The war hall of Korvath was a cathedral of iron and tension. The air hung thick with smoke from torches, and the murmur of armored men echoed off the stone. The circular table at the center was a battlefield of its own—maps, sealed letters, and scattered reports marked every potential route north.
Ostoria's banners hung beside the emblems of the allied guilds, yet unity was more symbol than truth tonight.
General Dargath Vorlag slammed his gauntleted hand on the table. "I say we strike Giggleburg while the trail is warm! The southern wall's defenses are weak, and our scouts confirmed minimal patrols."
Across from him, Commander Rick Kaiser's calm voice cut through the noise. "Minimal? Or misleading? We've seen this before—Bustleburg's supply lines feed their trap formations. If we march without confirming, we risk losing half the vanguard."
A low chorus of argument rippled around the table. Captains, envoys, and knights all spoke at once, their loyalties tangled between pride and politics. Yoshiya and Omina sat among the observers, silent witnesses to the storm of strategy and ego.
Then the doors opened.
Guildmaster Kouki Nozomi entered—not with fanfare, but with precision. His presence was a quiet gravity that pulled the noise out of the room. The man's steps echoed evenly on the stone floor as if measuring each heartbeat of silence that followed.
At his right walked Nogare—the so-called Silent Blade of Reflynne. His eyes were half-lidded, body relaxed, but his hand rested casually near the hilt of his katana. Every motion promised fatal speed.
Kouki stopped beside the war table. "I heard shouting. That's not how decisions are made in this hall."
No one dared speak. The tension that had once boiled now froze.
Dargath, still standing, broke the silence with forced confidence. "We were only discussing the next strike, Guildmaster. With respect—time is wasting."
Kouki's gaze flicked to the map, then to the general. "You mean you were trying to shout louder than reason. Again."
A few muffled chuckles flickered and died as Dargath's jaw tightened. "With respect, Guildmaster, I've led men since before you wore that crest. You may speak for the Guild, but the battlefield answers to steel, not titles."
Nogare shifted. Just slightly. The faint whisper of his sandals against the floor was louder than the torches' crackle.
Kouki raised a hand—not in warning, but in permission.
"Then speak to me in steel," he said.
The meaning was instant, electric. Dargath's eyes widened a fraction, pride flaring before hesitation could settle. The generals stepped back as he drew his blade—a broad, runed greatsword that glowed faintly with enchantment.
Nogare moved forward with the same calm one might use to pour tea. His sword remained sheathed.
They faced each other in the center of the hall. No war drums, no referee. Only the breathless anticipation of men who knew how thin the line between authority and chaos truly was.
Dargath roared and charged.
The swing came down like thunder. Sparks leapt from the stone as the greatsword carved air. But Nogare wasn't there. He moved with the stillness of inevitability—one step aside, one quiet turn.
A flash of silver, almost unseen.
The sound that followed was a whisper and a crack. Dargath froze mid-swing. His eyes darted downward.
His chestplate was split cleanly across the crest—metal sheared in two, yet no blood spilled. Nogare stood behind him, blade already sheathed, his posture unchanged.
Only then did the dust rise.
The hall held its breath. No one moved. Even the torches seemed to dim.
Kouki's voice filled the silence.
"Strength doesn't roar, General. It listens first."
Dargath's breathing was ragged, but not from pain. His pride bled faster than any wound could. Slowly, he dropped to one knee—not in surrender, but acknowledgment. "Understood, Guildmaster."
Nogare gave a slight bow and stepped back into shadow, where he belonged.
Kouki turned to the others. "We will not raid Giggleburg yet. Their southern weakness is bait. Bustleburg's lines feed both towns. We strike the bridge near Hollow Ridge, cut their supplies, and let them starve on their defenses. The Guild will coordinate all movement. No exceptions."
The command left no room for argument. One by one, the officers gave nods or silent salutes. Even Dargath, armor still trembling, bowed his head.
Omina leaned slightly toward Yoshiya, her whisper barely audible. "He didn't even kill him."
Yoshiya nodded, eyes fixed on Kouki. "He didn't need to."
Kouki gathered the scattered maps, his tone measured but sharp. "If any commander values pride above order, they'll answer the same way. We're not soldiers of chaos—we're architects of survival."
He rolled the map shut and looked at the assembled men and women. "Dismissed."
The war hall emptied in cautious silence, boots echoing in rhythm like a single heartbeat. Only Yoshiya, Omina, and Nogare remained behind.
Nogare spoke first, voice barely a murmur. "You gave no signal."
Kouki smirked faintly. "Didn't need to. You already knew what I wanted."
Nogare's nod was slight, but there was respect in it—earned, not commanded. "Then they'll follow."
"For now," Kouki said, eyes narrowing on the empty table. "But loyalty bought by fear doesn't last. We'll need more than obedience when the next war breaks."
Yoshiya felt the weight in those words. The battle outside the walls was only half the war; the other half was fought in rooms like this, where words drew blood more cleanly than swords.
As they left the hall, the last torch flickered low. The scent of oil and steel lingered, heavy and metallic.
The alliance still stood. But in that silence, it had lost something intangible—its warmth, its unity, its breath.