The Night of ground Two and groundThree
The moon hung pale and wounded over the battlefield.
Its light shimmered across rivers of blood, broken helmets, and the still bodies of men who no longer dreamed.
Smoke curled upward like ghostly hands, whispering of lives cut short.
The scent of gunpowder and burnt metal mixed with the earth a bitter perfume of war.
It was over.
ground Two and ground Three had fallen silent.
[ground two]
The soldiers of Naryan moved through the corpses of their brothers, their boots heavy with mud and sorrow. Some searched for friends who would never rise. Others just stared at the sky, too numb to cry.
Commander Blackwell stood among them, his coat torn, his sword uncleaned. He opened his mouth but said nothing.
There were no words for this kind of loss.
The camp of the Naryans felt less like a resting ground and more like a graveyard.
Every flag drooped low. Every fire burned quiet.
And in the shadows beyond the dying flames two figures watched.
Thomas and John Snow.
Once proud soldiers. Now ghosts among the living.
They crouched behind a line of sandbags, staring across the blackened field toward the Aria campfires in the distance.
Thomas's face was streaked with ash, his rifle trembling in his hands. "They're celebrating," he muttered. "After all this… they're celebrating."
John snow said nothing. His eyes followed the red glow on the horizon the sound of drums, laughter, the clash of cups and armor.
"Why do you still care?" Thomas asked quietly. "You're not from my kingdom."
John snow didn't answer. He just kept watching.
The blood. The fire. The way the Aria's flags waved like they owned the night.
Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered Because someone has to stop them.
The Aria Camp The Feast of Victory
Across the plains, the Aria Kingdom's encampment burned bright like a second sunrise.
Laughter, cheers, and drunken songs shook the tents. Soldiers raised cups of steel, chanting the names of their commanders.
At the heart of it all, beneath a great banner of white and crimson, stood the war tent vast as a chapel, glowing with lanterns.
Inside, the air was thick with heat, wine, and pride.
Five figures stood around a long table where the map of Naryan lay torn and marked in red ink.
Commander Stone, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, slammed his fist onto the table. "To the fallen!" he roared, lifting his cup high.
The others answered with a shout that rattled the tent walls.
"To the fallen!"
Beside him stood Commander Knight, ever calm, his gloves spotless despite the battle. He smiled faintly not of joy, but calculation. "And to the living," he added, voice low. "May they remember who took their land."
Across the table, Lady Alena tilted her head, her eyes like ice. The cold glint of her blade still rested at her hip. She spoke softly, yet every word cut deep.
"Let them remember," she said. "Fear makes a kingdom behave."
She smiled then a cruel, beautiful curve and the soldiers outside cheered louder.
In the corner, Cruella, the young Junior Commander, watched the others quietly. She had been found by Stone years ago, an orphan in the ashes of a conquered town.
Now she wore the Aria crest proudly, though her gaze stayed distant.
When Stone caught her eyes, he raised his cup again. "To Cruella," he said. "The one who turned defeat into victory."
Cheers erupted.
Cruella bowed her head slightly. She didn't smile.
"Victory," she murmured, "is never clean."
And then the tent trembled.
A heavy shadow fell over the table.
Commander 9th had entered.
No one spoke.
He was enormous a mountain of a man. His armor clanked with every step, each piece forged black as night. His face was never seen, hidden behind a steel helm marked only with the number IX.
They said he'd been born larger than most men, stronger than any soldier. That his silence was heavier than Stone's command.
Even now, as he stood there, shield in his left hand, the air seemed to bend around him.
"Commander 9th," Stone said, raising his chin. "You came late."
A low growl escaped from behind the mask. "I came when I was needed."
He set his shield down by the table with a thud that shook the lanterns. "And now that we've won, let's remember why we fight not for celebration, but survival."
Lady Alena's eyes glimmered. "Always the solemn one," she teased. "You should drink once in a while, 9th."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he turned to the tent's opening to the sound of the soldiers chanting outside, drunk with triumph and grief alike.
"Let them drink," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, they'll bury the cost."
Outside, the fire rose higher.
Inside, the commanders stood like gods over the map of a dying world.
For the Naryans, this night was mourning.
For the Arias, this night was glory.
But for the world between them it was the birth of vengeance.
[ground three]
And somewhere in the darkness, Thomas and John Snow began to move.
Their hearts were heavy, their guns loaded, and their eyes fixed on one name whispered through the smoke
[Aria's soldiers.]
The night wind moved through the ruins like a whisper of the dead.
Every sound the rustle of a torn flag, the hiss of smoke carried the memory of battle.
Thomas pressed his hand into the dirt, feeling for the pulse of the ground. "Here," he muttered. "This is where they'll march at dawn."
John Snow crouched beside him, his face streaked with soot and moonlight. "And this time," he said quietly, "we'll make them remember what they did to Naryan."
Between them lay a half-broken crate inside, six iron bombs, each one stolen from the Aria supply lines.
Thomas began digging fast, his fingers trembling but sure. The metal clinked softly as they buried each bomb one by one beneath the loose soil.
John wiped sweat from his brow, even in the cold.
The sky was a deep silver-blue now, and in the distance, the Aria camp still glowed with laughter and firelight.
"You ever think about running?" Thomas whispered.
John didn't look at him. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because someone has to stop them."
The last bomb sank into the dirt.
Thomas nodded. "Then let's finish this."
Inside the Aria Camp
The tent was alive with noise again.
Soldiers clinked their cups, sang half-drunken songs, and spoke of legends that had barely finished being written.
By one of the fires, two young soldiers sat polishing their rifles, their faces flushed with drink.
"Hey," one of them said, lowering his voice, "why do they call him Commander 9th? That's not even a name. It's a number."
The other laughed nervously. "You don't know? They say he's not supposed to have a name. Not after what he did."
"What did he do?"
"Who knows," the man whispered. "But Commander Knight his brother they say both of them were born on the same day. Twins. One became the mind of war. The other…" He looked toward the largest tent, where a shadow moved behind the canvas. "The other became the monster."
The first soldier frowned. "Monster?"
Before he could answer, the tent flap shifted.
The laughter around them faltered.
Commander 9th stepped out.
Even in the faint light, his armor seemed to drink in the moonlight black steel layered upon black steel, plates that moved like muscle. His face, hidden behind the iron mask marked IX, gave no sign of life.
Every soldier nearby straightened immediately. No one dared speak.
As 9th passed, his footsteps shook the ground.
He didn't need to look at them to know who they were, or what they whispered. His presence alone silenced their courage.
Then a sound.
A faint metallic click from beyond the tents.
9th froze.
The soldiers blinked. "What was that?"
Before anyone could answer, he was gone moving faster than a man his size should move.
The Shadows Beyond the Firelight
Thomas and John were nearly done. The last fuse ran across the dirt, hidden beneath the ashes of war.
Thomas smiled faintly. "For Naryan," he whispered.
Then the air changed.
John stiffened. "You hear that?"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Something huge moved behind them.
A shadow wide, heavy, and silent.
Before Thomas could turn, a massive hand grabbed the back of his neck. Another seized John by the collar.
There was no time to shout.
Their heads slammed together with the force of thunder.
A single, sharp crack.
And then silence.
The two bodies dropped limp into the dirt, blood mixing with the soil they had just dug.
Commander 9th stood over them, his breathing deep, steady. The bombs lay scattered beside their corpses unfinished revenge buried in failure.
For a moment, he just stared down at them.
Then he turned, lifting one of the bombs in his gloved hand.
"Amateurs," he murmured. His voice was low, like gravel grinding against metal. "You never bury what you can't control."
The Return to the Feast
When he returned to the camp, his armor was streaked with blood.
The soldiers who had been laughing fell silent, their joy turning to unease.
Someone whispered, "He killed them… with his hands."
And then the laughter began again. Nervous. Forced.
One soldier raised his cup, trembling. "To Commander 9th!"
A few others followed, cheering weakly.
But the cheer turned hollow like a song sung at a funeral.
Inside the main tent, Lady Alena watched the noise fade from her seat. Her eyes glinted like a knife catching light.
"Victory," she said softly, "always tastes sweeter when it's mixed with fear."
Commander Knight said nothing, only stared at the blood drying on his brother's armor.
He knew what that silence meant.
The war was not over.
It had just begun to rot.