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When the distant, rhythmic thudding of a massive column echoing through the jungle reached the sentries, even further panic erupted.

"ALARM! TO THE WALLS!" a lookout screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "A MASSIVE ARMY IS APPROACHING!"

The heavy horn atop the central watchtower blared three sharp, frantic blasts. Sentries sprinted along the wooden battlements, their faces pale as they raised bows and prepared their weapons.

The villagers below shrieked, mothers gathering their children and rushing toward the inner stone shelters. To their eyes, a massive number of nearly a thousand alien warriors meant warchief and other had been killed and the enemy was marching toward their home to kill them too.

Dozens of young Layer 1 and Layer 2 guards scrambled up the wooden scaffoldings, their bone bows pulled taut, their spears shaking in their hands.

From the courtyards below, elders who had been loyal to the Veynar and had chosen to stay behind, expected the worst and prepared for a desperate, final stand.

Through the gaps in the timber wall, the sentries saw the front of the approaching force: hundreds upon hundreds of tall, muscle-bound alien warriors.

"NOCK YOUR ARROWS!" a young guard yelled, his face turning pale as ash and his hand trembling violently as he pulled his bowstring back. "HOLD THE GATE! DIE BEFORE THEY CROSS!"

"HOLD YOUR SHOTS, YOU FOOLS!"

A sharp, booming roar cut off the young guard. An older, battle-scarred Layer 3 veteran named Ghoran, who had been left in charge of the gate defenses lunged forward, grabbing the lookout’s bow and shoving it down.

He narrowed his sharp eyes, shielding them from the sun as he stared intently at the approaching mass.

His sharp, experienced eyes cut through the mist of the jungle.

"Look at their hands, you blind cubs!" Ghoran shouted, his own breath catching violently in his throat. "Look at their posture!"

The anxious warriors on the walls froze, staring down in absolute, stunned disbelief.

After looking carefully, the hundreds of alien warriors approaching their gates were not charging in a battle line.

"They... they really aren’t attacking," a young girl on the wall whispered, her eyes wide with shock.

"Yeah, that’s right and look carefully, they’re... bound!" Ghoran shouted excitedly.

"Bound?!" a young sentry stammered, gripping his bow tightly. "Old man, that’s almost a thousand Coalition troops! The Zharun and Marauder elites! How could they be bound?!"

"Look behind them!" Ghoran roared, his scarred face twisting into an expression of absolute, wild disbelief. "They are our Veynar warriors."

They took a closer look and there really were Veynar warriors behind them, and they saw that their hands were really bound tightly behind their backs. Their heads were bowed to the dirt.

They offered no war cries, held no weapons, and marched in tight, subservient lines under the guard of a handful of Veynar soldiers.

A suffocating, dead silence fell over the watchtowers as they were all stunned speechless.

Seeing them like this, the tribespeople below gathered at the wooden gates, holding their breath and preparing for the worst.

Above the wooden walls, the guards were truly speechless, as even in their wildest, most hopeful prayers, they had expected a brutal, tragic pyrrhic victory at best... a handful of bloodied survivors straggling back to report that the Warchief had held the pass.

Never in the centuries-long history of the Great Orrath had a human tribe captured an entire alien army alive. These alien races... the arrogant Marauders and sadistic Zharun... were notoriously stubborn, they either slaughtered their enemies or preferred to fight to the death rather than submit to humans.

Yet, as the column drew closer, the impossible truth was laid bare for all to see.

Nearly a thousand elite Coalition warriors were marching with their heads bowed in the dirt, shivering in fear, offering zero resistance as the Veynar warriors casually herded them.

"OPEN THE GATES!" Ghoran bellowed, his voice cracking with overwhelming emotion as he slammed his fist against the wooden beam. "OPEN THE GATES FOR OUR HEROES! THE VEYNAR ARE VICTORIOUS!"

CREEEEEAK!

The massive ironwood gates swung open with a heavy groan, the ancient hinges protesting under their weight. Dust and small fragments of bark drifted down as the great doors parted, revealing the long column approaching the settlement.

At first, a profound silence fell over the gathered tribe.

The people packed along the inner walls and the edges of the main path stared in confusion and rising anxiety. At the very front of the procession walked nearly a thousand bound figures... Zerith stalkers and Gray Marauders, wrists tied, heads lowered, moving in subdued lines.

The sight of so many alien warriors being led into their home unsettled them, as murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Some mothers instinctively pulled their children closer. Old warriors narrowed their eyes, hands drifting toward weapons they no longer needed.

For a few long, tense heartbeats, no one was certain whether this was a triumph... or the beginning of something far worse.

Then the rest of the column came into clear view.

Warchief Veylara and High Shaman Zephyra walked directly behind the prisoners, their postures straight and unbroken.

Behind them marched Commander Thauren and the familiar ranks of Veynar veterans... bloodied, exhausted, but unmistakably alive. And near the center of the formation, the black-armored figure of Sol moved with calm certainty, Kira and Zeyra at his sides.

Recognition hit the tribe like a breaking wave.

What had begun as paralyzing fear and uncertain silence instantly exploded into a deafening, hysterical roar of absolute, unbridled joy.

The entire population poured out onto the streets. Women wept openly, clutching their children as tears of pure relief streamed down their faces.

Old men beat their chests in ancestral salutes, their voices cracking as they cheered at the top of their lungs.

Younger warriors who had been left behind shouted themselves hoarse, slamming fists against shields and armor in a thunderous rhythm.

As the procession fully crossed the threshold into the tribe, the celebrations only grew louder.

Families surged forward the moment they recognized their loved ones among the returning warriors.

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