The torches cast long shadows on the walls of the war room, where maps were spread over the central table like a miniature battlefield. The silence weighed heavy, broken only by the crackling of wood in the fire. Doros remained standing, firm before the markers, while Ereon watched him with a cold gaze, arms crossed beneath his cloak.
Medea, leaning discreetly by the door, remained silent. Her eyes went over every detail, absorbing not only the words, but the hidden weight in gestures and hesitations.
"Then how do you intend to lead this barony to survival?" asked Doros, his voice low and cutting, like a stone thrown against glass.
Ereon raised his chin and let a cold smile form on his lips. "What are the reports from the sentinels on the walls?" he asked, his voice controlled.
Doros replied immediately:
"They say there are still mist soldiers at the edge of the forest."
He leaned over the map, frowning. "There are fewer than we imagined, but enough to block exits. They move in alternating patrols; the mist itself hides them and gives them form." A brief silence weighed between them. "We have no clear view of their position… nor of the reinforcements they might summon."
Ereon placed his palms on the table and leaned over the map, the shadow of his body spreading like a cloak over the wooden pieces.
"It won't be enough. We need real information."
Doros raised his gaze, tense.
"And how do you intend to do that?"
Ereon didn't answer immediately. He only murmured, as if the word were a forbidden sentence:
"Apokalýptō."
From the floor, his shadow distorted and, as if tearing an invisible veil, a man emerged from it. The sunken, yellowish eyes revealed sleepless nights; the body was thin, the face pale like someone drained of life. His clothes were dirty and torn, but the insignia on his chest — though faded — bore the seal of the Central Kingdom.
The man staggered, confused, and upon seeing Ereon, jumped back, terrified.
"What… what did you do to me? How did I end up here?!"
Doros widened his eyes, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. But Ereon, without moving a muscle beyond his cold gaze, spoke with cutting calm:
"I think this will be enough."
"What do you mean?" Doros questioned, his voice deep.
Ereon slowly raised his hand, pointing to the symbol on the man's chest. "I found him in the forest. He said he was a servant of the Central King." His eyes narrowed, gleaming like blades. "I'm sure he knows something useful."
The man trembled before them, his eyes darting from side to side, as if searching for an impossible escape. Medea, still motionless near the door, observed with a mixture of astonishment and caution; not even she seemed to understand what Ereon had just summoned.
Doros was the first to break the silence. His voice sounded like steel scraping stone:
"If he really served the Central King, then he must know who is attacking us." His eyes narrowed, sharp as blades upon the man. "Speak. What are his forces? What abilities protect him? What do we need to know to bring him down?"
The man opened his mouth, but his voice came out as a broken whisper:
"I… I can't…"
Ereon stepped forward, the shadow around his feet rippling like living liquid. His gaze was an endless abyss. "You can." The firmness of the words was a command, not a suggestion. "And you will."
The man stepped back again, but Ereon's own shadow stretched and wrapped around his feet like shackles. He gasped, trying to free himself, but it was useless.
Doros crossed his arms, hiding any emotion.
"Answer. Or I swear you won't have a second chance."
The servant finally raised his eyes, pupils dilated, sweat running down his forehead.
"I… was sent… to." His voice trembled, but the words came out with effort, as if something greater prevented him from speaking. "To ensure… that the Viscount fulfills…"
He stopped abruptly, his body trembling as if an invisible hand were squeezing his throat.
Ereon narrowed his eyes, recognizing the symptom. "A silence seal," he said in a low tone, almost to himself.
Doros placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, the flame of the torches reflecting in his brown eyes.
"Breaking that seal… is it possible?"
Ereon only smiled, cold:"Everything breaks. It only depends on how much blood we're willing to spill."
The servant began coughing, a thin line of blood running from the corner of his mouth. Medea finally took a step forward, her voice firm, though filled with disgust at what she saw:
"He's going to die if you keep this up."
Ereon turned his gaze to her, unhurried, and replied:
"Then let him speak before that. And I am running out of time."
For a moment, Medea stared at him in silence. She knew what that look hid — the weight he carried. She took a step back, repressing something that almost escaped her lips. Her fists clenched, her gaze hard, as if trying to suffocate a thought that shouldn't exist.
It was then that the door of the room opened again, interrupting the scene. The dragging footsteps echoed once more, but this time everyone already knew who it was.
Kael.
Leaning against the wood, he breathed with difficulty, but his voice, though weak, carried unquestionable weight:
"Stop this." His voice, even weak, silenced the tension. "If you want answers, this is not the way you'll get them. There are those who can extract what we need… but for that, he must remain whole."
The flames of the fire burned low, casting wavering shadows over the silent faces. The decision had been made.Before the sun could illuminate the forest and the vast lands of the barony, everyone was already positioned.
The first to draw the Viscount's attention was Ereon — standing alone, imposing — while knights and mercenaries spread along the walls. A dense mist hovered over the forest, moving with almost supernatural precision, as if it were an extension of his own will. It hid movements and traps, making the landscape as threatening as it was silent.
The Viscount slowly turned, his voice low and firm:
"And the other side?"
One of the guards replied, hesitant:
"The baron's son is positioned with his troops. But, according to the reports, only two people are outside the walls; above, mercenaries and some knights remain."
The Viscount remained still, analyzing Ereon with narrowed eyes.
"Smells bad," he murmured, his voice filled with certainty. "Something's wrong."
One of the knights, after hearing the Viscount's words, murmured in disbelief:
"What can three people do against an army of five thousand men?"
The Viscount smiled — slow, calculating — each word weighing like the strike of a blade.
"Do you know why I've never lost a war?"
"Because you are strong…" replied the knight, his voice almost wavering.
"No." The answer came cold as steel. "Because I never underestimate my enemies… and I never ignore what my instinct tells me. And now, it's screaming that something's wrong in that formation."
He paused, letting the cold morning wind spread over the troops, the mist rippling to his will, and the men's eyes following every slightest movement. Then, with absolute authority, he ordered:
"Inform them we'll change our attack formation. And send someone to tell the young baron: not to advance recklessly."
Before the sun could fully rise, the battlefield was already alive with the smell of metal and sweat. The Viscount remained behind, controlling the mist that rippled to his will, watching every movement of the advancing troops. His knights went first, wielding spears and swords, confident that numerical superiority would ensure an easy victory.
Ereon was alone at the front, standing like a shadow stretched by the rising sun. Each of his steps seemed to absorb the surrounding light, disappearing and reappearing where least expected.
The first knight advanced, spears raised. Ereon crouched, his body almost touching the ground, and in an almost invisible movement, passed behind the enemy line. Dead Point. A short and precise strike to the knight's back made the blade pierce joints and nerves; the man fell without a cry, as if erased from existence.
Before another could react, Ereon slid sideways, shadows dancing around his feet. Shadow Step. He reappeared between two enemies, and with a swift sword strike, cut both at once. The precision was terrifying: each blow hit the vital point, each movement calculated to destroy without waste.
The field echoed with the clash of metal, muffled screams, and the sound of bodies falling. But Ereon did not hesitate, did not falter. It was as if the very field bent to his shadows, hiding his movements, making it impossible to predict his position. Embrace of the Night. A knight attacked from behind, but his sword passed through emptiness; Ereon was already elsewhere, the very wind hiding his path.
A third group advanced, trying to surround him. Ereon spun, his body fluid as dark water, each movement a lethal dance. Dance of the New Moon: he attacked from where they could not look, his shadow casting fear before the steel. In seconds, three swords fell, three knights collapsed, and blood stained the damp morning grass.
From atop the walls, mercenaries watched in horror, unable to comprehend how a single man was reducing their ranks with such efficiency. The Viscount, still controlling the mist, frowned, surprised by Ereon's skill, but showing no fear. He knew the shadow ahead was only a piece of the puzzle, and that the young man had more tricks hidden.
As the last knights retreated, the field was stained red, silence taking the place of chaos. Ereon remained firm, breathing calmly, his sword still gleaming under the faint sunlight. Each of his movements had been deadly, precise, almost supernatural.
The second day of war had begun, and everyone now knew: underestimating Ereon was a mistake few would survive to regret.