In the old castle library, dust of centuries mixed with the aroma of leather and bitter smell of unfulfilled hopes. Candles trembled on the table—as if the war maps themselves made the flame quiver with fear. And in this quiver was the whole essence: we tremble, but continue to burn.
The air, thick with smoke and unspoken despair, made each word weighty. Maps with red arrows seemed not a battle plan, but an epitaph to a victory that never happened. Here, where defeat breathed down the neck, the most desperate thoughts were born.
Scholn de Lorens leaned back in the creaky chair. Teacher of military strategy all life studied wars in books, and now faced reality where blood doesn't dry like ink. His gaze wandered from Lucian to Brandt, weighing their chances. Not for victory—laughable to think. For simple survival.
"I'm his teacher," he said dully, like from a bottomless well. "Always thought: myth, legend. Too thin, too weak. But turned out—the bravest. All measures fly to hell when you see him in action."
Irony of fate: theorist became practitioner at the moment when theory crumbles like a house of cards. He thought of his student—a guy like a storm in human form, paradox in living flesh: weakness wrapped in courage, silence that shouts louder than words.
Lucian de Nocteyn raised his head. In eyes usually shining with zest, anxiety splashed, but through it broke a spark of hope—the one that dies last.
"And what if negotiate with Kazarians?" he drawled thoughtfully. "Maybe they're tired of this meat grinder too?"
Diplomacy in a besieged castle—like trying to negotiate with your own shadow. But isn't that all human beauty—in ability to hope against logic?
Silence hung like dense fog. Brandt de Mortvel, whose face bore scars of a dozen battles, chuckled shortly. He had the wisdom of people who saw death so close they distinguished its breath in any room.
"No," he cut firmly. "First call the other eight captains. Real decisions are made not in offices, but where blood mixes with earth."