CHAPTER 54: THE THUNDER OF GUNS

The banners of House Ignarion blotted the horizon like a forest of flame.

Crimson standards embroidered with the sigil of the Crucible swayed against the wind, their countless numbers meant to intimidate.

Their line stretched wide, a tidal wave of men and steel arrayed in perfect formation, their gleaming plate armor catching the morning light like molten fire.

Caedrion sat tall on his warhorse, cloak billowing behind him, his eyes narrowed against the haze that blurred the distance.

Twenty thousand men marched beneath his command, levies, dragoons, and riflemen alike.

It was an army that no one in Dawnhaven’s memory could have imagined rising so swiftly.

And yet, arrayed across the plains, Ignarion’s host dwarfed it still.

Their sheer numbers surged like an ocean, more bodies than blades of grass on the wind-swept field.

An officer at Caedrion’s side shifted uneasily, staring at the distant lines. "They seek to overwhelm us, my lord.

Even diminished of their Spellswords, their ranks could crush us by sheer weight alone."

Caedrion smirked, brushing a fleck of dust from his polished gauntlet.

His voice was calm, dismissive, cold enough to still the murmurs of the men within earshot.

"How cute... They think they’re safe at that distance."

He raised his hand, the silver-chased rings on his fingers glinting in the pale sun, and pointed toward the horizon where Ignarion’s banners swayed like a sea of fire.

"Ready the field guns. Show them the power of the Architect."

The order rippled outward.

Crews snapped into motion, horses straining at the traces as carriages lurched forward.

Within moments, batteries of Caedrion’s new magitech artillery rolled into position, their sliding breech-blocks clanking open, polished shells the size of a man’s forearm sliding home into enchanted barrels.

The sigils etched into their mounts pulsed faintly with rustlight, counter-recoil glyphs alive with restrained force.

Caedrion drew a small brass timepiece from his belt and flipped it open, the delicate gears ticking with an unnatural precision.

His thumb pressed the crown as the first order went out.

"Guns, load!"

Shells slid home. Breeches slammed shut. Crews hunched down in practiced rhythm.

"Guns, fire!"

The sky cracked. Thunder rolled across the field as the first barrage lit the heavens, trails of smoke and fire streaking into the Ignarion line.

A heartbeat later, the earth split with detonations. Columns of dirt, steel, and men erupted skyward.

Shields shattered, enchanted plates buckled like clay beneath the concussive fury, and screams tore through the chorus of flame.

Caedrion glanced at his watch. His expression remained utterly unmoved.

"Seven seconds between fire and impact. Acceptable."

Smoke drifted across the field in choking curtains, but even through it he could see the panic beginning to ripple in Ignarion’s line.

The men who thought themselves untouchable at distance now realized the truth. There was nowhere safe to stand.

The first volley ended, breeches hissed open, and spent shells ejected themselves in bursts of steam and rune-light.

Already the crews were moving, reload, reseat, re-aim.

"Again," Caedrion commanded, his voice low, almost bored.

The second volley screamed across the plains. And then the third. Each timed against the slow, steady heartbeat of his watch.

His officers looked to him for some word of triumph, some rallying cry for the men.

But Caedrion’s thoughts were elsewhere.

His gaze drifted over the horizon, past the explosions, past the breaking line of Ignarion troops, toward something only he could see.

The world isn’t ready for this kind of warfare, he thought, watching another distant company vanish beneath the firestorm.

But I am. And by the time they understand, it will be far too late.

He snapped his watch closed with a soft click. The sound was delicate, almost tender, yet in the silence between volleys, it carried the weight of a death knell.

"Maintain the barrage," he ordered. "Break them before they ever touch our lines. Let Ignarion choke on its own arrogance."

And so the thunder continued.

---

Across the field, Ignarion’s banners bristled with confidence.

Thousands of levies, armored lines gleaming with freshly polished steel, raised their voices in chant as their commanders rode along the flanks.

One such captain, broad-shouldered, clad in crimson plate trimmed with gold, sat astride his destrier at the fore.

His men cheered as he drew his blade and pointed toward the distant, far smaller host of Dawnhaven.

"Look at them!" he roared, laughter rolling from his throat. "Fewer than half our number, armed with sticks and powder toys! They think thunder will frighten us? At this distance they couldn’t even hit a—"

The sentence never finished.

A howl of air cut the sky, and in an instant the captain’s body was gone. A pillar of earth and gore erupted where he had sat only a heartbeat before. His horse disintegrated in the blast, shrapnel and splinters tearing through the nearest ranks, cutting men down in sprays of blood.

Silence followed, stunned, horrified. Then came the screaming.

Another shell crashed into their rear lines, tearing apart supply wagons, igniting barrels of pitch and oil. Black smoke coiled skyward as burning men staggered and fell shrieking.

"Shields up!" a Spellsword commander bellowed, his voice cracking under the weight of fear.

Dozens of warding circles flared to life, glowing red-gold sigils meant to turn aside arrows and spears. But against Caedrion’s guns, they might as well have been parchment.

The next volley ripped through them like tissue.

Each detonation hurled men skyward, armor twisting, shields folding. The blasts left only craters, littered with shredded plate and what little remained of flesh.

Panic set in.

"Form ranks! FORM RANKS!" shouted another officer, his voice raw.

But the soldiers weren’t listening. They were scattering, clambering over each other to escape the rain of iron.

Levies broke first, tossing their shields aside as they fled, their screams carrying far across the plains.

Even the proud Spellswords, those who believed themselves avatars of the Crucible’s will, staggered, shielding their eyes against the inferno.

Many turned to their captains, demanding answers that did not exist.

"What is this sorcery?!" one howled, clutching at the charred remains of a comrade. "It is not magic! It is something else, something worse!"

Another shell slammed into the center of a battalion, the explosion lifting an entire block of men off their feet and leaving nothing but a smoking pit.

Some officers tried to rally, calling for a charge, but their words were drowned by the thunder of Caedrion’s barrage.

Each gun fired in rhythm, relentless, mechanical, inexorable. Ten shells a minute. A storm of iron the like of which the world had never seen.

And all the while, Caedrion sat his horse on the distant rise, one gloved hand resting casually on his reins, the other holding his stopwatch.

His expression was calm, detached, almost clinical. To him, this was no battlefield, it was a proving ground.

Within the shattered ranks of House Ignarion’s host, men wept openly.

Some fell to their knees, begging the Crucible for deliverance. Others cast down their arms, retreating in blind terror.

Their commanders shouted and cursed, but the truth was undeniable: they had marched to crush a rebellion, only to find themselves dismantled like playthings.

Dawnhaven’s "toys" were not toys at all. They were gods of thunder, wielded by the hands of men.

And as the next barrage tore into the floundering mass of Ignarion troops, one thought echoed in every survivor’s mind:

The world has changed. And we are not ready for it.