Smoke still drifted across the Arcan Plains.
What had once been a sea of whispering grass was now scarred earth and broken steel. The wind carried the bitter scent of burned mana and blood, and beneath the pale morning sun, the true cost of Eldarion's victory lay scattered across the field.
Medics moved like tireless ghosts between the fallen.
"Careful—easy now—"
"Mana stabilizer, quickly!"
"Pressure here!"
The wounded groaned as healers worked with glowing hands and trembling focus. War mages sat slumped against overturned shields, sweat and exhaustion etched deep into their faces. Broken banners — both Eldarion and Arizon — fluttered weakly in the wind, half-buried in the dirt like silent witnesses.
At the center of it all, Silas walked the field.
Slow. Measured. Silent.
Damian followed a step behind, eyes sharp, cloak shifting softly with each movement. He said nothing. He knew better.
Silas' golden gaze swept over the aftermath — not with triumph, but with calculation. Every fallen soldier was a number. Every wounded man, a weight the empire would carry forward.
A young Eldarion soldier, arm bound tightly in blood-stained cloth, struggled to push himself upright when Silas passed.
"My… Emperor—"
Silas stopped.
For a brief moment, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
"Stay down," Silas said calmly.
The soldier froze, clearly startled.
"You've done enough," Silas continued, voice even but firm. "Live. That is your next order."
The young man's eyes widened, emotion flashing across his face before he nodded weakly and sank back to the ground.
Silas moved on.
Damian's gaze flickered slightly.
Noted.
Field Council
Near the command ridge, the remaining generals had assembled around a portable war table hastily planted into the earth. Maps were weighed down by daggers and cracked mana stones.
Alberto looked like he hadn't slept in two days — because he hadn't — but the familiar smirk still tugged at one corner of his mouth.
Gregor stood opposite him, armor scratched but posture perfectly straight, ever the disciplined blade
Ryker and Alric reviewed casualty scrolls in low voices.
Silas approached. Instantly, the generals straightened.
"Report," he said.
Gregor spoke first, voice steady.
"Arizon losses are heavy. Their forward assault divisions were nearly wiped out on the second-day push. Surviving units are in full retreat eastward."
Alberto rolled his shoulder, wincing slightly.
"They chased us exactly where you predicted. Hook, line, and sinker. Argen pushed harder than expected though… almost broke our left flank that was nearly a close call
Silas' eyes sharpened slightly.
"Argen Lamenos."
A brief silence passed.
Marvus answered carefully.
"Unconfirmed, Your Majesty. His command he disappeared under the explosion.We have no body."
Not dead.
Not confirmed alive.
Unresolved.
Silas tapped the edge of the war table once.
"Then assume he lives."
The generals exchanged brief looks.
Good commanders didn't celebrate ghosts.
Alric stepped forward next.
"Supply status is stable but strained. Mana reserves among the forward mages are at forty-three percent capacity. If another major engagement occurred immediately…"
"We would feel it," Ryker finished grimly.
Silas nodded once.
"Then we do not give the enemy that opportunity."
His gaze swept across them all.
"We return to Vel Dragan. The army regroups. The wounded are prioritized. Maintain forward scouts along the eastern routes. If Arizon attempts to reform, I want to know before their boots touch the ground."
"Yes, my Emperor."
Brothers of the Field
As the council dispersed, Alberto dropped heavily onto a supply crate, exhaling hard.
"…Well," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "That was fun."
Gregor gave him a flat look.
"You and I define fun very differently."
Alberto chuckled weakly.
"Come on, old man. You saw their faces when we turned them. Beautiful work."
Gregor didn't smile — but his eyes shifted toward the distant ridge where Silas stood speaking quietly with Damian.
"…His Majesty saw ten moves ahead," Gregor said quietly. "We simply played our parts."
For once, Alberto didn't argue.
Instead, he followed Gregor's gaze.
"…Yeah," he admitted.
Then Gregor's expression hardened slightly.
"There is one thing."
Alberto glanced over.
"What?"
Gregor's voice lowered.
"The explosion that allowed argen to escape"
A pause.
"…Yeah too bad
Alberto's smirk faded a fraction.
"….too bad indeed"
Neither man spoke for a moment.
Then Alberto stood, stretching with a grunt.
"Well," he said lightly, though his eyes were sharper now, "guess that just means the next this isn't over."
Gregor didn't disagree.
The Imperial Messenger
By midday, the army had begun organized withdrawal from Arcan Plains.
Lines reformed.
Wounded loaded carefully into reinforced wagons.
Standards lifted once more.
But before the main force began its full march…
Silas gave the order.
"Send word ahead."
Within minutes, the fastest imperial courier was brought forward — a lean rider clad in light reconnaissance armor, his mount already fitted with mana-boosting reins that glowed faintly blue.
Damian personally handed over the sealed imperial scroll.
The wax bore Silas' personal crest.
Unmistakable.
"Ride without stopping," Damian instructed quietly.
The courier nodded once.
Then the horse exploded forward.
Hooves thundered across the plains, kicking up dust as the rider shot west toward Vel Dragan like a released arrow.
Vel Dragan — The Capital Reacts
The capital did not hear the victory.
It felt it coming.
By late afternoon, the outer watchtowers spotted the incoming rider first.
"Courier approaching!"
Signal bells rang.
Gates prepared.
The courier did not slow until he was nearly through the outer district, horse lathered but still pushing forward on pure mana drive.
Within the palace, the message reached Empress Dowager Catalina quickly.
She broke the imperial seal herself.
Her eyes moved across the report once.
Then once more.
A small, controlled smile touched her lips.
"…Just like his father," she murmured.
Outside, the capital began to stir.
Victory bells soon followed.
Not wild.
Not chaotic.
Measured.
Intentional.
The palace servants erupted into motion.
"Prepare the grand hall!"
"Inform the kitchen wings!"
"Ready the imperial banners!"
Meanwhile…
Marvus stood atop Vel Dragan's inner wall, arms folded behind his back as he watched the city begin to celebrate.
His expression remained calm.
Unreadable.
"…Double the night patrols," he ordered quietly.
A nearby officer blinked.
"My lord? But the victory—"
Marvus' eyes didn't leave the horizon.
"Victory," he said evenly, "is when enemies become desperate."
The patrols were doubled.
The Road Home
The Eldarion army marched beneath the fading gold of evening.
Disciplined.
Victorious.
Tired.
Silas rode at the front beside Damian, cloak shifting softly in the wind. Cheers occasionally rippled through the ranks behind them, but Silas did not turn.
He did not smile.
He watched the horizon.
Damian finally spoke.
"You're already thinking beyond this war."
Not a question.
Silas' voice was quiet.
"Arizon was not weak this make me wonder what the future has installed for Eldarion "
A pause.
"Argen Lamenos is not a reckless man."
Damian's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You believe this was only the opening move."
Silas' golden gaze sharpened.
"I believe," he said calmly, "the board is still being set."
The wind picked up.
Far ahead…
Vel Dragan's distant silhouette finally appeared against the darkening sky.
The Gates Await
As sunset bled across the horizon, the great capital of Eldarion stood ready.
Torches lit the walls.
Banners unfurled.
Crowds had already begun gathering near the outer districts, word of victory spreading like wildfire through the city streets.
From the highest palace balcony, Empress Dowager Catalina stood watching the distant road.
Waiting.
Patient.
Below, the gates of Vel Dragan slowly began to open.
And at the head of the returning army…
Silas rode forward, golden eyes calm, expression unreadable.
The empire prepared to celebrate.
But beyond the fading light of Arcan Plains…
the game was already moving again.