The engines came at dawn.
Not with ceremony.
With effort.
Wheels dragged through mud hardened by blood and night frost.
Thick ropes groaned under torsion.
Iron braces clanked against timber frames as engineers wrestled the siege machines into position along the ridge.
Stone-throwers.
Pitch-casters.
Heavy, medieval certainty.
If discipline had stalled the demons, force would finish them.
That was the mood in camp.
Confidence, thinly disguised as inevitability.
Eiden stood behind the forward line, spear grounded beside his boot and watched the preparations in silence.
Mages moved among the machines, placing distance markers in the soil.
Staffs planted in triangular formation. Measured murmurs. Calibrated gestures.
Wilfred Webstere stood at the canter of the formation—calm, precise, hands folded behind his back as if supervising construction rather than artillery.
Attack division.
His gaze never left the demon lines.
Across the field, the enemy formation had shifted again.
Not backward.
Not forward.
Wider.
They had extended their flanks slightly, thinning the canter just enough to adjust spacing.
They're accounting for impact radius.
Eiden felt it immediately.
They know something is coming.
The horn sounded preparation.
Human ranks tightened.
Rynn stepped into position one row ahead of him.
"You look like you disagree with something," she said without turning.
"I usually do."
She almost smiled. "It's artillery. We've been requesting it for weeks."
"They're ready for it."
"You're guessing again."
"Yes."
Silence.
Then—
The first stone released.
The torsion arm snapped forward with a violent crack.
The projectile cut through the morning haze and struck the demon front line.
Impact.
Dirt erupted.
Two demons fell.
The formation closed around the gap before the dust had even settled.
No panic.
No disorder.
Just correction.
The second engine fired.
This time, a heavier stone.
It landed further back closer to officer spacing.
A slight disruption.
A ripple.
Then stillness again.
Eiden narrowed his eyes.
They're mapping it in real time.
Wilfred raised his staff.
Light gathered at its tip—not explosive, not chaotic.
Compressed.
Contained.
A sphere of pale gold condensed and then discharged across the field in a tight arc.
The blast struck near the demon left flank.
Armor fractured.
Ground split.
Three demons were thrown backward.
One did not rise.
A murmur of satisfaction rolled through the human ranks.
Rynn exhaled. "That one landed clean."
Eiden didn't answer.
Across the field, the red-trimmed demon stepped forward into the dust.
Not to attack.
To observe.
He crouched briefly, touching the cracked earth where the spell had struck.
Measuring depth.
Measuring spread.
He stood and gestured once—two fingers.
The demon line shifted backward half a rank.
Not retreating.
Recalibrating.
"They're adjusting safe distance," Eiden said quietly.
Rynn glanced back at him. "You're certain?"
"Yes."
A third engine fired.
Pitch this time.
The flaming arc traced across the sky and shattered against the outer shields.
Fire bloomed.
Demons stepped aside with controlled spacing.
Those ignited were dragged backward by their own ranks and smothered.
No screaming frenzy.
No break.
Eiden felt something colder than fear.
Respect.
This wasn't a horde.
It was a system.
Another spell discharged.
This one wider.
Less precise.
It struck slightly off-centre.
The explosion knocked several demons off balance—but the formation had already shifted two steps earlier.
Reduced casualties.
They predicted variance.
Wilfred lowered his staff slowly.
The bombardment paused.
Human officers conferred over a map laid across a makeshift table.
Eiden could hear fragments.
"…weakening their outer shell…"
"…another two volleys and they'll crack…"
"…push immediately after…"
They're misreading the data.
Across the field, something subtle changed.
The red-trimmed demon did not return to the line.
He moved laterally behind it, speaking briefly to another officer—taller, heavier Armor, deep-set eyes.
Elite tier.
Hierarchy.
The demon pointed toward the siege engines.
Then toward the canter.
Not at the artillery's position.
At the human canter.
Eiden's pulse slowed.
They're not reacting to damage.
They're reacting to confidence.
The horn sounded advance.
Siege engines ceased fire.
Infantry stepped forward.
Mud cracked beneath boots.
Smoke drifted low across the field.
The clash met earlier than expected.
The demons did not wait to absorb.
They pushed into the advancing human ranks before full spacing was achieved.
Aggressive compression.
"Steady!" Rynn shouted.
Eiden adjusted backward one half-step before impact.
Shield slammed into shield.
Steel rang.
The pressure felt different.
Tighter.
Less exploratory.
The demon front was no longer probing.
It was anchoring.
Eiden blocked a strike and stepped aside just as a second blade followed.
Cleaner than yesterday.
But something was wrong.
The red-trimmed demon was not engaging directly.
He remained two rows back.
Observing the human response to artillery.
Cataloguing rhythm shifts.
A human knight lunged forward aggressively overconfident from the bombardment's success.
He broke formation by half a step.
The red-trimmed demon moved instantly.
Not at Eiden.
At the knight.
Three precise strikes.
The knight fell.
No wasted motion.
No flourish.
Human momentum faltered slightly.
Small crack.
The demon line advanced half a step.
Even pressure.
No trap.
No obvious encirclement.
Just steady compression.
Eiden felt it.
They're not trying to win this engagement.
They're stabilizing it.
The horn sounded retreat sooner than the officers likely intended.
Human ranks disengaged with minimal collapse.
More alive than they had any right to be.
Back on the ridge, soldiers breathed hard but smiled.
"It worked."
"They felt it."
"We're pushing them."
Eiden looked across the field.
The demon formation had re-established spacing slightly further back.
Not because they were broken.
Because they had adjusted optimal engagement distance.
The red-trimmed demon stood still.
Watching.
Then—
Behind the human line, several robed figures moved among fallen demon bodies.
Separate from the medics.
Separate from the burial teams.
They marked specific corpses.
Not all.
Only certain ones.
Higher-tier Armor.
Nobility markings.
Those bodies were loaded onto reinforced carts instead of burned.
Eiden's brow furrowed.
"Why are they taking those?" he muttered.
Rynn followed his gaze.
"Research," she said flatly.
"On what?"
She shrugged. "Mages always want samples."
The carts rolled away toward a guarded section of camp.
No explanation.
Just procedure.
Across the field, the red-trimmed demon's gaze lingered briefly on the carts.
Then shifted back to the ridge.
Acknowledgment.
You escalate.
We adapt.
You harvest.
We remember.
The sun climbed higher.
Engagement paused.
Wilfred Webstere spoke with the Knight Generals.
High Marshal Garry Hawkinge's banner fluttered above the command ridge.
Decision-makers.
Confident.
Rynn stepped beside Eiden again.
"You don't look reassured."
"They didn't lose control," he said.
"They took damage."
"They adjusted."
She studied him.
"You talk like this is chess."
"It is."
She exhaled slowly. "Then what's the next move?"
Eiden watched the red-trimmed demon one last time.
"He'll stop reacting to our pushes."
"And?"
"He'll start setting the tempo."
The horn sounded reposition.
Engagement over for now.
A strange calm settled across the field.
Too calm.
Too measured.
Eiden felt it deep in his chest.
The artillery had not broken them.
It had informed them.
And somewhere inside that disciplined enemy formation—
A commander had just learned the exact radius of human ambition.
As the humans withdrew behind their engines and barricades, Eiden understood something that the officers did not.
Today was not about damage.
It was about calibration.
And tomorrow—
Would not be a continuation.
It would be an answer.