. He dragged him toward an intact tavern table on the edge of the plaza and slammed him into a wooden chair. Krax tossed a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick onto the wood.

"Write," Krax ordered.

"Write what?" the general gasped. He pressed a shaking hand to his bleeding forehead.

"Tell your lord that Voranthar’s mages butchered your command," Krax said. He leaned over the table, keeping his voice low. "Tell him the Aethelgard refugees have taken this border, and they are marching for his capital next. Make it convincing."

Rubedo watched the execution of the plan through his screen. The terrified general scribbled frantically on the parchment, sealing his own kingdom’s fate.

Krax had perfectly orchestrated the deception. Once the surviving foot soldiers corroborated the general’s letter, the neighboring kingdom would redirect its entire military focus toward the Tarnstead capital to eliminate Voranthar.

Krax snatched the finished letter off the table. He shoved the paper into the hands of a wounded messenger crawling near the tavern door and kicked the man toward the road.

Krax then grabbed the general by the armor and dragged him away as a prisoner of war.