The northern wind swept down the salt flats of the Red Mire, dragging thick clouds of grey fog over the narrow stone causeway. This was the spine of the imperial supply route—an artificial ridge of cut granite flanked on both sides by deep, treacherous bogs of black silt.
A convoy of forty heavily armored supply wagons moved slowly across the stones, escorted by two hundred imperial guards bearing the crimson banners of Inspector Varok. At the head of the column, the vanguard commander rode a plated warhorse, his spear tipped with flickering fire-elemental aura.
A mile ahead, concealed within the dense reed beds of the mire, Husayn and his three hundred northern riders waited in absolute silence.
Husayn raised his hand, his silver aura humming low beneath his skin like a tethered thunderstorm. "The fog gives us the element of surprise, Tair," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "A direct cavalry charge will split their line before they can form a shield wall."
Behind him, leaning heavily against a rotting wooden sluice gate, Tair shook his head once.
Scritch. Scritch.
His metal brace dragged slightly against the wet timbers. Tair’s single eye, dark and sunken beneath his leather patch, scanned the unnatural fog. He held an old brass compass in his left hand, tracking the slow shift of the marsh’s water levels.
"A charge... on granite..." Tair rasped, his voice a dry, scraping whisper that barely carried over the wind. "...will drown your horses in the bog. The causeway is pitched... to drain into the mud."
He pointed a thin, bloodless finger toward the sluice gate mechanism beneath his hand.
"They expect a frontal assault," Tair whispered, a thin streak of dark blood leaking from his nostrils as he applied a small pulse of neural force to calculate the water pressure. "They do not expect... the ground to slide beneath them."
System Diagnostics: ASTRA
NEURAL STRAIN: 25%
HYDROLOGICAL ANALYSIS: Sluice gate integrity 12%