The camp stirred in the cold dark of morning. At precisely four, the soldiers began to rise, fastening their armour, whispering to one another with weary voices. A low fog clung to the ground, and every breath came out in a thin white mist.
Lieutenant Oxel, beard touched with white, walked steadily toward the captain's tent. Beside him strode Lieutenant Roxy, the youngest officer among them, her silver hair catching faint glimmers of torchlight, flowing past her shoulders. Her blue eyes carried both discipline and uncertainty, and her crisp white uniform was pressed to perfection, trimmed with pale gold along the edges, a slender sword at her side. A small white hat rested on her head, framing her sharp brows. She moved with elegance, though a tension lingered on her shoulders, as if she bore more weight than her years allowed.
Roxy broke the silence first, her voice steady though edged with concern. "Our scouts reported the enemy numbers… around one hundred and fifty soldiers."
Oxel gave a low grunt, his gaze tightening. "He already knows."
They entered the captain's tent and found him not in bed but already armoured and standing over a spread of maps lit by a single lantern. His black army uniform seemed darker in the dim light, his scar catching the glow like a pale mark of war. His eyes, cold and unreadable, flicked toward them without emotion.
"I've drawn up the plan," he said simply. His tone left no space for doubt.
The captain laid out the strategy with precision. "I will go with Roxy. Together we will infiltrate the enemy hideout from the eastern side. Oxel—you and twenty-five soldiers will attack from the north, raining arrows on them until I give the signal to stop. That distraction will pull their strength away. Roxy and I will recover our captured men and exit back through the eastern line."
Oxel's brows furrowed, his deep voice rising. "Captain, this is too dangerous. Let me go in your place. You should remain with the soldiers."
The captain's jaw barely moved, his eyes narrowing. Dangerous? Every mission is dangerous. What matters is precision, not safety. I cannot waste words convincing him.
"I've given the order," he said coldly. "Tell the men."
Oxel's protest fell silent under the weight of the captain's tone. Roxy glanced at him, then back at the captain, her heart tightening. He bears it all himself. He never allows anyone else to carry the weight. And when blood is spilled, he always makes sure it's his own first. If only he trusted us more…
By six o'clock, the army was in motion. The distraction force slipped into position on the northern ridge, bows strung and ready. The captain and Roxy moved like shadows through the mist, their steps silent, every branch and leaf avoided with disciplined care.
They slipped into the eastern side of the enemy camp with ease, the guards poorly posted, half-asleep.
What they found inside froze Roxy's heart. Their two captured soldiers lay in the dirt—broken. One was barely conscious, blood caked across his skin. The other had lost his tongue, his face pale from torture.
The captain's expression didn't change. He crouched by the men, eyes sharp, noting their injuries. They broke them to extract information. If they spoke, we are already compromised. If not, they endured hell for my orders. I cannot waste their sacrifice.
Roxy swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. "We have to get them out quickly." Yet her inner thoughts twisted. If I had been stronger, maybe they wouldn't have suffered this fate. He always takes the worst of it onto himself, but still others pay the price. And I stand here… doing nothing.
They lifted the soldiers, preparing to slip away. Then came the sound—boots on gravel, steel on steel. Five enemy soldiers emerged from the shadows, blades drawn, faces grim.
Roxy's hand went to her sword, but she hesitated for just a breath. The captain's gaze flicked toward her.
"You handle them."
Roxy's chest tightened. Alone? In front of him? If I fail now, I'll prove his silence right—that I'm not strong enough. She drew her blade, the silver catching the faint light.
The enemies charged. Roxy moved.
Her sword flashed in precise arcs, slicing through the first man before he could raise his shield. She pivoted, parried a strike, and drove her blade upward into a second's chest. A third lunged at her side—she ducked low, cutting his legs from beneath him before driving her blade through his heart.
Her breath grew sharp. The fourth soldier came in hard, shield raised. She feinted left, then struck with brutal speed, piercing beneath his arm. The fifth slashed wildly; she twisted away, stepped in close, and ended him with a thrust to the throat.
In less than a minute, all five lay dead at her feet.
She sheathed her blade slowly, forcing her breathing calm. Outwardly, she stood tall. Inside, her thoughts screamed. Even five nearly pushed me. I can kill them… but why do I still feel as though it's never enough compared to him?
The captain gave only a brief nod. No praise, no surprise. Just cold assessment. Adequate. Her blade is swift. Still… hesitation lingers in her eyes. If she cannot cut it away, it will cost lives one day.
They turned to leave with their wounded—only to freeze.
Torches flickered ahead. Then behind. Steel boots closed in all around.
From the shadows poured soldiers. Not five. Not ten. Thirty. Encircling them, blades raised, faces cruel.
Roxy's heart slammed in her chest. She forced her grip tight on her sword, eyes steady, but inside she faltered. Thirty… even he cannot fight thirty. If he falls here, it will be because I wasn't strong enough to stand beside him. Don't break, Roxy. Hold your composure. He must not see fear.
The captain's face was unreadable, though his mind calculated every angle. A trap. Too clean, too convenient. I should have seen it sooner. No retreat. Thirty blades. Precision must carry us, or we die here. I will not allow them to die for me.
The circle closed in, silence pressing like iron.
On the northern ridge, Oxel loosed another arrow, sweat dampening his brow. His men's quivers were thinning, their volleys slowing. Still no signal from the east.
"Keep firing!" he barked, though his own voice wavered. His eyes strained toward the distant tree line, searching for any sign.
Why has he not called? Each passing breath bleeds us dry. The men falter, the arrows run out. Captain, what in the hells are you doing?
The younger soldiers looked to him, desperation in their faces. Oxel drew another arrow with trembling fingers, his chest heavy. If the word doesn't come soon, this distraction will collapse—and so will all of us.