CHAPTER 39: THE SONG OF THE SEVEN THORNS

The cold was a blade. It slipped beneath the armor, clung to the skin, gnawed at the bones. Each breath turned into white mist, a fragile proof that we were still alive in this frozen desert. The Gorge, that stone belly we had turned into a refuge, looked that morning like a snow-covered tomb.

Before me, the plain was covered in a black and red swarm, a crimson tide stretching to the horizon. More than ten thousand soldiers. Ten thousand breaths, ten thousand hungry swords. And in the front line, our monsters.

The Tyrgash.

They stood nearly three meters tall, colossal figures clad in black steel. Each step made the earth shudder, as though it refused to bear their weight. Their shields were so wide they could have served as fortress gates, and their spears resembled obsidian trunks. Their eyes shone with a red, inhuman glow.

Behind them, the second line stretched into a moving wall. Weaker but faster infantry, partial armor glazed with frost, small shields pressed against their chests, spears or swords ready to strike en masse.

Then the third wave: the archers. In supple armor, their quivers overflowed, promises of deadly showers.

On the flanks, the ground trembled beneath the gallop of the Drakzors, those giant demon-lizards, dark-scaled, fangs dripping with sulfuric saliva. Every breath they exhaled reeked of sulfur and charred flesh. Their riders, lances and sabers raised, waited for the signal. Swift, unpredictable, ready to rip through enemy lines.

And farther still, beyond that organized mass, another army. Motionless. Silent. A suspended threat, like a blade not yet brought down. It was the enemy’s.

I straightened my shoulders. The black abyssium armor clung to my skin like a second flesh. Its dark gleam drank the light, turning me into a shadow among my men.

At my left and right, the clan chiefs stood, draped in white. Their cloaks looked immaculate in the snow, symbols of their equality, of that fragile neutrality I had imposed. They were seven, and yet, at this instant, they remained silent.

Behind them, Nyss, Sae and Kaelira, in blazing red—the red of command, the red of the blood that was about to flow. Their gazes were fixed straight ahead, cold and sharp as blades.

Farther back, in military brown, the scholars, Syra, and my other officers. All wore abyssium. All were armed. The hierarchy was visible at a glance, a fresco of colors standing against the ocean of demons.

I let the silence stretch. The wind lashed, lifting the edges of our cloaks, but no one moved. Not a word, not a murmur. Just that tension, raw, ready to explode.

And I, standing at the center, was the black point in the snow, the eye staring into the coming storm.

At last, Yren dared to break the silence. His voice trembled a little, but he spoke.

— Lord... they are twice as many. Even with our weapons... can the Gorge hold?

I turned my head toward him, slowly. His gaze faltered, but he was not a coward. He had simply calculated too well. I left a brief silence, just enough for his fear to swell. Then I answered, in a clear voice:

— Twice as many, yes. But not twice as disciplined.

I saw his eyes widen. He wanted to reply, but his lips stayed shut. The other scholars leaned in slightly, drawn to my words, searching for a flaw, a weakness.

Elwen, slender silhouette in a brown cloak, straightened then. Her voice was harder, but her furrowed brow betrayed doubt.

— And if the enemy breaks our lines? These demons do not know fear.

Before I could open my mouth, Nyss stepped forward. Her red cape snapped in the wind, her icy eyes fixed on Elwen like a blade at her throat.

— They will not pass, she said sharply. I trained these men for this moment. Every unit was carved to break their charge.

Elwen drew back slightly, her pale lips tightening. Nyss did not lower her gaze, impassive as though doubt was foreign to her.

Then Sae spoke, half-voice but with an intensity that made me turn to him. His pupils burned, locked on me.

— But weapons are not enough, he said slowly. We need faith.

A thick silence fell over the circle. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. All eyes—scholars, officers, clan chiefs—turned to me. The question was no longer "can we hold?", but "who will give us this faith?"

I felt the weight crash onto my shoulders. But I did not lower my eyes.

Then I raised my hand, summoned the System.

A translucent screen appeared before my eyes.

[Système – LUST v2.01]

[Shop]

The familiar lines aligned, scrolling quickly under my gaze. My fingers brushed the void, selecting the item that had burned in my mind for hours.

Purchase:

[Extremely Powerful Loudspeaker] – 500 points.

The confirmation cracked, and the air split. Before me, as if torn from another world, the object took shape. A low rumble accompanied its materialization: polished black metal, a circular surface, cables still smoking like freshly ripped entrails. The smell of ozone filled the tent.

A collective gasp rose. The scholars stepped back. The clan chiefs gripped their weapons by reflex. Even Nyss narrowed her eyes slightly, and Sae raised a brow, caught between admiration and unease.

Kaelira broke the silence. Her voice, low but sharp, cut the air like a blade.

— Another of your... miracles?

I held her gaze. Her thin lips were tight, her fingers resting on her sword’s hilt. She awaited a clear answer, maybe even a weakness.

I let a brief smile slip, cold.

— Not a miracle.

I laid my hand on the still-vibrating device, the metal humming under my touch.

— A weapon.

A murmur rippled through the place, like a shockwave. Some saw a wonder, others a heresy. To me, it was nothing but another tool to crush fear.

The wind whipped, the snow lashed, but my voice tore through it all. The loudspeaker roared, and the mountains themselves seemed to listen. Even the demons stopped marching.

— Army of the Seven Thorns!

The name split the air like a sword. A vibration ran through my men. I let silence weigh, long enough for every chest, every breath to freeze in waiting. Then I spoke again, stronger, deeper:

— You have known hunger. You have slept on frozen planks, bellies empty, bones aching. You have buried brothers and sisters in the snow. And yet... you stood tall!

I stretched my arm toward them, fingers trembling with restrained fury.

— You worked your hands raw, built stone walls, cultivated fields in frozen soil. You forged steel, learned discipline, endured pain. And today... you are stronger than any army born in opulence!

A growl rose among the ranks, savage, defiant.

— And look at them! The raiders, the slavers, the parasites! They come here with their numbers, thinking we are docile beasts to be slaughtered in a gorge!

I turned sharply toward the demonic army, a black and red silhouette as far as the eye could see.

— They want to steal your homes! Your harvests! Your riches! But worse still... they want your women, your men, your children! They want to chain them, break their will, strip away their dignity!

I struck my fist against my chest, so hard the echo thundered in the amplifier.

— So I ask you: will you give them your children? Will you hand them your lovers, your brothers, your sisters?!

— NO! roared part of the crowd.

— Will you kneel before these scavengers, like dogs?!

— NO! thundered thousands of voices, this time as one.

I straightened, breath short, and continued with a rumbling voice, each word like a hammer:

— Then hear me! Today, the Gorge is no longer a refuge. It is no longer a cave of the desperate! Today, the Gorge is a capital. And you... you are its army, its wall, its shield, its sword!

I spread my arms, baring my chest to the cold, and my voice climbed higher:

— The enemy thinks to snuff out a fragile flame. But they understand nothing. This fire is you. And today, that fire becomes a blaze, a wildfire, a storm! A people who will never bow, not even before ten times their number!

I raised the abyssium sword, the black edge catching the trembling torchlight.

— Then shout with me! Shout your name, your banner, your oath! Let them know who you are before your blades even strike! Scream the name that will become their nightmare! Scream...

I paused, throat dry but voice swollen with feral rage:

— The Seven Thorns!

And it was as if the mountain exploded. A titanic roar, inhuman, made the snow quake beneath our feet. Whole ranks shouted, repeated, chanted.

The Seven Thorns!!

The Seven Thorns!!

The Seven Thorns!!

A people who, in that moment, had just been born.

The message still echoed in the air when I called the [System]. The interface appeared, sharp, familiar.

[Système – LUST v2.01]

[Battlefield Tactician] activated.

A shiver swept the plain. I felt it before I saw it. The demons, my demons, stiffened in unison, as if a freezing breath had passed through their columns. Backs straightened, weapons stopped trembling, jaws clenched. A fierce spark, almost supernatural, flared in their yellow eyes.

Before, they had been soldiers. Now, they were an army.

I walked slowly before them, savoring each detail. Bent backs straightening, breaths falling in unison, claws no longer shaking but gripping their spears as if they were bone extensions. Even the youngest, those who had sought my eyes for courage, no longer wavered. They burned, as if fear had been ripped from their guts and replaced with brutal conviction.

A brief, feral smile escaped me.

— There... now you are an army.

Nyss glanced at me from the corner of her eye, and for the first time, her mask of ice cracked with a shade of astonishment. She murmured, low, almost to herself:

— They breathe as one body...

Beside her, Sae, more fevered, more exalted, pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide.

— It is no longer the same flesh... no longer the same horde.

I reveled in the sight. My power, my choices, had sculpted these unruly beasts into a block of iron. There, in their glowing gazes, there was no more doubt, no more fear, no more weakness. Only the hunger to win, the rage to tear apart.

And within me, something clenched, violent, almost sensual. As if this power, this absolute grip, coursed through my veins and made love to me from the inside.

The [Battlefield Tactician] did not just give orders—it bound their souls to mine. Their discipline was my discipline. Their rage, my rage.

A rough chuckle burst from me, uncontrollable.

— Let the enemy come, I whispered. Let them believe they can break us. They do not yet know... they have awakened something more than a people.

I raised my sword. And this time, without me speaking, thousands of chests opened in a single, common roar.

Not a horde. Not beasts. A fucking army.

A rumble shook the snow, at first faint, like a heartbeat buried under ice. Then it swelled, thickened, until it rattled the bones of every man and demon in the Gorge.

The mountain itself seemed to hold its breath.

And then, in one surge, they came. Twenty thousand Drakzors mounted and infantry. A dark tide, crude, undisciplined. Torches raised like fangs, weapons lifted in disarray. Their drums thundered like a storm, heavy, guttural. The war horns answered, hoarse and bestial, nearly covering the sky. And beneath that clamor, another sound, deeper, more relentless: the hooves of their mounts, pounding the frozen snow, grinding it into a reddish slush under the first steps of their charge.

They poured forth. Not as soldiers. As beasts. As a ravenous pack.

Their cries formed no word, just a savage roar, a primal hatred hurled in the world’s face.

I stared at them. My army, behind me, remained motionless, perfectly aligned, and that immobility alone would almost be enough to terrify them. Ten thousand against twenty thousand. The math was simple, but courage is not measured in numbers.

I raised my hand, slowly, savoring the contrast between the raging tide before me and the stone silence at my back.

— Look at them... I said in a low, hoarse voice, carried by the loudspeaker to the last ranks. Look at them rushing like pigs led to the slaughter.

A heavy silence fell over my ranks. Not a breath, not a clink of steel. Just their eyes, burning, fixed on my back.

I lowered my hand, a cruel smile cutting across my lips.

— Let them come.

Only then, as one body, did my ten thousand demons lower their spears, align their shields, and their voices burst through the Gorge—a single cry, disciplined, monstrous. An organized roar, honed like a blade, that drowned even the cacophony of the enemy tide.

The clash was not yet here. But it was coming. And between the disordered horde and the wall I had forged, I already knew who would bleed first.

They still charged, endlessly, like a wave without end. Drums thundered, hooves tore through the snow, screams filled the valley. The whole mountain shook under their charge.

And I... I slowly raised my hand. Silence fell among my ranks. Thousands of eyes fixed on this single gesture.

I savored that suspended second, that moment where a breath decides the fate of ten thousand lives. The Gorge itself seemed to await my word, my signal, my wrath.

Then I stretched my arm toward the enemy, theatrical, my fingers spreading as if to close an invisible fist around their throat.

— Maneuver...

A breath passed through my lines. Spears quivered, shields tightened.

I roared, my amplified voice rolling like thunder between the mountains:

— THE EMBRACE OF THE GORGE!

A roar burst from my ranks—not a chaotic cry, but a battle order made flesh. My flanks moved, swift, precise, like jaws snapping shut. The Gorge became a trap, and the enemy, drunk on their own charge, saw nothing.

Ahead, my shields lowered, planted into the snow, a black wall bristling with steel. To the left, to the right, my columns were already spreading, ready to coil around the mass about to crash upon us.

A heartbeat. Just one.

Then the enemy horde struck our lines.

A colossal impact, flesh against iron, hooves against shields. The ground quaked, snow burst into crimson spray. The Drakzors’ roars mingled with the disciplined cry of my men, and the Gorge, in an instant, became hell.

But I... I was smiling.

For the maneuver had just begun.