They did not argue publicly.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
Marshal Garry Hawkinge and Wilfred Webstere stood apart from the other officers at dawn, speaking in low tones beneath the campaign banner.
No raised voices. No visible anger.
Controlled disagreement.
Which meant neither side intended to yield.
The crater had widened overnight.
Not dramatically.
But the fracture veins had lengthened along the left shelf where Knox Edisone had fallen.
Reinforcement beams placed at dusk had shifted out of alignment by morning, pressed sideways by settling soil.
Eiden watched engineers hammer wedges beneath them again.
The wedges did not sit cleanly.
"Reduce forward compression today," Wilfred said clearly enough for nearby captains to hear. "Maintain range discipline. No diagonal pursuit."
Hawkinge did not look at him.
"We cannot stall indefinitely."
"We are not stalling."
"We are losing ground."
"We are losing stability."
Silence followed.
Hawkinge's jaw tightened.
"Controlled pressure. No retreat."
The horn sounded advance.
Infantry only.
No artillery.
No saturation.
The line descended the ridge with tighter spacing than yesterday. Too tight.
Eiden felt it immediately.
Intervals had shortened.
Not by full pace.
By inches.
Which meant when compression hit, there would be no breathing margin.
Across the field, the demon formation stood exactly where they had recalibrated the day before.
The red-trimmed commander had shifted back to the canter.
Balanced again.
He did not look at the crater.
He looked at the human spacing.
Steel met steel at the outer shoulder of the fracture zone.
The first impact was ordinary.
Shield on shield.
Measured thrusts.
Disciplined exchange.
Then the demon line advanced two paces in synchronized compression.
Not a surge.
A sustained lean.
The human line absorbed it.
Spacing tightened further.
A captain on the right flank called for counter-pressure.
The humans pushed back.
The sound changed.
Battle has layers of noise.
This was deeper.
Denser.
Weight accumulating without release.
Eiden adjusted backward half a step before the second compression wave hit.
The soldier behind him collided into his back.
Too close.
Too compressed.
"They shortened intervals," he muttered.
Rynn, two positions ahead, answered without turning.
"I can feel it."
The red-trimmed commander raised one hand slightly.
Not downward.
Not flat.
Two fingers.
The demon flanks advanced half a pace.
Not enough to break.
Enough to stretch.
The human canter compensated instinctively, shifting left to maintain alignment.
Midline drift again.
But this time—
The ground held.
That was worse.
No collapse relieved pressure.
The load stayed in the formation.
A horn from the demon side sounded—three short notes.
Their front rank withdrew one pace.
Human momentum followed automatically.
The line stretched forward.
Intervals elongated.
Then—
The second demon rank stepped into the space that had just been vacated.
Not retreat.
Replacement.
Fresh weight.
The human front had leaned into absence.
Now it collided with density.
A seam opened near the crater shoulder.
Small.
Subtle.
The red-trimmed commander moved.
He did not attack the seam.
He stepped behind it.
Watching the second-rank human support.
A regional sub-captain—young, armoured in dark steel—shouted for reinforcement.
He stepped forward to plug the seam.
The demon commander's blade entered beneath the rim of the shield and exited cleanly.
The sub-captain fell without finishing his order.
The seam widened by inches.
The human right flank tried to compensate.
Too fast.
Overcorrection.
Spacing misaligned.
The demon line advanced in alternating pulses.
Left.
Pause.
Right.
Pause.
Not symmetrical.
Not predictable.
Cascading interval.
Eiden felt the rhythm shift before it became visible.
"They're desynchronizing us," he said.
Rynn pivoted, deflecting a strike.
"Can you fix it?"
"No."
A human horn called partial retreat.
Another horn contradicted it.
Command rhythm fractured.
That was the real collapse.
Not ground.
Not shields.
Signal.
The demon flanks pressed inward just enough to punish hesitation.
Three humans fell in rapid succession along the misaligned right.
Not slaughter.
Extraction.
The red-trimmed commander did not pursue.
He stepped back into equilibrium once the correction began.
The human line disengaged unevenly.
Retreat order finally unified.
The ridge absorbed the survivors.
Breathing hard.
Alive.
Thinner again.
Hawkinge descended halfway down the ridge.
"Why did the right lag?"
No one answered immediately.
Wilfred spoke evenly.
"Intervals shortened beyond tolerance."
"We needed tighter cohesion."
"You achieved compression without flexibility."
Hawkinge's gaze shifted toward the crater.
"It did not collapse today."
"No," Wilfred replied. "We did."
Silence.
Across the field, the demon formation reset with mechanical precision.
No celebration.
No visible strain.
The red-trimmed commander stood at the canter once more.
Balanced.
He had not tested terrain today.
He had tested signal delay.
Eiden watched him carefully.
Yesterday they measured load.
Today they measured rhythm.
Rynn approached, helmet under her arm.
"They didn't try to break us."
"No."
"They wanted to see how we fix mistakes."
"Yes."
She exhaled slowly.
"And?"
"We fix them slower each day."
Behind them, engineers began adjusting spacing markers along the ridge.
White stakes driven into soil to define interval distance.
Measuring tape between units.
Artificial precision.
Eiden looked at the markers.
They were solving spacing visually.
But compression happens under stress.
Not on flat ground.
A runner approached Wilfred.
"Marshal requests mage augmentation tomorrow."
Wilfred did not answer immediately.
"Of what type?"
"Localized reinforcement pulses."
Eiden felt something colder than fear.
Reinforcing unstable ground with mana under compression would not strengthen it.
It would accelerate fracture propagation.
Wilfred looked toward the crater.
Then toward Hawkinge.
"Localized pulses risk destabilization."
Hawkinge's response was flat.
"Without pressure, we stagnate."
Pressure.
Always pressure.
Across the field, demon engineers repositioned mantlets slightly inward again.
Anticipating pulse expansion radius.
The red-trimmed commander turned once before withdrawing behind layered ranks.
Not retreating.
Calculating.
Eiden remained at the ridge after disengagement.
He replayed the rhythm in his head.
Shortened intervals.
Forward lean.
Replacement rank.
Pulse compression.
Signal delay.
Structural desynchronization.
They were not trying to crush the human line.
They were narrowing tolerance margins.
Every day.
Less room for mistake.
Less space to breathe.
Less time between signal and response.
Rynn stood beside him in silence.
"What happens if they keep shrinking it?" she asked.
"The mistake won't be small."
"How big?"
He looked at the crater's widening veins.
"Big enough that we cause it ourselves."
She did not respond.
Below them, officers prepared new spacing diagrams for tomorrow's engagement.
Localized mage reinforcement.
Controlled pulses.
Stabilization.
The word felt fragile.
Eiden closed his eyes briefly.
He had not died in three days.
Clarity remained intact.
That was dangerous.
Because when collapse finally came—
He would not be confused.
He would understand exactly why.
And understanding does not prevent impact.
It only lets you measure it.
Across the darkening field, the red-trimmed commander disappeared into disciplined ranks.
No hesitation.
No anger.
Only progression.
Eiden exhaled slowly.
The ground had held today.
The line had not.
Tomorrow—
They would try to reinforce both.
And reinforcement, under stress, does not remove weight.
It concentrates it.
The fracture index was rising.
Not in earth.
In command.