Author's Note: Thanks for 29K views! Enjoy the read — make every page count!
The night fell over the Eastern territory, but not with the serenity darkness usually brings.
The air in Viscount Ardentis's castle was thick, charged with tension and unease.
In the broad main hall, lit by forged-iron chandeliers, the Viscount received reports from his scouts.
The last man, with a tired face and a strained voice, declared:
"One thousand deaths, my lord. And we've lost half the territory within the bronze walls."
The Viscount knit his brow hard, punching the arm of his seat so that everyone fell silent at the impact.
His voice cut through the heavy air, firm and hoarse:
"One day. Only one day was needed… and already we have lost more than a thousand men, besides half the city. Tell me, what have you been doing?"
His fury rose in a cry:
"Answer me! How is this possible? What have those useless men done to allow such a disaster?"
The counselors exchanged worried looks, fearful before the house lord's wrath.
Until Viscountess Lysandra, with a faint smile drawn on her lips—cold as the blade of a sword—said:
"I know what torments you, my lord. Yet we are not prepared to face a dragon. Since the rise of the gods, there is no record of survivors against such a creature."
The Viscount breathed deeply, trying to contain his despair.
Lysandra continued, without faltering:
"And, according to the most recent reports, our enemy not only fields those beasts, but also uses weapons from the ancient civilization—arms that should no longer exist."
The Viscount could not hide his disdain, and the counselors began to stir. One stepped forward with a trembling voice:
"This attack was unexpected and violent. Perhaps we should understand who leads that army, seek a way to parley before more blood is spilled."
Lysandra answered, firm:
"If there were any will to parley, we would not be gathered here, at the gates of disaster. Do you not agree, Lady Sèsinmè?"
Sèsinmè, with a clear, steady voice, replied:
"The paths of this war are uncertain and dangerous. What remains is to prepare for what is to come. The threat approaches, and our time is short."
The iron of the chandeliers creaked; no one showed movement.
Lysandra stepped forward, weighing each word:
"We must acknowledge that brute force no longer suffices. The enemy possesses powers and weapons we do not fully understand. Perhaps it is time to seek means—unconventional—with whoever is possible, or strategies less traditional, before the siege closes completely."
The Viscount remained silent, his penetrating gaze appraising every face present.
"What alternatives do you suggest?" he asked, a voice laden with doubt and hope.
Lysandra answered, resolute and decided:
"The report states that only three among them displayed superhuman abilities."
Viscount Ardentis raised his eyes, his voice dry and incisive:
"Proceed."
She continued:
"That alone shows the enemy army at large is not so dangerous. If we isolate those three and eliminate them, we can restructure our forces and we will win. If the enemy underestimates our capacity to adapt, that will be our advantage."
She paused and completed:
"So, there is an option, my lord."
The words circled like sparks, waiting for a breath—a shadow that stretched beyond the walls.
Hours passed since the silent judgment within the castle.
Now, amid the ruins of the bronze walls, an improvised tent served as a field headquarters. Éreon, Éon, and Marcus gathered to determine the next steps.
Marcus furrowed his brow and commented, serious:
"Those so-called Agojies are dangerous. From what you told us, their fighting style, the way they move in sync without exchanging a word, will be a great obstacle for us."
Éreon nodded, his voice heavy with a mixture of respect and concern:
"I prolonged the fight against them: I needed to understand their style. I can say with certainty: our men would not survive. They are fast. They need only one strike to finish."
He continued, analyzing what lay ahead:
"Considering that our army is made up of unawakened men and women, the burden will fall on you two as soon as you see them."
Éon and Marcus exchanged firm looks, aware of the weight of the mission awaiting them.
Marcus inhaled sharply, his jaw tight.
"And since there's supposedly an enemy at our backs," he murmured, hard-eyed, "the ideal would be to end this attack as quickly as possible, before we are surrounded on two fronts."
Éreon remained silent for a moment—long enough for the air in the tent to feel heavier.
Finally, he answered:
"We will know how to proceed at dawn."
He laid his hand on the table, fingers streaked with dust and blood, and his eyes, cold as tempered steel, followed the lamplight's tremor.
"If they do not surrender even after the dragon appears… or after the revelation of the weapons…" his voice softened for an instant before hardening again, "then the innocent will have to pay the price."
He rose, each movement carrying the weight of one who knows the decision he bears has no return.
The canvas of the tent billowed with the night wind as he walked toward the exit.
The words hovered in the air like a blade suspended the moment before the strike.
Marcus felt his stomach twist.
Éreon did not need to say more. He understood—and the comprehension cut deep.
Éon stood motionless, watching Éreon leave, his shadow blending with the darkness of the camp outside.
Marcus, in an almost inaudible whisper:
"May the gods have mercy on us…"
But deep down, everyone knew: in that war, not even the gods would dare to intervene.
Éreon walked through the camp.
The cold wind brushed his skin, bringing the acrid smell of dried blood and smoke.
His eyes scanned the wounded moaning, the women covering the newly broken bodies.
Short laments slipped through clenched teeth, tearing the silence like dull blades. Women murmured the names of the dead—some did not even answer in memory.
The embers crackled low, as if afraid to wake the very night.
He lifted his chin, narrowed gaze alert to the horizon broken by the ruins of the bronze walls.
And then he saw.
Among the shadows where torchlight could not reach, a silhouette moved.
It was not a soldier.
It was not a civilian.
The posture was too rigid.
The step too silent.
This was not someone who belonged there.
Éreon called no one.
He gave no warning.
He asked no questions.
A moment—and the figure vanished from the sight of the wounded and guards, its cloak sinking into the black of the ruins.
The figure turned, as if noticing too late.
Éreon appeared before it like a blade cutting the dark.
No words.
The figure struck first—quick as a wraith.
A closed fist aimed at the neck.
Éreon blocked with his forearm.
The stone beneath their feet cracked.
Another lunge—a short blade, silent, dimly gleaming.
He dodged by a hair, grabbing the enemy's wrist.
The shadow twisted, kicking.
A dry impact.
The air vibrated.
Dust rose.
They stepped apart a pace, neither of them panting, neither yielding.
Absolute silence between broken ruins and recent dead.
Then Éreon spoke—voice low, cold as autumn steel:
"You did not come to watch. You came to measure… or to kill."
The figure breathed in, retreating only as much as strategy allowed—no fear, only calculation.
For a moment, the night seemed to hold its own breath.
The figure lowered the hood with a slow motion.
Gray-silver eyes pierced the night; long, straight black hair, flecked with fine red tips, fell over her shoulders like a war banner.
"I came to find you, son of Chaos. Scourge of gods."
For a second Éreon's expression wavered, a swift confusion—like a crack on a calm surface.
He recomposed in a breath.
He looked her up and down, measuring every detail with the cold of one who weighs blades.
"Who are you?" he cut, dry.
"I am Sèsinmè Adanhoun, daughter of Abomey. Eyes of Mawu upon the world." The words came firm, almost ceremonial.
Éreon repeated, voice low, heavy as a seal:
"Daughter of Abomey… that name again. Tell me: what do you want with me? What do you know about me?"
She did not answer immediately. Her eyes rested on him as one who contemplates something already foreseen, already written.
"I know the blood you carry… and the shadow that has followed you since before you took up a blade," she murmured. "I know enough to stand before you."
Éreon's jaw clicked, short and dry—a sign of recognition he would not admit.
Only then did he lift his chin, and the night seemed to hold its breath to hear her:
"Because, by Mawu's eyes, I see the possible paths." The ramifications… the consequences of each choice.
Éreon stared at her, his gaze steady, as one who measures truth in silence.
"Then you already know how this ends," he answered, dry.
"Yes." She stepped forward, the cloak trembling slightly. "And that is why I am here. I came to propose an agreement."
Éreon kept his face unshaken.
"An agreement?" The tone was nearly mocking. "Give me a reason to accept. Even if I do not see these 'paths,' I know well how this war ends… and I tell you now: it will be my army that remains standing."
She smiled, fearless, as one who expected exactly that reply.
"That is why I came: I will show you what you cannot see." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Because fate has already bowed to you… and yet, there is something you do not see."
Éreon turned his back, walking toward the camp.
"Return, messenger. If the Viscount wants an agreement, let him come in person."
She then spoke, with firmness:
"The girl is real."
Éreon stopped.
The whole world seemed to hold its breath.
His fingers closed slowly, as if gripping the hilt of an invisible blade.
A single speck of dust fell—and the silence bore down for an instant; all the weight of the battlefield dissolved.
"Now can we talk?" she asked, with a calm that sounded like a threat. "Listen to me… and I will end your doubts."
A breath of sulphur folded the air for a second; Éreon felt something ancient touch the nape of his neck.
The absolute silence that followed was not empty. It was the exact sound of destiny shifting course.