The flickering holograms of the War Room cast long, dancing shadows across the faces of the Eight. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy silence of a world on the brink of collapse.
Mikaela stepped away from the map, her gaze fixed on the glowing green silos projected in the center of the room. Her expression wasn't one of fear, but of sharp, icy skepticism.
"We are reacting like prey," she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the council. "We see a green light and a scary name like 'Pestis-Mana,' and we immediately assume the end is nigh. But look at the players. Look at the board."
She turned to Kael, her blue eyes narrowing. "Kael, you dismantled Osoroshi in a day. You destroyed their leadership and their best bio-organic assets. The remaining five rogue nations aren't preparing a conquest; they are backed into a corner with no viable moves. When a cornered animal can't bite, it puffs its chest to look bigger."
"What are you saying, Vice Commander?" Jaxon Thorne of Nexaria asked, his brow furrowed. "The messenger died in front of our eyes. His mana was rotting."
"A localized curse is easy to manufacture," Mikaela countered. "But an airborne blight capable of covering a continent? That requires a level of mana-stability and mass-production that even Osoroshi hadn't mastered. I think the Pestis-Mana is a ghost. A made-up weapon designed to make the world bow because they know they can't win a physical war against two Elementals."
The room went silent. The weight of her suggestion was staggering. If she was wrong, the first step into rogue territory would trigger a biological apocalypse that would turn Tellus into a graveyard. If she was correct, the Syndicate of Ash was a paper tiger waiting to be shredded.
"It's a 50/50 gamble with the life of every citizen on the line," Ariana Darko whispered. "But if she's right... we have already won."
Mikaela swiped her hand across the map, highlighting the tactical isolation of their enemies.
"Look at their coordinates. The Syndicate calls itself a union, but they are geographically crippled. Unlike us, they are separated by hundreds of miles of Alliance territory. They cannot coordinate a pincer movement; they cannot share supply lines. Each rogue nation is trapped in a cage of our making."
"Look at Xylonia," she continued, pointing to the center. "It is squeezed by Nexaria, Throkia, and Euryo. Look at Mailaysa; it's pinned against the coast by Evesdale and the Sylvia Naval Blockade. Statistically, if just two of the surrounding nations launch a synchronized strike, we have a 150% chance of total victory. Their defenses are designed for defense, not a multi-front invasion."
"There's a catch," Cassian Vane of Lichtford noted, his voice grim. "If we do this—if we bypass Harold and strike simultaneously—we aren't just 'liberators.' We are the same as Kael in Osoroshi. We become rogue nations in the eyes of the Motherland. We risk everything on Mikaela being right about the bluff."
Kael looked at Mikaela, seeing the unwavering coldness in her gaze. She was betting the world on her intuition, a move as dangerous as any fire he had ever conjured.
"Harold is waiting for them to move so he can justify a 'God-State' cleansing," Kael said, standing tall. "But if we move first and prove it was all a bluff, Harold looks like a fool, and we look like the only people capable of leading. The risk isn't the blight, Cassian. The risk is the peace that comes after."
He turned to the Commanders, his hand glowing with a soft, steady heat. "Prepare your vanguards. We strike at dawn. If Mikaela is wrong, we die as the people who ended the world. If she is right, we wake up as the leaders of the Sixteen."
"I'm never wrong about a chill in the air," Mikaela added with a faint, lethal smile.