# Chapter 223: The General's Lesson
The chill of the pre-dawn air bit at Soren's exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the feverish heat of his thoughts. He stood in the center of the training yard, a sprawling expanse of packed dirt and worn wooden dummies. The sky was a flat, colorless grey, promising another sunless day. The crumpled parchment from the Ghost was still in his fist, the edges digging into his palm. He hadn't slept. He'd just walked, circling the barracks until the guards changed, then slipped into the empty yard. The silence here was different from the Bloom-Wastes. It wasn't the silence of anti-life, but the silence of potential, of violence held in check. It offered no comfort.
He heard the soft scuff of boots on dirt behind him. He didn't turn. He didn't have to. The measured, unhurried pace, the lack of any attempt at stealth, could only belong to one man.
"Brooding doesn't sharpen a blade, Soren." Captain Bren's voice was gravelly, roughened by years of shouting commands over the din of battle. He stopped a few paces away, his own presence a solid, immovable object in Soren's peripheral vision. "And it makes for a poor watch."
Soren's jaw tightened. He could feel the old soldier's gaze on him, assessing, dissecting. He imagined those eyes seeing the parchment, the doubt, the poison seeping into his veins. He forced his fingers to uncurl, letting the scrap of paper fall to the dirt. He ground it under his heel, a futile attempt to destroy the words already burned into his memory. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous habit," Bren grunted. He gestured with a thumb toward the yard's edge where a small group of trainees were shivering, their breath pluming in the cold. Finn was among them, his face a mixture of awe and apprehension. "They're waiting. So am I."
"I'm not in the mood for drills." The words came out flat, brittle. His body ached with a deep, bone-level weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The fractured bracers on his wrists throbbed with a dull, persistent heat, a constant reminder of his own brokenness.
"Good. Because today, you're not the student. You're the commander." Bren walked over to a rack of wooden poles and blunt training swords, selecting one for himself. He tossed a shorter, lighter sword toward Soren, who caught it reflexively. The familiar weight felt alien in his hand. "Your objective is simple. That post," he pointed to a thick wooden pillar painted white at the far end of the yard, "is a high-value asset. A supply cache. A captured noble. It doesn't matter. It must be taken."
He gestured to the trainees. "They are your squad. Finn, Joric, Elara. They are your only resources. The dummies are the enemy. They are entrenched, numerically superior, and they will not stop." Bren began walking the perimeter, kicking over several of the heavier, cross-shaped dummies. They fell with heavy thuds, their arms forming makeshift barricades. "You have ten minutes to secure the objective. Your squad cannot take more than two 'casualties'—a solid hit from one of my trainees acting as enemy. Fail, and you run the yard until you collapse. Begin."
Soren stared at the setup. It was a child's game. A simple frontal assault would work. He could lead the charge himself, take out the key dummies, and secure the post in under a minute. He looked at the trainees. Finn, eager but clumsy. Joric, all brawn and no brain. Elara, quick but timid. They would be a liability. They would slow him down. They would get in his way. They might even… betray him. The thought slithered into his mind, cold and slick. A serpent in the ranks. What if one of them was ordered to fail? To trip him? To misinterpret an order?
"Move out, Commander," Bren's voice cut through his hesitation.
Soren's grip tightened on the wooden sword. "Finn, on me. Joric, left flank. Elara, right. We're going straight up the middle. Punch through their center and secure the post." He didn't wait for a confirmation, just started jogging forward, his eyes locked on the white pillar. He would do it himself. It was the only way to be sure.
He reached the first line of dummies, swinging his sword in a powerful arc that splintered the wood. He moved with a brutal efficiency, his body remembering a thousand arena fights. He was a whirlwind of controlled destruction. Behind him, chaos erupted. He heard a yelp from Elara. A curse from Joric. He risked a glance back. Joric had charged a dummy head-on and been tangled in its wooden arms, struggling uselessly. Elara was frozen, her path blocked by a dummy she was too afraid to engage. Finn was trying to help Joric, his frantic efforts only making the situation worse.
They were useless. They were a trap. Soren felt a surge of furious frustration. He abandoned the plan, turning back to drag his squad forward. He kicked the dummy off Joric, shoved Elara toward the objective, and barked an order at Finn to cover their backs. He was everywhere at once, a frantic, desperate force trying to plug a dozen leaks in a sinking ship. He saw one of the other trainees, acting as a roving enemy, lunge toward Elara. Soren lunged, intercepting the blow, but in doing so, he left his own flank exposed. Another trainee tapped him solidly on the back.
"Casualty!" the boy yelled, his voice ringing with triumph.
Soren froze. One. He had one left. He looked at the objective, still twenty yards away. His squad was in disarray. He was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from the sheer, maddening weight of their incompetence. Or was it something more? He looked at their faces. Joric's shame. Elara's fear. Finn's desperate apology. He saw no malice, only failure. But the Ghost's warning was a lens, coloring everything he saw. Failure could be faked. Incompetence could be a mask.
"Time!" Bren's voice boomed across the yard. "Objective not secured. Two casualties. Commander, you failed. The yard awaits."
Soren's shoulders slumped. The wooden sword felt like a lead weight. He could feel the eyes of the trainees on him, a mixture of pity and resentment. He had led them into failure.
"Again," Bren said, his tone leaving no room for argument. As the trainees reset the dummies, Bren walked over to Soren, his expression unreadable. "You fought like a man trying to hold water in his fists. You tried to do every job yourself. Why?"
Soren's gaze drifted to the barracks, to the window of the common room. "I can't trust them to do it right."
"Trust isn't about them doing it right," Bren countered, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl. "Trust is about you giving them the chance. You saw Joric's strength, but you tried to make him a skirmisher. You saw Elara's speed, but you put her on a static flank. You didn't command. You just expected them all to be you."
He clapped a heavy hand on Soren's shoulder. "They are not you. That is the point. That is their value. Now, reset. This time, you will not lift your sword. You will stand here. You will command. And you will use the tools you've been given, not the ones you wish you had."
The second attempt was worse. Soren stood rooted near the starting line, his sword sheathed. He felt naked, helpless. "Joric, break the left barricade. Elara, use your speed to draw out the roving enemy on the right. Finn, support Joric, then fall back to protect our rear." His voice was tight, uncertain.
Joric lumbered forward and smashed through the wooden barrier, but he was immediately swarmed by two dummies that had been hidden behind it. Elara darted right, but the enemy trainee anticipated her, cutting off her path and forcing her into a corner. Finn, trying to follow two conflicting orders, hesitated, accomplishing nothing. Soren watched it all unfold, a perfect storm of his own poor leadership. He wanted to scream, to charge in and fix it all. But Bren's gaze was a physical pressure on his back.
"Casualty on Joric!" a trainee shouted.
"Casualty on Elara!"
"Exercise over," Bren announced, his voice flat. "Total squad loss in under three minutes. A new record, Commander."
Soren finally turned to face him, the mask of stoicism cracking to reveal the raw frustration beneath. "It's impossible. They're not ready. They're not…"
"They're not what, Soren? Not you? Not an arena champion who can win a one-on-five duel?" Bren stepped closer, his eyes boring into Soren's. "This isn't the Ladder. This is war. In war, you don't get to be the strongest. You get to be the smartest. You get to be the one who sees the field. You see that post?" He pointed again. "And you see your squad. Your job is to build a bridge between them with nothing but words. You failed because you don't see them. You see liabilities. You see potential traitors."
The last words hit Soren like a physical blow. He took an involuntary step back. How could he know?
Bren's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Something is eating at you. I can see it in your eyes. You look at your allies and you see enemies. That is a sickness that will kill you long before any Inquisitor gets the chance. A commander who trusts no one is just a man waiting to be surrounded. Now, one more time."
He walked over to the trainees, speaking to them in low tones. Soren couldn't hear the words, but he saw the effect. Joric stood taller. Elara's gaze lost its fear, replaced by a flicker of determination. Finn nodded, his jaw set. They were looking at Soren now, not as a failed champion, but as their commander. Waiting.
Bren returned to Soren's side. "The scenario is the same. But this time, they know their roles. They know what they're good at. The only variable left is you. Command them."
Soren took a deep breath, the cold air searing his lungs. He closed his eyes for a second, pushing back the Ghost's poison, pushing back the image of ruku, pushing back the weight of the world. He opened them. He looked at his squad. Not as liabilities. Not as suspects. As assets.
"Joric," he said, his voice clearer, more certain. "You are the hammer. Your only job is the center dummy. Ignore everything else. Break it. Elara, you are the ghost. Your job is not to fight, but to distract. The roamer on the right is yours. Keep him busy for thirty seconds, then disengage and head for the objective. Do not engage. Just run. Finn, you are the shield. You stay with me. Your job is to intercept any threat that comes at me or Elara on her way to the post. You are our protection."
He looked at each of them, holding their gaze. "We move on my mark."
He waited, letting the plan settle. He saw Joric's knuckles whiten as he gripped his practice sword. He saw Elara bounce on the balls of her feet, a predator's readiness. He saw Finn plant his feet, a small but steadfast wall.
"Mark."
Joric roared and charged, a bull aimed at the heart of the enemy line. He slammed into the center dummy with a satisfying crunch of wood, his momentum carrying him through the makeshift fortifications. As predicted, two hidden dummies swung in to trap him, but Joric, following his simple order, ignored them, smashing the primary target into splinters before being swarmed.
"Elara, now!" Soren commanded.
The girl shot forward like an arrow, not toward the main fight, but along the far edge of the yard. The roamer trainee, seeing an easy target, broke off to pursue her. She led him on a wild chase, her agility keeping her just out of reach, exactly as planned.
"Finn, with me," Soren said, and for the first time, he moved, not toward the fight, but at an angle, cutting across the yard toward the objective post. The roamer, frustrated with Elara, changed course, trying to intercept Soren.
"Interceptor!" Soren yelled.
Finn didn't hesitate. He threw himself in the roamer's path, parrying a clumsy blow with a desperate clatter of wood. He was outmatched, but he held his ground, buying precious seconds.
"Elara, break and run for the post! Go!" Soren ordered.
Elara disengaged from her pursuer, sprinting the final distance. The white pillar was clear. She slapped her hand against it.
"Objective secured!" she shouted, her voice breathless with triumph and relief.
Soren stopped, his chest heaving. The yard was quiet. Joric was tangled with dummies, but he had completed his task. Finn was on his backside, but he had protected the flank. Elara was at the objective. They had done it. They had won.
He looked at Bren, who stood with his arms crossed, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips.
"A general who trusts no one is just a man waiting to be surrounded," Bren said, his voice carrying across the yard. He met Soren's gaze, the lesson delivered not as a reprimand, but as a fundamental truth. "You have a squad, Soren. Now it's time you started acting like you have an army."
Soren looked from Bren back to his team. Joric was extricating himself, grinning. Finn was getting to his feet, puffing out his chest with pride. Elara was leaning against the post, catching her breath, but her eyes were bright. They were not perfect. They were not him. But they were his. And for the first time since reading the Ghost's message, the cold knot of paranoia in his gut loosened its hold, replaced by a new, difficult, and far more dangerous understanding. The problem wasn't just finding the serpent. It was learning how to lead the flock, even knowing a snake might be in its midst.