The sun began to descend over the unknown coast, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. The air still carried the salty scent of the ocean, now mixed with turned earth, sweat, and dust raised by thousands of men working without rest.
After landing, the heroes ordered the establishment of a camp.
They did not only need rest from the journey.
They needed to secure territory.
Ten thousand soldiers moved back and forth, raising an improvised fortress. They transported stone blocks from nearby areas, dug trenches, and built walls to form a makeshift stronghold.
The Eighteen New Chosen gathered to decide their next course of action.
There were too many things to organize: exploration, defense, supplies, and reconnaissance of the territory.
But the real problem was something else.
Leadership.
For weeks, priests and strategists had studied the disaster of the first campaign. They analyzed reports, survivors, and battle records, trying to understand how the first Chosen had been defeated.
The conclusion was simple.
They had not failed due to lack of power.
They had failed because none of them accepted to obey another.
Each hero fought on their own.
Each followed their own judgment.
And when everything began to collapse, there was no single will strong enough to hold the group together.
This time would be different.
The heroes would still be the greatest weapons of the expedition, but they would not act independently.
There would be a leader.
And that leader would be Aurelius, the Herald of Dawn.
No one questioned the decision for long.
His presence alone made opposition difficult.
—We will secure the coast first —he said calmly—. Then we will advance inland.
—We will find the Malignant… —one of the strategists said, closing the report— and we will not give him another chance to escape.
The squads advanced in loose formation, alert to any sign of danger.
The scouts spoke very little. They remained focused, listening to every sound among the grass and trees.
Every so often, they stopped to observe the terrain, mark routes, and map the area.
If they found anything suspicious or too dangerous, they immediately returned to report to the camp.
An incident occurred on the fourth day. An unexpected encounter.
A distance error. A miscalculation.
Something moved through the tall grass. A slight shift in the wind… or so it seemed.
One scout lagged slightly behind the main group.
Just enough.
Without realizing it, he was already being watched.
It all happened in an instant.
A claw burst from the grass. A sharp bite followed.
The man fell before he could raise his weapon.
The others took a fraction of a second to process it.
And that fraction was enough.
Instinct broke formation before command could react.
The shout shattered the group.
The scouts stopped being a unit and became scattered individuals.
Then the grass moved again.
Not shadows. Not animals.
Carnivorous semihumans.
Lion-men advanced crouched through the vegetation, nearly invisible. They did not charge head-on. They circled.
They observed first.
Studying step rhythm, breathing patterns, who looked down too often, who breathed too heavily.
One of them let out a short roar.
Not an attack. A distraction.
Two scouts turned at the same time.
Only one turned back.
The other was already gone.
Dragged into the grass before he could even scream.
The formation collapsed completely.
More semihumans emerged, sealing the gaps as if the forest itself was pushing them forward.
By the time the soldiers tried to regroup, it was too late.
Nearly half the group fell that day.
And while the survivors retreated with what they had learned about the enemy…
the bodies of the dead were dragged into the grass, where the sound of tearing flesh spread without haste, as if the forest itself was feeding.
At that same moment, far from the coast—
In Lusian's mountain, he was pressed against a wall.
Held in place by a beautiful hand, but firm as a broken promise, right at chest height, exactly where Elizabeth wanted him.
She raised her head.
Her eyes burned. With fire, and something more dangerous: restrained anger, the kind that builds when warnings have been ignored too many times.
—I've told you I don't like that vampire —she spat, without raising her voice—. I've told you I don't want you letting her touch you again. Not even once. Because if you do… —her fingers tightened slightly— I can't guarantee what will happen to her.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable.
Lusian exhaled slowly, trying to calm her.
—Eli… —he said at last, quietly—. Look at me.
She didn't want to. It showed. But she still looked up.
—Don't talk to me like I'm exaggerating.
—I wouldn't —he replied without hesitation—. I would never dismiss you like that.
That unsettled her for a moment. Just a moment. He noticed and did not waste it.
—There are already too many of them —she continued, tense—. And I can't stand her. I don't want to see you letting things like that happen as if it means nothing.
—Nothing happened —he answered quickly.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
—That's already a lie.
Lusian closed his eyes briefly.
—Alright —he conceded—. Something small happened. And I shouldn't have allowed it.
Silence returned.
—I don't want more women around you —she said finally—. Not like that. Not without you at least pretending it matters how I feel.
He rested his forehead against hers, defeated.
—I do care —he murmured—. More than I know how to handle properly.
Elizabeth released him.
Not gently. But she let go.
—That's not a solution.
—I know —he admitted—. But it's the truth.
Then he looked at her seriously, without embellishment.
—No one else will be added —he added—. At least for now. And with her… —a vague gesture— I'll set boundaries. Proper ones.
—Are you promising me, or just saying it to shut me up?
He hesitated half a second too long.
—A bit of both —he confessed—. But I don't want to go to sleep fighting with you.
That disarmed her more than any oath could.
Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair, exhausted.
—You're impossible.
—Yes —he agreed—. But I'm still the man you love.
She stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the bed without saying anything.
He followed.
They didn't touch immediately. They slipped under the blankets like people who had done this too many times to pretend distance mattered.
After a while, Elizabeth moved closer.
—I don't like sharing you —she murmured, without edge now—. I never will.
—I know.
—But you're mine too.
Lusian turned slightly and pressed his forehead against hers.
—No one is arguing that.
Elizabeth took a slow breath. Her hand found his under the blankets. She didn't squeeze. She simply stayed there.
The argument wasn't resolved.
But they were.
And that night, the room was no longer silent.