Smoke slipped through the canvas in small steady seams, rattled breathing—groans of wounded men shifting in their stances. The air smelled of sweat and tension.
Three years.
Three years in, the war had now learned how to breathe. The fronts no longer surged or collapsed. They pressed. Constant. Patient. Like rot.
Sylvester entered the command tent without ceremony, mud still clinging to his boots. The tent was too well furnished for the hour—maps weighted with iron markers, polished lanterns, a long table scarred by knives and rings. Lords and allies alike surrounded it—old, young, scarred.
High Commander Vahl-Harlic stood at the center, broad hands braced on the table—one missing two fingers, the gaps old and clean, like a dismissed scratch. He was Count of the Northern marches. Auxiliary to both House Veron and the Crown. They called him Unyielding Iron Stand. The title fit him—not because he was immovable. But because everything else kept breaking against him first.
"The barrier shields failed in the east corridor before dawn again," Vahl said, voice steady. Too steady. "Burnouts. On all sides. Mages collapsed where they stood, not enough Witches left to restore."
"Countess Lioren withholds her troops. Calls it restraint. And refuses any further forces." One Lord added.
"She doesn't wish to add to her dead. Which is wise." Another countered
No dramatics. No anger. Just facts.
General Caine near the rear exhaled sharply. "Then we retreat. Pull back from the forest edge, consolidate—"
"That gives Varkyn another mile," Sylvester cut in. His voice didn't rise. "Another mile of cover. And another month of ambushes. Another year added to a war already chewing on its fourth."
Caine leaned back, slightly rolling his eyes at Sylvester. "Then what would you have us do?"
Others shifted. None of them were cowards. Every single man in this tent had buried someone. Every single one of them had earned their fear.
"The death toll is unsustainable," another said. Older. Grey-bearded. Careful words. "Morale is collapsing. Soldiers haven't slept. The witches—"
"—are healers now," Sylvester finished. "Of course the Countess would withdraw, Varkyn soil rejects standard forgery practice. Unknown compounds and corrosive feedback." His jaw tightened, just barely. "Whatever they manage costs us more."
{Just keeping people alive long enough to suffer tomorrow.} Sylvester thought, and hated himself for how accurate it was.
They all looked at Sylvester then. Some with pity. Some with suspicion. A few with thinly veiled resentment.
He knew the story they told themselves.
Of course he won't pull back. He lost his wife to Runebloods.
Of course he's reckless—his first child nearly died to them.
To them he was grief wearing armor.
"My soldiers are exhausted," Sylvester said. "Yes. They are burned raw. So are yours. So is everyone who has stood a watch line in these trees." He placed his hand flat on the table. Didn't slam it, just placed. "But retreating won't save them. It shall only delay their deaths, and hands the terrain to an enemy who started this war knowing exactly how these forests kill."
Silence.
Vahl straightened. "We hold," he said, not loud—but firm. "We'll rotate the outer watches. Shorter shifts. No more full night coverage—just staggered barriers at choke points. Let the Runebloods come" he paused, then his brows joined as his eyes narrowed "close enough to regret it."
One of the lords swallowed. "But My Lord, that risks—"
"Everything," Vahl agreed. His eyes were iron-dull with fatigue. "This war has been risking everything since the first border fell."
No one argued after that.
Not because they agreed—but because every alternative was worse.
Outside, knights survived on sheer restraint and exhaustion—flickering forcefields held by burned-out mages… some soldiers sleeping in armor, half-upright. Fires were smothered. And the distance looked unsafe and felt worse, the enemy had attacked during nights the most—but now choosing instead to wait, letting doubt do the damage blades couldn't.
Vahl looked at them, gaze moving slowly—measured—across banners, armor, faces. Nobles. Commanders.
He leaned in—the scrape of iron against stone cut through the low murmur still lingering in the hall.
Conversations died mid-breath.
"We will hold, we must." Vahl said.
That was all. A statement.
He turned, already stepping away, and with that the meeting was over. No formal dismissal was needed. The words were enough to carry them out.
Boots shifted. Cloaks were gathered. Some bowed out of habit, others didn't bother. Glowing circles flared to life along the stones outside—green, blue, pale gold—awaiting obediently for those wealthy enough, important enough, to step through them.
Hooves struck the earth as horses were mounted beyond the gates, riders disappeared into the forest paths that threaded away from the encampment.
The war had force—split them.
All still answered to the Crown of course—to Vahl's command, his directives, his lines on the map—but no longer as a single body. Orders traveled. Support didn't always follow.
Fronts stretched thin across, bleak borders, and broken supply lines. Reinforcements arrived late, if at all. Each command held its own line, bleeding quietly.
Sylvester exited last.
Sir Zerlious was waiting outside near the edge of the grounds, helm tucked beneath his arm, posture as rigid as ever.
"How did it go this time?" Zerlious asked.
"The same." Sylvester replied.
He didn't slow. With a lazy sweep of his hand, he cut through the air.
Light answered.
A thin neon green line burned into existence, humming softly as it stretched outward, curving, widening—until it formed a full circle tall enough to walk through.
Sylvester stepped through without hesitation.
Zerlious followed.
They emerged inside a tent—large, reinforced with stitched seams, its interior lit by steady crystal-lamps rather than fire. A broad table dominated the center, crowded with useless maps, smudged routes, and weighted tokens of iron and stone. The Duke's standard hung behind it, understated but unmistakable.
"What an entrance—"
The voice didn't finish.
The tent flap barely stirred before steel was out.
Zerlious moved on instinct—one step, one draw—and the sword stopped at Levi's throat, edge angled in, close enough to bite.
"Who are you?" he barked.
"He's an old friend," Sylvester said, already shrugging out of his gloves as he crossed the tent. He didn't look back.
Zerlious didn't ease the pressure. One hand pinned Levi to the table's edge, the blade unyielding. "How did you get in here?"
"It's a tent," Levi said. His tone leveled. Polite.
Zerlious's jaw tightened. The barrier outside the canvas couldn't have been broken. If it had, then beyond the tent would be screaming.
"Answer me." he pressed.
Levi raised two fingers.
Then settled them against the flat of the blade—pushing, ever so slightly. The metal shifted a hair's breadth as his fingers guided its angle aside. Even against the strength behind it.
"Technically—"
Zerlious shoved him back a step before he could even start. The sword following, hilt solid in his grip. "How did you get past the barrier?"
Levi sighed.
"He won't even let me finish. Sylv always speaks so good of you, but you're not worth the praise," he said, tilting his head toward the tent entrance, "There." His fingers slid along the blade again, subtle as breath. "I walked right through there."
Zerlious stilled—realizing.
In that fraction of hesitation, Levi stepped sideways, clean and controlled, slipping out of the blade's path like it was no threat at all. His hand fell away. The steel met with nothing.
Sylvester glances back over his shoulder.
"Zerlious," he said calmly. "Stand down."
Zerlious lowered the sword.
Levi straightened, adjusting his sleeve.
"A little too late for that now, I already gave a bad impression."
"Levi," Sylvester added.
Zerlious just watched him in silence.
He didn't know the name.
But he knew without a doubt that was shadow manipulation.
This man, whoever he was—was dangerous. Sword still in hand, though lowered. His gaze never left Levi.
Levi noticed.
"You can relax," Levi said mildly. "If I wanted him dead, you wouldn't stop me."
"I'll just be outside."
Zerlious bowed once, sharp and precise, before turning away. He didn't spare Levi another glance as he left the tent.
Levi watched him go, lips curling. "You keep such… competent people around you."
The sarcasm barely landed.
"Why are you here, Levi?" Sylvester said flatly, slumping into a chair. Fatigue catching up to him.
"To help, of course." Levi turned back to him, all ease and confidence. "What if Runebloods...." He pauses "aren't the enemy we think they are."
Sylvester didn't react. His gaze stayed on Levi, relaxed—unreadable.
"I saw their world." Levi added, tilting his head, a grin tugging at his mouth.
Sylvester straightened sharply. "What?"
"It was a simple expedition," Levi said lightly. "I went alone. Living among them was anything but easy—I was mostly—"
"Living among them?" Sylvester cut in.
"Yes." Levi shrugged. "I'm built for stealth."
"That explains nothing," Sylvester snapped. Then continued "Runebloods are predators by instinct. There's no scenario where that ends well."
"Hm." Levi pressed his lips together. "You're right," he said calmly. Then, softer—"and you're wrong."
Sylvester's eyes narrowed.
"Runebloods kill humans, because humans behave like prey," Levi continued, "or like intruders." His gaze locked onto Sylvester's. "And I did neither."
The tent seemed to quiet around them.
"I know you don't understand," Levi went on. "So I'll show you."
He reached out.
The air warped—folded in on itself like reality taking a breath. Levi's arm vanished into nothing, and when he pulled it back, a night-dark cloak came with it. He draped it over his shoulders, lifting the hood over his head.
When he looked up again, his eyes were no longer gray. Red irises—slick, reflective—framed black diamond pupils.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. Slightly heavier. Suffocating… wrong. Like the night itself had leaned closer to listen.
Sylvester inhaled slowly. "You look…"
"Nothing like a Runeblood," Levi said. "No. But close enough." He tilted his head. "As long as I don't carry any intent to kill. Or to run. Their hostility becomes tolerance."
"And," Sylvester said quietly.
"It wasn't enough," Levi said. "I couldn't use influence without risking detection—"
"How long do you plan on bragging?," Sylvester cut in, leaning back.
Levi's gaze dropped. "I was hoping to brag a little longer," he muttered. Then he sighed, "but fine." pushing the cloak off.
It vanished mid-air.
His eyes faded back to gray as he settled into the chair beside Sylvester, crossing one leg over the other.
"For starters, I confirmed the working theory that they aren't any different from us. We already knew Runebloods cook their own meals," he said. "they cover their nake bodies. What we didn't know—what you didn't know—is that they also wear dresses."
Sylvester stayed still, but his brow twitched. "Dresses?"
"Yes, seamstress and all that." Levi said. "Mostly for their young. I didn't go deep enough to map their entire society, but they also have hierarchy. Structure." His expression sharpened. "And they speak Sylv."
Sylvester was sitting upright now.
"In our tongue, not deep incomplete growls. Intimidating tones," Levi continued, "but language all the same. They're dangerous. Violent." A pause. "But with families. Children. Bonds."
He looked at Sylvester fully now.
"Just like you. What if," Levi said slowly, "we're the ones who have it wrong?"
"They attacked us first," Sylvester said.
"You don't actually know that." Levi dropped his foot to the ground, voice firm. "None of us do. You weren't there. I wasn't there. No human alive was there." His jaw tightened. "History is written by the survivors—and the dead can't argue when their story gets revised."
Silence stretched.
"Did you find out anything else?, there weakness perhaps." Sylvester asked at last.
"They die as easily as Mages," Levi replied. "No innate intolerance to anything as far I could tell."
"Or," Sylvester murmured, "we simply haven't found it yet."
Levi stood.
"Sylv.., I don't have the luxury of silence." His voice softened, just a fraction. "I have to report this to the Dowager. And we both know she'll choose what bests her people."
His seat turns— beginning to think thinning air, reality already beginning to fracture.
"I'm hoping," Levi said, "you choose what's best for all of us."
"You always leave the difficult choices to me." Sylvester stated.
"Don't complain, I know you love it." Levi smirks.
Then he leans inward—and just vanishes into the dark gap.
Sylvester laughs softly, "Runeblood people..." He leans into his seat, then exhales.