It took three days and two nights to burn down the sapling forest. The army was spread out in a thin line, advancing with pitch and torch to maintain the man made fire. Once fifty foot trees had crashed down, now reduced to charred blackened stumps. Miles upon miles of fallen trees, with the occasional flame licking the remnants of a sapling trunk, trickles of smoke leaking out from the wood. The sound was most jarring, or lack of it. What had once been a teeming forest breathing with life was now a death filled silence, crushed in its hopeful infancy under the undaunted Elder Trees that stood untouched from the destruction. 

 Terese walked at Lyssa’s right side, an eternal shadow to the darkly gothic armored Queen. Lyssa’s cape wreathed her form, crimson red. Terese wore her customarily black cloak matching her armor. They wore pristine steel masks, shaped into the likeness of their faces underneath a black leather hood segmented with armor plates that curved over their head. Queen Lyssa insisted Terese had her own. Let them gaze at us, in awe of our beauty and petrified of our power, she said. 

 The legion in front marched and stopped before the baleful shade of the Elder Forest that covered its fallen kin. The Elder Trees towered over them, looming hulks of wood several hundred feet high. Separated shafts of light penetrated through the dense verdant foliage, shining faint past the gloom below. 

 The legion formed in a packed square open from behind, seven battalions strong. Every battalion was made up of eight hundred soldiers of a hundred squads, along with ten officers (a Sigmarius), each commanding ten squads into a company of eighty men with one bannerman (Sigman). The commoners, though fodder, still had their uses, so the Queen said, and threatened the decimation of any battalion of her Kingdom acting without discipline. 

 Carts and wagons trailed the army, men setting up camp and clearing out the fallen trees behind the five score deep perimeter consisting of a two score shield wall, two score phalanx of pikemen, and the singular gunnery line behind. They stood at attention, waiting for the Queen's command.

 The legion grew as reinforcements arrived past the Long Wall each passing day, the purple tabards of Talibath with their sigil upon their chests: An image of a weight scale balanced perfectly, stitched in yellow. The heraldry of Lyonia, made up of flaxen gold cloth. Their sigil, three chevrons aligned in ascending order of sapphire blue, ruby red, and emerald green. The least amount of soldiers came from the Heartlands herself, navy blue tabards emblazoned with the two golden suns. As for Raul, the bloody Kingdom was represented with their red banners, sigil in the black shadow of an eagle, its wings spread out and talons outstretched. 

 Roth stood with them, garbed in the same dull steel armor as his seven Mageguard underneath their hooded navy blue cloaks. Lyssa’s Circle was not dissimilar, cloaked in blood red but wearing black steeled visors attached to their helms in the guise of an eagle, beaks curved downwards. Dark taloned gauntlets clawed out from the fingertips of Raul’s chosen. General Martin approached them, face lax with hesitance, his personal squad of Sigmarien kneeling behind him.

 “Commander,” he bowed his head. “The transport from Lyonia has arrived.” 

 The Queen’s voice rang clear through her mask. 

 “Bring them forward. Order the legion to advance before the Green Pass.” 

 The General nodded, “It shall be done, Maximus,” calling Queen Lyssa the formal title of Commander. He walked with brisk steps away from sight, horns bugling shortly after. 

 “March!” The officers yelled in unison, the Sigmen waving their banners among the companies to move, soldiers grunting with each step to keep in coordinated rhythm. The mages followed at its center, the heart of the army. Squads scattered around the burnt husks of wood before reforming into their formations. The horns sounded, once, twice in signal to halt. The legion issued their final grunt in reply, stamping motionless, facing the Elder Forest at its forefront mere feet away. 

 "Make way for the Queen!" A Sigman screamed overhead. The legion dispersed in the path of Queen Lyssa and her entourage, then escorted them at either side, a protective wall of bodies. A team of a dozen oxen pulled a monstrous wagon carrying giant double serrated blades stacked together, glinting dangerously. The wagon made its way past the lines, its driver whipping the oxen to a lurching stop before the Queen. There they stood underneath the shadow of the woods. It was a still quiet, the animals having retreated into the deeper reaches of the Elder Forest. Soldiers gazed upwards, scanning the treetops for any movement. Musketeers held their rifles, ready to fire. 

 A giant saw, the length of ten tall men indeed, floated up as if by its own accord above their heads. Some mages raised their hands to focus their power. The Queen and Roth remained motionless, their heads turned and following the saw as it edged towards the trunk of an Elder Tree. The saw bit into the thick gnarled and furrowed bark, sliding sideways back and forth to the waving of the mages' arms. The speed of the saw increased, cutting to the left before a pause, then grating to the right. The Elder Tree shrieked in creaking pain with each movement. 

 Terese noticed an arrow lodge itself halfway through to the ground, its wooden shaft ended with feather fletchings. She brought her arms up in instinct and caught another arrow in the grip of her Gift, a crudely shaped flint arrowhead inches away from her masked face. A hail of arrows followed, glancing off the armored head of one of Roth's mages who wilted to the ground. The oxen team charged forward in panic outside their master’s control. The saw blade stopped moving, embedded into the Elder Tree as the mages raised their hands above to halt the volley. Arrows froze, dropping harmlessly to the ground before more took its place. Terese could not detect the natives as if they were obscured to the Voice. 

 "Natives from above!" The Sigmarien shouted, pointing to the sky, "Fire at will!" 

 A cloud of white smoke rose from the gunnery line, the thunderous volley echoing past the forms fleeting up the treetops. 

 The Queen raised her hand stopping the musket balls and Voiced to the officers, Stop! I want them alive! They are to be prisoners of war. Any dead sylvan is a dead Sigmarius. 

 "Hold your fire!" The Sigmarien hollered over the deafening sharp cracks, some of the officers smacking the musket rifles down. “Hold your fecking fire I said! Shield wall!”

 The officers called down the lines, followed by the captains’ cries, "Shield wall!"

 The shield bearers raised their tower shields above their heads, the pikemen dropping their halberds and equipping the shields at their backs to join the barrier. The musketeers took shelter with haste underneath the interlocking shields. 

 Some were an instant too slow, arrows protruding out from their necks or piercing through the exposed gaps of their armored shoulders. The formation was so dense it was hard pressed to miss. Some fortunate few few were hit upon their helmets or shoulder plates, flint arrowheads shattering on impact. Those that were struck mortally wounded fell beneath the heels of their comrades, their blood welled and swallowed up by the dry cracked earth. 

 Lyssa raised herself, surrounded by her Circle. She flew up to the forest canopy where the attackers hid within its leafy boughs. Her avian guard arrayed around her joined by Terese in a ringed formation, the Queen at its center. Arrows hurtled towards the mages, who raised their hands to freeze the projectiles of their momentum before falling down to the forest floor. 

 The arrows came from unexpected angles however, strikng and showering into fragments upon their beaked visors. One, then two of the Queen’s Circle fell, concussed from the once, twice, thrice occuring impact. They fell from the verdant heavens, slamming against the many branches of the trees. Their armor an egg shell, their body a pulpy yolk as they crashed to the ground below. The figures were visible now; grey, brown, or green skin that blended well with the leaves wearing brown leather armor that melded to the trees. The branches of the trees intersected with each other, creating a ribboned platform to which the natives delved and dived under and over away from their grasp, all the while peppering them with arrows. 

 Look at them, scurrying around like rabbits, The Queen Voiced, seemingly amused. Bring them down and herd them to the legion.

 The Circle split apart, silent wraiths hunting their prey. A spear sped towards Queen Lyssa who dodged gliding sideways as it sailed past. The Queen tilted her head and flew towards its thrower, Terese not far behind. The mage apprentice blocked more arrows released at her and the Queen then landed on a branch.

 The shadows within the eyeholes of Terese's mask glowed brightly with golden power. She was a wisp before the natives’ eyes, a blur of cloaked darkness with no escape. To a mage’s eyes she punched the sylvan, unmistakably a female in the gut. As she was flipped feet in the air by the force of her strike Terese kicked her, sending the native to plummet to the ground before Terese dove and used her Gift to push her away like a powerful gust of wind, ragdolling her body towards the path of the advancing army. Terese flew back up to repeat the process.

 The mages swooped from above, landing on the bridging branches to sweep the sylven off their perches and send them falling to face the legion waiting below, leaving them afloat inches away from death. The companies quickly surrounded each sylvan dragging themselves up, stepping forward shields raised in an impenetrable ring. 

 “The Queen wants them alive!” ordered the Sigmarien. The shields enclosed the natives who leapt and jumped over the shoulders of the soldiers before being battered down and dogpiled by several shield bearers. Queen Lyssa flew down, a male sylvan’s throat in her grip. She held his spear with the other hand and dropped it to the ground. Lyssa threw his body against a tree with a dull thunk, tilting her head at him as he rubbed his unconstricted neck, writhing in pain. The Queen studied him, eyes of her mask unfathomable in its dark depths. She dropped the spear before disappearing up to the forest canopy. The male native took the spear and ran towards his fallen kin.

 Soldiers surrounded him, wary of the weapon he carried. The sylvan twirled and spun the spear in arcs around him, keeping them at bay as they pressed forward. A Sigmarius of Raul, his helm ornamented with painted black eagle’s wings extending outward swung his sword at the right instant, shearing off the bone spear tip at its wooden base. The sylvan male kicked a soldier several feet back, but was quickly overwhelmed, shields crushing any resistance. The Sigmarius bashed him unconscious at the back of his head with the pommel of his sword. The other natives were similarly systematically taken down, knocked senseless, and carried out upon their raised shields. 

 The mages descended down, Roth and his retinue waiting at ground level. The two of her fallen Circle hovered behind, now broken armored caskets. 

 “You did not join us Roth?” Queen Lyssa spoke, honeyed in her tone. “How disappointing.” 

 “I would not risk my Circle for your petty entertainment, Lyssa.”

 The Queen tilted her head, her smile evident behind her mask. 

 “Now, that isn’t very mannerful to a Queen, especially of one in your station.” 

 Roth flashed a baleful smile. He turned away without reply, navy blue cloak sweeping past, his Circle in tow. The Queen raised her head to the treetops, pausing. All was still. Satisfied, she walked back to the clearing of the ruined forest.