The morning arrived without ceremony.
No horns sounded. No shouted orders cut through the dawn. Even the usual clatter of armor and boots seemed muted, as though the camp itself were holding its breath. A strange stillness lay over the grounds, thick and oppressive, like a fog that refused to lift.
Azerion moved through the training yard with measured steps, every sense stretched taut. His eyes lingered on shadows where they should not be. His ears caught murmurs that dissolved the moment he focused on them. The Core within him pulsed faintly, not in alarm, but in vigilance—an ever-present awareness that danger no longer hid far away.
The small acts of sabotage that had plagued the camp over the past weeks had changed in nature.
They were no longer careless or probing.
They were intentional.
"They're closing in," Azerion muttered beneath his breath.
The Core stirred in response, its voice calm, precise, and unyielding.
"The hand that strikes next will not whisper. It will demand to be seen."
Azerion exhaled slowly. He had known this moment would come. Patterns never lied—only those who refused to see them did.
Bootsteps approached from behind, light but familiar. Serenya appeared at his side, her expression composed, though her eyes carried the same unease gnawing at him.
"You feel it too," she said quietly. It was not a question.
"Yes." His gaze never left the yard. "They are watching more openly now. Measuring reactions. Testing limits."
Serenya folded her arms, glancing around. "Even when I'm alone, I feel eyes on me. Like the air itself is listening."
His jaw tightened. Without thinking, his hand found hers, fingers closing protectively. "Stay close to the central tents. Avoid the outer paths. And never be alone after dusk."
She looked up at him, concern flickering beneath her resolve. "Azerion—"
"I won't lose you," he said firmly, cutting off whatever she was about to say. "Not to shadows. Not to envy. Not while I still draw breath."
For a moment, her expression softened. Then she nodded. "Then I'll trust you. As I always have."
The first unmistakable strike came before midday.
It began with a scream near the supply wagons.
A soldier collapsed to his knees, retching violently, his skin pale and slick with sweat. Another soon followed. Then a third. Panic rippled outward as murmurs spread—the food… the water… something's wrong.
Azerion arrived in seconds.
The Core flared sharply, his senses piercing through the confusion. He knelt beside the fallen soldiers, sniffed the air, then turned sharply toward the water barrels. His hand hovered over one, energy rippling faintly as he sensed the corruption within.
"Stop!" his voice thundered across the camp. "No one eats. No one drinks. Seal the supplies—now!"
Orders snapped into motion. Guards barred access. He inspected the grain personally, finding the faint residue of a slow-acting toxin—one designed not to kill quickly, but to weaken, to sow sickness and distrust.
"This isn't sabotage," Calen whispered as he stood beside Azerion. "This is… war."
Azerion rose slowly, fury tightly leashed behind disciplined calm. "No," he corrected. "This is provocation. They want fear. Confusion. Accusations."
"And did they succeed?" Calen asked.
Azerion looked around. Soldiers watched him, waiting—not panicked, not accusing, but expectant. Trust glimmered in their eyes.
"No," he said quietly. "They miscalculated."
Medical teams worked swiftly, neutralizing the toxin before it could spread. No lives were lost. But the message had been delivered with brutal clarity.
The conspirators were done playing.
That evening, Azerion summoned a small gathering within the command tent.
Only those he trusted stood before him—soldiers who had endured the trials, learned restraint, proven loyalty not with words, but with action. Calen stood among them, shoulders squared despite the weight of the moment.
"We are being hunted," Azerion said, his voice low but unshakable. "Not as individuals, but as a symbol. Someone wants this camp broken from within."
Murmurs stirred, quickly silenced by his raised hand.
"They will not succeed," he continued. "But they will try harder. They will lie. They will provoke mistakes. And they will use what we value most."
Calen swallowed. "What do we do, Commander?"
Azerion stepped forward, placing a steady hand on the young man's shoulder. "We do what they cannot. We stand together. Watch everything. Question inconsistencies. Protect one another—even when fear tells you not to."
Eyes hardened with resolve.
"Trust," Azerion finished, "is our greatest weapon. And the one they cannot poison."
Night descended swiftly.
Stars glittered coldly above as torches flickered to life across the camp. From the ridge overlooking the grounds, Azerion stood beside Serenya, scanning the darkness below.
"They'll move tonight," she said softly.
"Yes." His eyes narrowed. "The boldest strikes come when confidence blinds caution."
She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. "If things turn ugly…"
He turned to her, expression fierce yet tender. "Nothing will happen to you. I swear it."
A sudden pulse rippled through the Core—sharp, urgent.
Movement.
A shadow slipped between tents below, too deliberate to be a soldier on patrol. Then another. And another. Spread wide. Coordinated.
Azerion's breath steadied. "It begins."
Serenya's fingers tightened around his. "Then we face it together."
He squeezed back once—then released her hand. "Stay here. No matter what you hear."
She hesitated. Then nodded, trusting him with her life as she always had.
As Azerion descended into the camp, unseen eyes watched from the darkness beyond the torches. Plans long whispered were now in motion. Patience had worn thin. Envy had sharpened into intent.
And beneath the stars, the Core whispered one final warning, cold as steel:
"The heart you guard is the blade they will turn against you."
Azerion felt it like a chill down his spine—but he did not falter.
Because he did not yet know how cruel the coming choice would be.
The web had tightened.
And when it snapped, nothing would remain unchanged.