You’re in a fight for survival—winner takes the kingdom, loser feeds the crows. Your king has staked everything on this war, and your company has drawn the dangerous task: a stealth approach to strike the enemy stronghold from the rear.

The battle ahead promises chaos—steel on steel, screams, blood soaking the earth—but for now, the march itself is the enemy. Hundreds of men and armored horses push through dense forest trails, hooves churning mud, mail clinking with every step. The journey to the back gate is long: four grueling hours under full kit, sweat already stinging your eyes beneath the helmet.

After more than three hours of relentless marching, the column halts briefly to water the horses and let the men catch their breath. You and a handful of others fall a little behind, too weary to keep perfect pace with the vanguard. While the main force moves on, you slump onto a fallen log beside a small lake fed by a narrow waterfall. The air here is cooler, carrying the clean bite of mist and pine.

You pull off your helmet, letting the breeze dry the sweat on your face, and stare into the rippling water to splash some on your neck. For a moment the surface stills—and you freeze. Something is watching you.