The inside of the command tent was thick with heat. Lanterns burned overhead, suspended in the air by quiet magic. Their flames did not flicker despite the stale air. The light they cast was steady and unforgiving.
At the center of the tent stood a massive wooden table carved into the shape of the surrounding valley. Rivers of resin and glowing sigils traced its surface. The terrain shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly, hills rising and sinking, markers sliding across its surface as new intelligence filtered in. The valley lived beneath their hands, reshaping itself to reflect the war.
On one side of the table stood a slender woman with raven-black hair that fell straight down her back. Her icy blue eyes moved across the map with precise focus, absorbing every movement of terrain and troop placement. She did not look up when the two Flamewardens entered.
Opposite her sat a broad-shouldered woman whose presence seemed to fill the space. Muscles strained beneath her uniform, thick and defined as stone columns. Her boots were kicked up onto the table, resting casually near a glowing mountain ridge. Long brown hair streaked with copper spilled over the back of her chair, nearly brushing the ground. Her metallic eyes flicked toward the newcomers, reflecting the lantern light like polished steel.
"EmberLord Neraxion. StormDrake Phylacthyr. This is Flamewarden Ossyrix and Flamewarden Ulthraxis reporting for duty." Ossyrix snapped into a salute, sharp and immediate. Ulthraxis entered more slowly. His red gaze swept the tent first. The map. The lanterns. The sigils carved into the support beams. The wards layered into the canvas walls. Only after he had taken the measure of the room did he raise his hand in salute.
"Welcome, gentlemen," the blue-eyed woman said at last, lifting her gaze from the table. Her voice was calm, almost gentle. "Please take a seat if you wish. You are also welcome to stand." She gestured toward the chairs without looking away from them for long. Ossyrix dropped into one immediately, sprawling into it as though it were his own. Ulthraxis remained standing, taking position beside one of the tent's entrance beams.
"If you do not mind, StormDrake, I would prefer we dispense with formalities and address why we have been summoned."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the copper-haired woman's mouth. "I told you he would do it, Phyla. This one is always in a rush to get the job done. No ceremony. No wasted breath. That is why I like him."
"Yes, you did, Nera," Phylacthyr replied with a quiet exhale. She turned fully from the table now, placing her back to the shifting battlefield. "Very well, Flamewarden. The two of you have been called here because you are being reassigned. Let me make something clear before assumptions take root. This is not disciplinary. It is not corrective. It is, in fact, the opposite." The map continued its slow movement behind her, miniature forces colliding in silence. "The DragonLords have reviewed the reports from both of your commands."
The mention of that title altered the air in the tent, subtle but undeniable. "Ossyrix," she continued, "your casualty numbers are the lowest among all forward units. You preserve your soldiers. You minimize collateral damage to terrain and infrastructure. In the last twenty-five years you have lost seven men and incurred only twenty-five thousand gold in damages and equipment." Ossyrix grinned openly, leaning back in his chair with his arms resting behind his head. "They are impressed," Phylacthyr finished.
Her gaze shifted. "Ulthraxis. Your unit has secured the most territorial gains in the last three decades." A leather-bound notebook materialized in her hand, summoned from thin air. "At Bastion. Sixteen giants engaged with three under your command. Victory." Her eyes flicked to him. "At Grimhelm. Twenty-two engaged with four. Victory." The carved mountain on the map shifted slightly as though in response to the name. "At Seaside. Sixty-eight engaged with twelve. Victory."
The lantern light reflected faintly in Ulthraxis' red eyes, but his expression did not change. "The list continues," Phylacthyr said, closing the notebook. "Against overwhelming force, both of you survive. Your squads survive. You adapt. You execute. You bring home victories for the army." She studied them both in silence for a moment. "Because of this, you have been selected for transfer." Ossyrix lowered his arms slightly, the grin fading into something more focused.
"You will join a specialized unit. A strike force composed of a select few from across the legions." Neraxion's boots slid off the table as she leaned forward now, resting her forearms on the shifting valley. "Your objectives will be precise and absolute," Phylacthyr continued. "Locate high-value enemy targets and eliminate them. Intercept transports and destroy or capture them. Gather intelligence wherever opportunity presents itself." The map shifted again. A glowing icon representing a giant stronghold pulsed faintly. "This unit will operate ahead of the main line." Silence lingered.
"Questions?