The breeze touched first.
Cold, constant, carrying the scent of iron that had not yet been spilled.
Madéa remained motionless atop the wall.
Her long black hair fell without resistance, as if the wind held no claim to them.
The faint light of dawn had not yet fully reached her skin — but where it did, it left a soft, golden glow, almost improper for that moment.
Her eyes, fixed.
Distant.
Then they moved.
Stopped at her side.
"It still surprises me…" the voice came low, clean "that they put you on your feet."
Her gaze settled on Kael.
He held an upright posture, despite the evident wear.
The white band marked his body as restraint, not ornament.
His breathing betrayed the constant effort.
Every second he remained there was upheld by decision — not condition.
His brown hair, unruly, moved with the wind.
Kael did not answer immediately.
His face turned slightly toward the horizon, as if listening to something beyond common reach.
"Compared to those who will descend soon…"
The voice came calm, firm, unhurried.
"to remain standing… and endure the pain… is not much."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was waiting.
The first ray of sunlight broke the horizon.
The light rose slowly, touching the wall — and then, them.
For an instant, both remained motionless within it.
Madéa turned her gaze forward.
The mist still covered the forest below.
Dense.
Impenetrable.
But not intact.
It moved.
First, shadows.
Then, form.
Lines began to emerge beneath the pale veil — too organized to be mistaken for chance.
The mist gave way a little more.
And then…
the army revealed itself.
Entire ranks already in position, as if they had been there even before the light allowed them to be seen.
The glow of dawn began to touch steel and leather, reflecting in scattered points that grew with every instant.
No sound reached the wall.
But the weight… was already there.
The light advanced further.
And with it, the center of the formation opened.
Not in disorder.
In deference.
A path formed between the soldiers.
And through it… someone advanced.
A steady step.
Unhurried.
As if the field already belonged to him even before the first clash.
Silver hair caught the light irregularly, like mist that refuses to fully disappear.
His face bore subtle marks — not of age, but of repetition.
His gaze fixed.
Below the walls, the troops were already set.
There was no hesitation in them.
No disorder.
The formation held firm — not by number, but by discipline.
His eyes moved farther ahead.
Stopped.
The first…
hair in contrast — burnt blond and deep black. The dark armor, marked by aged gold. Nothing about it sought attention.
Everything about it had seen use.
The red cloak did not flutter light.
It weighed.
The broad blade rested like an extension of the body.
Without display.
Without doubt.
The second—
Pink hair tied in a long braid, moving little in the wind. Blue eyes held the line ahead without deviation.
Light armor, shaped for mobility and impact. Shield firm on the left arm. The blade, in the right, held low — but ready.
Balance.
Not impulse.
The viscount narrowed his eyes slightly.
Not from surprise.
From calculation.
A knight approached from the flank, slowing before stopping beside him. His head inclined with restrained respect.
"My lord."
"The troops at the forest exit… at the north gate… are already in position."
The viscount did not answer immediately.
His eyes still fixed ahead.
"Proceed."
The knight hesitated for an instant.
Not from doubt.
But from care.
"There is… an irregularity."
The viscount tilted his head a degree.
Enough.
"Speak."
"Only one man, my lord."
Silence.
"Positioned ahead of the lines."
The viscount's gaze did not change.
But something in it… adjusted.
"Alone."
The word came low.
Almost curious.
"After the first day…" he continued, with lightly calculated disinterest "they decided to place one man in front of all this?"
A short pause.
"Or… they decided to hide him behind late courage."
The knight held his posture.
"With due respect, my lord…"
He waited an instant.
Unspoken permission.
Continued.
"He does not appear to be the same individual faced the day before."
The viscount did not interrupt.
"The man at the north gate… carries two blades."
The wind passed between the ranks.
The viscount, then—
smiled.
Not openly.
But enough to shift the air around him.
"Two blades."
Low.
Almost to himself.
His eyes turned, at last, to the distant horizon.
"Then it isn't courage…"
"it's intent."
The viscount held his gaze forward for a moment longer.
As if weighing something not yet said.
Then he yielded.
"It will not change the outcome."
The voice came low.
Unhurried.
"This barony… will fall before nightfall."
The silence around did not break.
It simply aligned.
He shifted his gaze, minimal.
"Advance."
There was no rise in tone.
Even so—
the order moved through the ranks as if it had already been awaited.
First, a movement.
Then another.
The army began to advance.
No shouts.
Only weight.
Aldric followed the movement of the enemy lines without shifting his gaze.
There was no rupture in the formation, no haste — only a certainty closing in.
Beside him, Isabela remained still for a moment longer, watching the same point.
"We will fight side by side for the first time…"
The voice came low, steady.
"and even so, trying to align our steps now would only delay what has already taken shape."
The wind passed between them.
"I will take the mercenaries."
A brief silence.
"Keep the knights as you have been."
She adjusted the shield, unhurried. The blade tilted a degree.
She stepped forward.
Stopped.
Did not look back.
"If your words are correct…"
"this war will not see a new dawn."
The air seemed to hold for an instant.
"When the light yields…"
"it will be enough."
Then she moved on.
"Advance."
The mercenaries moved with her almost at the same instant.
Aldric remained where he was.
Watching.
The clash came without warning.
There was no shout to announce it — only the meeting.
The mercenary line gave first.
Not from weakness.
From impact.
The enemy advance struck like a single mass, pushing shields, breaking formation, forcing each man to fight for space before fighting for life.
Isabela did not retreat.
The first blow came high.
She raised the shield.
The impact reverberated through her arm — not blocked, but absorbed.
Her body turned with the weight, diverting the enemy's axis instead of meeting it head-on.
The blade answered.
Short.
Precise.
Opened space.
Another came from the right.
Faster.
She did not try to reach it.
She let it come.
The shield dropped at the exact moment, trapping the advance for a minimal instant — enough.
The blade went through.
Without excessive force.
Without waste.
But the third was already there.
And the fourth.
The mercenaries around her began to give.
One fell to the left.
Another was pushed back, opening a breach that should not exist.
Isabela advanced.
Not to win.
To prevent the line from collapsing.
The shield collided against a full body this time, not as defense — but as impact.
The man was thrown back, bringing another down with him.
She did not stop.
The blade cut a wider arc.
This time, not for precision.
For space.
The air around began to warm.
Subtle at first.
Almost imperceptible.
Until the flames appeared.
Blue.
They did not explode.
They clung.
To the blade.
To the shield.
And to what she touched.
The next man did not scream.
The fire did not spread.
It simply remained.
Consuming exactly where she decided.
Isabela took another step forward.
Another enemy fell.
And another.
But the field responded.
The blows began to come in sequence.
Faster.
Heavier.
One struck the shield with enough force to force a step back.
Another scraped along the side, opening the space she had not allowed until then.
A mercenary behind her fell.
Then another.
The numbers were decreasing.
Too fast.
Isabela did not accelerate.
Nor did she retreat.
She simply continued.
Each movement now more direct.
Less space.
More cost.
The fire grew again around the blade.
This time—
not to open a path.
But to prevent being surrounded.
The ground was no longer the same.
Bodies.
Weapons.
Flames that still burned where she had decided they would burn.
And still—
the enemy advance did not cease.
Isabela took another step forward.
Alone now, ahead of what remained of the line.
Aldric kept his gaze on the field.
The mercenaries had already been swallowed by the pressure of the advance.
The line no longer existed.
Only isolated points resisting for too long.
A knight approached from the flank, drawing his horse to a halt beside him. His head inclined with respect.
"Commander… the mercenaries are giving way."
A pause.
"If we continue like this… they will be annihilated."
Aldric did not answer immediately.
His gaze still fixed ahead.
The knight hesitated.
"Sir…?"
Aldric then shifted his gaze, minimal.
"It is proceeding as expected."
The knight frowned.
"As expected…?"
"Orders were given."
Dry.
"We hold position."
The silence weighed for an instant.
"But, sir…" the knight insisted, carefully "why allow this?"
Aldric turned his gaze back to the field.
Isabela advanced where the line no longer existed.
"For the same reason a wounded man was placed upon the walls."
The answer came without change in tone.
"So that he is seen."
The knight did not speak.
He waited.
"The viscount does not move without understanding…"
"and does not understand without looking."
Aldric's gaze hardened a degree.
"We give him what he expects to see."
"And what he cannot ignore."
The knight followed the line of sight.
The blue flame tearing through the field.
"Then… we are being used as bait?"
Aldric did not deny it.
"We are being measured."
"And so is he."
The wind passed between them.
The knight breathed in deeply.
"And the mercenaries…?"
Aldric did not look away.
"They will fulfill their role."
Cold.
Direct.
"As we will fulfill ours."
The knight nodded, even without comfort in the answer.
"Yes, commander."
Aldric did not look back at him.
The field ahead continued to close.
And the viscount—
had not yet moved.
The viscount's gaze lifted.
Slow.
Until it found Kael motionless atop the walls.
Still standing.
Even at that distance… it was possible to see.
There was no wasted movement.
Only presence.
His eyes lowered.
Returned to the field.
Ahead — the line was no longer a line.
The first contingents had been consumed.
Not by disordered advance.
But by something… more precise.
"And the north?"
The question came low.
A knight at his side answered, after a brief inclination of the head.
"We have not yet received a report, my lord."
The viscount showed no surprise.
"No."
"That is already a report."
The knight remained silent.
"If nothing was sent…"
"it is because they are still occupied."
His eyes narrowed a degree.
"With a single individual."
Another knight stepped forward, respectful.
"My lord… with all due respect…"
There was a brief hesitation.
"we have two thousand five hundred men on each front."
His gaze moved across the field.
"To the north… they face a single man."
It lowered.
"And here…"
"the first enemy line has already been practically decimated."
His eyes fixed on the confrontation.
"The woman at the front still resists…"
"but she is being contained."
His gaze tightened a degree.
"And below the walls… there are only five hundred knights."
Silence.
"If we advance with everything… we can end this."
The viscount did not answer immediately.
His gaze still on the field.
As if the question did not require haste.
"Tell me…"
The voice came soft.
"Do you know why I have never lost a war?"
The knight hesitated.
But answered.
"They say… it is because of your strength, my lord."
"And because, when the mist covers the field… those who advance through it do not return."
His gaze remained ahead.
"That is how you received the title of Bloody Mist."
The viscount did not correct him immediately.
He simply watched the field.
"Strength is useful…"
The voice came low, almost light.
"for those who need to be seen using it."
A slight shift of the gaze.
"And legends… are even more useful for those who prefer not to be understood."
The knight remained silent.
The viscount continued, unhurried.
"Men cross mist every day."
"What decides whether they return… is not the mist."
His eyes narrowed a degree.
"It is what awaits them inside it."
The wind passed between the ranks.
"Those who advance trusting only in numbers…"
"hand over the rhythm of the battle before the first clash."
A slight tilt of the head.
"And those who believe they already understand the field…"
"rarely notice when it changes."
Silence.
"I have never lost…"
The voice dropped even further.
"because I do not fight the enemy I see."
A short pause.
"I fight what he does not yet realize he has revealed."
His gaze returned to the field.
Cold.
Present.
"To underestimate… is a luxury that exists only until the first defeat."
His gaze stopped on Isabela.
"Maintain formation…"
"and continue pressing."
The wind passed between the ranks.
"Do not concede space you will have to reclaim later."
A short pause.
"She holds more than most…"
"but no one holds indefinitely."
He moved.
"And when she yields… it will be enough."
The first step came without announcement.
"The north has not yet responded."
The voice dropped, already moving away from the center.
"I will correct that."
"I will decide the rest based on what I find there."
No response was necessary.
The knights simply nodded.
The viscount did not look back.
He continued.
Steady step.
No urgency.
Like someone walking toward something he already considers resolved.
The line of trees drew near.
The mist thickened there.
Denser.
Tighter.
The air changed even before the touch.
He did not slow his step.
Did not hesitate.
He simply entered.
Sound was left behind first.
Then… outline.
And when the mist enveloped him completely—
there was nothing left to be seen.