Darin stood at the main gate, dressed in traveling armor that had been patched so many times it practically counted as a personal scrapbook. His warhammer was slung over his back, Grumble curled around one of his boots like a moody shadow, and Steve had somehow curled himself into a perfect spiral and was pretending to sleep—but Darin could see the tail twitching.
He wasn't fooling anyone.
Vincent adjusted his cloak, blinking blearily. "Alright. So. Operation Cluckstorm?"
"We are not calling it that," Alvin growled from behind a scarf and a mountain of rolled maps.
"No, but come on, it's thematic," Vincent said, poking him. "Chicken men. Ice cliffs. General sense of impending doom. Cluckstorm!"
"I will personally remove your kneecaps," Alvin muttered without looking up.
Darin sighed, rubbing his eyes. "How did I end up leading a caravan full of murderers, lunatics, cultists, and poultry-themed jokes?"
The Overlord in his head chuckled darkly. "Because, Darin… it's destiny. And also, you're terrible at saying no."
"You're not wrong."
A loud, off-beat marching song interrupted his thoughts as the Stranger approached, once again dressed in a ridiculous cloak with three different kinds of feathers stitched along the hem. He stopped in front of Darin and threw himself into a kneel.
"Lord Overlord! Our blessed company is ready to depart! The wagons are stocked, the cultists have finished their devotional sparring, only sixteen broken limbs this time—and our forward scouts have already begun sniffing for clucking threats!"
"Please stop saying 'clucking,'" Darin muttered.
"My Lord, I shall obey every decree from your divine mouth like scripture carved into the bones of fate!"
"Just… tell them to mount up."
"By your will!"
The Stranger vanished in a swirl of cultist chants and overly dramatic cape-flapping.
Vincent leaned over. "You should really get him a hobby. Like pottery."
"I don't think he has the hand-eye coordination," Darin replied.
Hours Later at the Northern Route, Path to the Icefang Cliffs…
The caravan wound its way through narrow passes and wide valleys, the cold growing sharper with every mile. Snow began to crust the edges of the road, and Steve started sneezing violently every ten minutes. Grumble rode in Darin's hood like a judge overseeing a very disappointing court case.
They traveled light this time.
Only 200 elite personnel, mostly Stage Twos and Threes, with a smaller core of cultist spellcasters and scouts. No massive cargo wagons. No supply elephants. No decorative war drums (much to the Stranger's sorrow).
They were fast, efficient, and, miraculously—quiet.
For about an hour.
"So," Vincent said from his saddle, "these chicken men… how aggressive are we talking? Like, charge-in-screaming-agony aggressive or the sneak-around-and-poop-in-your-boots kind?"
"They're raiders, not berserkers," the fedora-wearing scout replied from the front. "Expect hit-and-run tactics. Speed. Confusion."
"Oh, like Steve," Vincent nodded.
Steve, now the size of a horse, turned his head and let out a very offended snort.
"No offense, buddy," Vincent added.
The Sorceress rode slightly ahead, eyes narrowed at the trail ahead. She hadn't spoken much that morning. She had a habit of going silent when something was off.
Darin noticed. He always did now.
"You alright?" he asked, spurring his horse forward beside her.
She didn't look at him at first. Then, slowly: "Something feels wrong."
He frowned. "Wrong like chicken-men-worshiping-an-ancient-egg-god wrong, or wrong like oh-great-we're-about-to-die wrong?"
She actually smiled at that, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm not sure yet."
Later That Afternoon at the Outer Icefang Settlements…
They found the first village, or what was left of it—by following the smoke.
Snow still clung to the broken roofs, and the wooden fences had been splintered like matchsticks. Feathers scattered the ground, mixed with claw marks and empty cages.
Darin dismounted first, motioning for silence.
"Scouts," he said.
The forward team fanned out. Within minutes, they returned with a full report.
"No bodies," the lead scout said. "But signs of rapid evacuation. Blood trails. And lots of feathers."
The Sorceress bent down near one of the cages. She held up a torn piece of cloth and a long, bone-carved talon.
"Gallikarn craftsmanship. Old tribe."
Alvin crouched beside a shattered barrel. "Supply stocks were taken. But only food. No valuables."
Darin exhaled. "Which means it wasn't conquest. Still just escape."
"Or repositioning," the Overlord said in his head. "No creature runs forever. Even prey turns to strike when cornered."
They pressed on.
The Icefang Cliffs lived up to their name.
Jagged stone faces reached out like broken fingers into the sky, and the wind howled through the canyons below like something alive. The temperature dropped another ten degrees. Steve now had a scarf and looked both majestic and very irritated.
"We'll camp here tonight," Darin announced. "No fires. No noise."
The camp formed like clockwork—silent, efficient, orderly.
The Sorceress sat near the edge, watching the horizon. Darin approached with a mug of hot tea he'd bullied out of one of the cultist cooks.
She took it without a word.
He sat beside her, legs dangling over the cliff like hers.
"You've been quiet," he said.
"I don't like being watched," she replied.
Darin froze. "By who?"
She turned slightly, eyes glowing faintly. "I don't know yet. But something's following us."
Darin gripped the edge of the cliff.
A pause.
Then he said, "Do you think it's related to the raiders? The Gallikarn?"
"I think they were just the first layer."
The wind howled louder.
Then, across the ridge, a cry rang out.
Not a scream of pain.
A battle cry.
"CLUCKSTORM!"
Everyone in camp turned at once.
Vincent, grinning like a madman, was charging down the slope—followed by a blur of feathers and war cries.
Hundreds of chicken men, armed with spears, bows, and improvised clubs, spilled over the ridgeline. They clucked like demons, eyes wide with terror and fury.
"Oh you have got to be kidding me," Darin muttered.
Grumble leapt from his hood, landing silently on the snow.
Steve roared and launched into the air, wings beating hard.
Vincent was already mid-air, flipping and shouting something about spicy drumsticks.
The Sorceress stood and raised her hand—then paused.
Because something else was coming.
Behind the chicken men, through the snow, the wind, the chaos—a new shape emerged.
Tall.
Armored.
Unnatural.
A single Cyclops, its eye glowing like molten fire.
The Gallikarns didn't even look back.
They were fleeing.
From that.
Darin's blood went cold.
"ALVIN!" he shouted.
Alvin had already seen it. "I see it!"
The Cyclops raised one massive fist.
The Overlord's voice murmured.
"This is no random attack. This is a test. Of what's left of us… and what you're becoming."
Darin gritted his teeth, raised his warhammer, and shouted:
"DEFENSIVE FORMATIONS! STAGE THREES TO THE FRONT! MAGES, CIRCLE FORMATION BEHIND!"
The night lit up.
Spells flew.
Feathers flew.
Vincent screamed something about rotisserie justice.
Grumble launched onto the Cyclops's arm and began devouring it mid-punch.
Steve crash-landed into the backline with a fiery sneeze.
And Darin?
Darin leapt forward, his hammer glowing as he struck the ground, cracking it under his feet.
He might not have all the answers.
But he was going to make damn sure the world remembered what a reluctant Overlord could do when pushed.