Garrik frowned but remained silent.
Drayven sighed. "King Cassian Thornhart has gone mad."
The room tensed at those words.
"Ever since his brother, Duke Albrecht von Thornhart, was assassinated in the Republic's capital five years ago, he has sought nothing but revenge. He won't stop until he erases the Republic from existence."
The candlelight flickered, casting uneasy shadows over the gathered commanders. The war had never been about strategy, nor about victory—it was about vengeance.
One of the commanders shifted uncomfortably before speaking in a hushed tone. "My Lord, you must be careful with your words. The king has eyes and ears everywhere."
At that, Drayven's expression darkened. He clenched his jaw but said nothing. He knew it was true. King Cassian's paranoia had only grown over the years. Even among his own commanders, trust was a fragile thing.
Sensing the tension in the room, another commander quickly interjected. "My Lord, I have news. An envoy is arriving in two days. A high priest from the Church of the Moon."
Drayven's brow furrowed. "A high priest? We only requested a few healers, not a visit from the clergy."
"According to the letter, the high priest personally requested to tour the battlefield and observe the camps."
Drayven scoffed, shaking his head. "Observe? What does he think this is, a fucking garden?" His tone turned sharp. "This is a battlefield, not some pilgrimage site. I don't like this. It's suspicious."
He turned to one of his officers. "When he arrives, have someone keep an eye on him at all times. If he steps out of line, I want to know immediately."
The room fell into silence once more, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows over the table.
***
Morning came too soon.
Asher peeled himself off the stiff cot, his body screaming in protest. Every muscle burned as if he had been beaten in his sleep. His arms were stiff, his ribs ached from repeated drills, and his legs felt like they were filled with lead. Even breathing felt like a laborious task, his lungs still heavy from yesterday's charge.
'One month of this?'
The thought made his stomach twist. He rolled his shoulders, ignoring the pain. Complaining wouldn't change a damn thing. 'Survive'. That's all that mattered.
Dragging himself out of the barracks, he squinted against the early morning light. The war camp was already alive with movement—slaves trudging to their duties, soldiers barking orders, blacksmiths hammering steel in preparation for another doomed charge. The familiar weight of hopelessness clung to the air, as thick as the mud beneath his boots.
Then he noticed something unusual.
Near the Dead Man's Pit, where bodies rotted faster than they could be cleared, a massive tent was being erected. Black banners hung from its sides, embroidered with a silver crescent moon encircling an open eye—the sigil of the Church of the Moon. Soldiers stood in disciplined formation around it, their faces unreadable.
Asher frowned, 'What the hell is a Moon Priest doing here?'
The Church of the Moon was known for many things—mysticism, prophecy, and its obsession with dreams and emotions. But they were rarely seen outside their temples, let alone in a war zone.
Before he could linger on the thought, a sharp pang of hunger clawed at his stomach.
'Food first. Worry later.'
He joined the sluggish line of slaves waiting at the food hall, the scent of bland porridge and stale bread lingering in the air. It was the same routine as always—silent, sunken-eyed men and boys shuffling forward, eating only to delay the inevitable.
Grabbing his food, Asher ate in silence, listening to the murmurs around him. Whispers of the Moon Priest's arrival had already spread through the camp, sparking rumors of dark rituals, battlefield blessings, and hidden purposes. Some claimed he was here to predict the outcome of the war, while others believed he had come to collect the souls of the dying.
None of it made sense. But Asher knew one thing—men like that never came for anything good.
***
Training was brutal as always.
Drills, formations, and the ceaseless roar of the one-armed trainer forcing them into exhaustion. Every movement was mechanical now—block, stab, march, endure. The sun scorched his back, sweat burned his eyes, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
By evening, he was barely human.
But there was no rest.
As the sky darkened, he was sent with a group to clean the battlefield. It was a cursed job, one nobody wanted. The Dead Man's Pit was an open graveyard, where bodies piled faster than they could be burned. The stench of rot was suffocating, and the silence of the fallen was heavier than the weight of any shield.
Asher moved mechanically, dragging corpses onto piles, stripping them of armor, and searching them for anything of value. Rings, trinkets, even teeth—everything had a price.
Then he saw it.
Half-buried beneath a heap of bodies, a soldier's stiff fingers clutched a small glass vial. Asher crouched, prying it free. Moonlight glinted off the liquid inside—a swirling, faintly glowing substance. His breath hitched.
'A potion?'
'What does it do?'
'The way this dead man was holding it… it must be valuable.'
He could feel an odd pull toward the potion, but he knew better than to drink some random liquid found on a dead body. So he tucked it into his ragged clothes, hiding it from sight.
'Later. When I'm alone.'
Steeling himself, he returned to his grim task, ignoring the questions swirling in his mind. The night had fallen. Whatever that potion was, it would have to wait.
***
A little after the camp had settled into an uneasy silence of night, a lone carriage rolled through the muddy roads. Its dark wood gleamed beneath the moonlight, wheels creaking softly against damp earth. A cold mist curled around it, slithering through the air like unseen spirits.
Near the officers' quarters, a high-ranking commander stood waiting. His armor was polished, his stance rigid with disciplined patience. He was a veteran, a man who had sent thousands to die. Yet, as the carriage stopped before him, even he stood a little straighter.
The door opened.
A man stepped out.
He was tall and composed, his features sharp, his pale silver hair neatly tied back. Unlike the usual priests, whose faces carried a distant serenity, his gaze was unreadable. Cold. Calculating. He wore silver robes embroidered with the Crescent Eye, the mark of the Moon Church's elite.
A High Priest.
The commander lowered his head. "High Priest, we weren't expecting your arrival so soon."
The priest ignored him. His eyes swept across the war camp—the flickering torchlight, the weary soldiers, the distant cries of the wounded. He inhaled slowly as if tasting the suffering in the air.
'Yes. This place will do.'
His purpose was not war. Not victory or defeat. He was here for something deeper. The battlefield was a wound upon the world, a place where fear, pain, and despair festered. And those emotions… were power.
Especially to one touched by the void.
He turned to the commander, changing his expression to a soft one, his voice smooth, filled with warmth. "I hurried over as fast as I could," the priest said, his tone gentle yet firm. "Many here are in desperate need of healing. I must begin my work at once."
The commander nodded, gesturing towards a nearby tent. "Of course, High Priest. Infirmary quarters have been prepared. I'll have a guide take you there. If you need anything, you need only ask."