The days leading up to the match moved with the cold, mechanical precision of a countdown.
Three days.
Two days.
One day.
And through it all, Vaelith Crownhold moved like a shadow—present, observing, always there but never intrusive. His network spread through Outpost Vester like roots beneath stone, invisible but all-encompassing.
He didn't need to be everywhere.
His agents were.
-----
Bright wasn't the only one who'd received a letter.
In the fledgling barracks on the western side, a young recruit named Jorim found an unsigned note slipped into his gear bag. It read:
"Your squad leader doesn't trust you. He's planning to replace you after the next match. Prove your worth before it's too late."
Jorim burned the note as well.
But the words stayed.
And when his squad leader called him aside for a routine tactical review, Jorim's hands shook. His answers came slower. His focus wavered.
The squad leader noticed.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Fine," Jorim lied.
