The morning light passed through the fabric of the tent in soft tones of pale gold.
Outside, the wind ran free across the field, carrying the distant sound of metal, orders, and death.
Inside—
the air was steady.
Controlled.
Maps were laid across the central table, held in place by metal weights at the corners. Lines drawn with precision indicated routes, advances, predicted collapses.
Nothing there was random.
Everything had already been decided.
The knights present remained in silence around it, postures firm, eyes alert, waiting.
Until—
the tent flap opened with contained force.
A knight entered.
Quick steps.
Heavy.
He dropped to his knees before even fully raising his face.
"Lord Commander."
His head remained lowered for a second.
Then it rose.
And met—
the young man.
Skin slightly gray under the filtered light.
Green eyes, calm… but too alive.
A nearly imperceptible turquoise glow pulsed in his irises, like trapped wind trying to escape.
Ice-blond hair moved slightly, despite the absence of any current inside.
As if the air around him obeyed another logic.
The black armor was light.
Functional.
Without excess.
On the breastplate, the engraved symbol—
the head of a wolf.
Not in fury.
In vigilance.
The young man did not look directly at the knight.
His eyes were on the map.
As if the report was already late before it was even spoken.
"I've already said…"
The voice came low.
Soft.
Controlled.
"that there is no need for titles inside this tent."
A brief pause.
"Zeph is enough."
The knight hesitated.
His head lowered again, even further.
"Forgive me… it will not happen again."
Zeph lifted his gaze slightly.
There was no hurry in him.
"Proceed."
The knight inhaled.
Once.
"Report from the forward lines."
The voice came out firm.
Trained.
But there was tension under the control.
"The third advance line was compromised moments ago."
"The rupture pattern follows the same as previously observed."
"The formations collapse before reaching the point of full contact."
Zeph's eyes moved across the map.
Stopped.
Just for an instant.
"Interruption before impact…"
Almost a thought.
"Continue."
"Two individuals appeared on the battlefield."
"No identification."
"No banner."
"Independent movement."
A short pause.
"They did not attack the entire line."
"They attacked the rhythm."
The silence inside the tent grew denser.
"One of them operates at range."
"Longbow."
"Precision… abnormal."
"Each shot opens structural gaps in the formations."
"He does not kill in bulk."
"He chooses where the line breaks."
Zeph's eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
"And the other?"
The knight hesitated.
This time, more visible.
"Direct combat."
"High mobility."
"He enters and exits the lines as… as if he already knew where each man would be."
"There is no prolonged exchange."
"Only execution."
A pause.
"By the time we realize… there is no formation left."
Silence.
Zeph tilted his head slightly.
"Interesting."
The word came out low.
Almost curious.
"Where is Telvaris?"
"Currently in direct engagement with the second individual."
The answer came immediately.
But—
something in it was not complete.
Zeph noticed.
His eyes moved slowly to the knight.
"There is more."
It was not a question.
The knight swallowed.
"Yes, my lord."
A fraction of a second.
"Commander Telvaris… is being pressured."
The silence that followed was not heavy.
It was… precise.
"Pressured."
Zeph repeated.
Not as surprise.
As analysis.
His fingers lightly touched the edge of the map.
"Describe them."
The voice remained calm.
But now—
attentive.
The knight nodded.
"The archer…"
A brief pause, organizing memory amid chaos.
"Fair skin."
"Silver hair, tied back."
"Eyes… golden."
"He does not move beyond what is necessary."
Zeph listened.
Without interrupting.
"And the other?"
"Concealed."
"Full black attire."
"Mask."
"He wields a katana…"
Hesitation.
"Black."
"Without an apparent edge."
Zeph did not react immediately.
His eyes returned to the map.
But now—
they were not seeing lines.
They were seeing people.
Movements.
Consequences.
"Two vectors."
He murmured.
"One breaks the flow."
"The other ends the error."
"And Telvaris was… contained between them."
It was not exactly a question.
But the knight answered anyway.
"Yes, my lord."
The wind outside shifted direction.
The tent flap fluttered slightly.
Zeph's hair followed the movement—
one second before.
He lifted his gaze.
This time, not to the knight.
But to the exit.
To the field beyond.
To something not yet visible from there.
"So…"
The voice came low.
Almost light.
But there was something beneath.
Something sharp.
"they finally decided to play a piece that thinks."
None of the knights dared speak.
Zeph took a step.
Just one.
But enough for the air in the tent to seem to adjust around him.
"Prepare the secondary line."
A short pause.
His eyes still on the map.
"Do not advance."
The silence inside the tent grew heavier.
"Not until we fully understand."
He raised his gaze slightly.
"I want observation."
"Rhythm."
"Intervals."
"Errors."
A fraction of a second.
"And when there is an opening…"
His eyes returned to the knight.
Cold.
Precise.
"kill them."
No one present breathed properly.
"The port must be taken today."
Zeph's eyes did not leave the map.
"And I will not accept delay because of two poorly understood variables."
"Yes, my lord."
The knight lowered his head.
Fist closed against his chest.
And stood.
He left quickly.
Without looking back.
The tent flap closed—
and the world returned to being contained.
For a moment.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Zeph remained still before the map.
Outside—
the field did not wait for answers.
It demanded.
The impact came before the sound.
Darion's blade was already descending when Telvaris raised his katana—
late.
Steel met steel—
but did not stop.
It slid.
Changed angle on contact.
The pressure did not come from strength.
It came from continuity.
Telvaris answered.
The second blade was already in motion before the first finished absorbing the blow.
Horizontal.
Direct to the neck.
Darion leaned his body—
enough.
The blade passed grazing.
And in the same instant—
he was already inside.
Too close.
The katana rose in a short line.
Not to cut—
to test space.
Telvaris crossed both blades.
Locked.
Turned his wrist.
Pushed.
Broke the line.
Stepped back half a step—
and returned.
No pause.
No distance.
Both katanas came in sequence.
Not as isolated strikes—
as flow.
One restrains.
The other kills.
Darion read it.
The first he deflected with the minimum.
The second—
did not come.
It changed midway.
Angle inverted.
Straight to the abdomen.
Darion was no longer there.
A lateral step.
Short.
Precise.
And his katana was already coming back.
Low.
Rising.
Telvaris turned his body.
The cut passed centimeters away.
Too close.
His eyes adjusted.
There was no more initial reading.
Now there was adaptation.
He advanced.
This time—
forcing the rhythm.
Both blades broke the space ahead.
Fast sequence.
Technical.
Clean.
Total control of distance.
Darion answered.
But not the same.
Better.
Shorter.
Less movement.
More result.
Each of his defenses did not only avoid the blow—
they repositioned.
Each step did not create distance—
it created advantage.
Telvaris realized.
Too late to avoid.
Early enough to react.
One of the blades locked Darion's katana—
the other came straight—
true—
perfect.
Darion released his own blade.
For a fraction of a second.
The strike passed.
Empty.
His hand was already back on the hilt—
and the katana was already coming—
from another angle.
Impossible.
Telvaris pulled his body back—
forced.
For the first time.
The air between them changed.
It was no longer exchange.
It was pressure.
Darion advanced.
One step.
Telvaris answered.
Two strikes.
Darion entered.
One cut.
Telvaris blocked.
But the block opened space.
And Darion saw.
The blade arrived — too close.
Close enough that any mistake… would be final.
Telvaris broke contact.
Stepped back two steps.
Both katanas raised.
Breathing steady.
But heavier.
Eyes fixed on Darion.
Now—
no margin for error.
— …
The silence between them was not empty.
It was calculation.
Darion did not advance immediately.
He observed.
Then slightly tilted the blade.
As if adjusting something only he could see.
And took a step.
Small.
Enough.
To make it clear—
this had not even started yet.
Around them—
arrows fell.
Formations broke.
Men died.
But there—
the field no longer mattered.
Because at that point—
the entire Northern advance—
was being measured.
Darion did not take his eyes off Telvaris.
The blade still low.
Ready.
"Do you think he's the so-called White Raven, Caelan?"
The voice came clean.
Unhurried.
As if they were discussing something far from the death around them.
Above—
an arrow was loosed.
Precise.
One of the soldiers trying to flank Darion fell before completing the step.
Another shot.
Another body.
The encirclement unraveled before it existed.
Caelan landed lightly among broken stone and bodies.
The bow still in hand.
Amber-gold eyes fixed on Telvaris.
They evaluated.
Unhurried.
"No."
The answer came simple.
Certain.
He stepped forward.
The wind slightly moved the silver strands tied back.
"It's not him."
His eyes did not leave Telvaris.
"Even in the orphanage…"
The voice kept its low tone.
Controlled.
"he never showed any inclination for games so well constructed."
"Still…"
A slight glance toward Darion.
"I admit surprise."
"Remaining on your feet in front of him is already more than I expected."
Telvaris did not respond.
Both blades raised.
Body adjusted.
But now—
still.
Watching.
Darion let out a soft breath through his nose.
Almost a laugh.
Without humor.
"The years have been generous to you."
His blade rose a few centimeters.
"I'll save you time."
"Two choices."
His eyes did not blink.
"Hand over the White Raven."
"And I grant you a quick death."
The field around seemed to recede.
"Or…"
The blade tilted slightly.
"I start removing parts of you until you decide to speak."
Nothing changed in Telvaris.
No visible reaction.
Darion watched for a second.
Two.
Then nodded slightly.
"I see."
A step forward.
"Then we'll go with the second option."
The bowstring tightened.
The sound was short.
Familiar.
"Darion."
Caelan's voice came firm.
Without raising.
"Do not lower your guard."
The arrow was already set.
Aimed.
His eyes still on Telvaris.
"There is something wrong with him."
"He looks like he sold his own soul."
The wind cut across the field.
Telvaris finally moved.
Both blades lowered slightly—
in preparation.
His gaze changed.
There was no longer only calculation.
There was something deeper.
Something that had not been there before.
— …
Darion smiled.
Small.
Sharp.
"Better."
The blade rose.
"Let's see how much of you is still left."
Darion advanced.
For the first time—
Telvaris did not advance.
He waited for the strike.