The dawn came without warmth.
A pale sun rose over the eastern steppe, casting long shadows across the grasslands where Kaeldorian dead had been buried hastily beneath stones and torn banners. No prayers were spoken aloud. Men whispered them privately, if at all. In war, faith was a fragile thing.
I stood at the edge of the camp, watching the horizon where Qashiri riders had vanished the night before. They had not attacked. That worried me more than arrows ever could.
"They're letting us move," Ril said quietly, joining me. His cloak fluttered in the cold wind. "That's never generosity."
"No," I replied. "It's confidence."
The camp stirred behind us. Armor scraped. Horses snorted. Wounded men groaned as they were lifted onto carts. We had survived yesterday's ambushes—but survival was not momentum. Momentum had to be taken.
I turned back toward the officers' circle, where maps were already laid out atop a flattened crate. Captain Elren, lean and sharp-eyed, pointed at a ridge line etched with charcoal.
"They've withdrawn to here," he said. "Every skirmish pulls us closer to that position."
I studied it. The land narrowed slightly there. Low hills. Enough cover to hide formations. Enough openness to punish mistakes.
"He wants us there," I said.
Ril nodded. "Then why go?"
I looked up at him. "Because if we don't, he chooses the next ground instead."
Silence followed. That was the truth of it. Strategy was not about choosing perfect conditions. It was about denying your enemy comfort.
We advanced by mid-morning.
This time, there were no probing arrows. No feigned retreats. The steppe lay quiet—unnaturally so. Scouts ranged far ahead and returned with nothing but unease in their eyes.
"He's pulled back everything," one said. "Too clean. Too deliberate."
Tarek al-Rhazim was no longer testing us. He was shaping the battlefield.
By noon, we reached the ridgeline.
And there, finally, we saw them.
Qashiri banners rippled in the wind—dark reds and ochres, symbols of horse and sun. Their formations were immaculate. Cavalry anchored the flanks, infantry lines firm, archers positioned at elevation.
And at the center—
A solitary figure sat astride a pale horse, unmoving.
Even from this distance, I knew.
"That's him," Ril said under his breath.
Tarek al-Rhazim did not raise his blade. Did not gesture. He simply watched.
He wanted me to see him.
The two armies faced one another across a shallow valley, neither advancing, neither retreating. Time stretched thin. Sweat trickled beneath armor. Muscles trembled from tension alone.
This was not hesitation. This was a conversation.
Tarek's line did not shift. No feints. No cavalry movement. He was waiting to see how I would react to stillness.
"Archers?" Captain Elren asked.
"Not yet," I said.
If I fired first, he would pull back cleanly. If I advanced recklessly, he would collapse the valley on us. He had prepared for both.
So I did neither.
I ordered the men to sit.
Confusion rippled through the ranks. Helmets were removed. Shields lowered. The army rested in full view of the enemy.
Ril stared at me. "Cairos—"
"He expects fear or aggression," I said quietly. "Let him study boredom."
Minutes passed. Then longer. The wind carried the sound of distant horse bells. Somewhere, a Qashiri rider laughed.
And then—
Movement.
Not from the center. From the left flank.
A Qashiri cavalry unit shifted, just slightly. A ripple, not an attack. Testing my reaction.
I smiled faintly.
"Signal third cohort," I said. "Advance ten paces. No more."
The men moved. Controlled. Calm.
Tarek al-Rhazim's head tilted.
Good.
The battle did not come that day.
As the sun dipped westward, the Qashiri lines withdrew in perfect order, melting back into the hills without a single arrow loosed.
The valley was left empty.
Ril exhaled slowly. "That was… unsettling."
"That," I said, "was a lesson."
"Whose?"
I did not answer immediately.
That night, I could not sleep.
The image of Tarek lingered in my mind—not as an enemy, but as a mirror. A man who fought with patience instead of steel. Who understood that wars were won by shaping the enemy's thoughts long before blades crossed.
I poured over the maps again, tracing routes beyond the ridgeline. Villages lay deeper east. Supply routes. Wells.
And then I saw it.
"He's guarding nothing," I muttered.
Ril looked up. "What?"
"The ground he chose—it protects no city. No road. No settlement."
"Then why—"
"Because it protects him."
Understanding dawned. Tarek had drawn us not toward value, but toward isolation. Every step deeper cut us further from Kaeldor's supply lines.
He wasn't defending territory.
He was thinning us.
Before dawn, I summoned the officers.
"We change direction," I said flatly.
Captain Elren frowned. "East is the objective."
"Yes. But not straight east." I tapped the map. "We move south first. Strike the river settlements."
Ril's eyes widened. "That'll force him to respond."
"Exactly. He wants us predictable. We will be expensive instead."
Arguments followed. Risks were listed. Supplies counted. Casualties projected.
I listened to them all.
Then I spoke.
"Tarek al-Rhazim believes he controls the rhythm of this war. Today, we break that belief."
Silence.
Then Elren nodded. "I'll issue the orders."
By midday, our banners turned south.
Scouts soon reported movement—Qashiri riders scrambling, messengers racing eastward. The stillness was gone.
I allowed myself a small breath.
For the first time since crossing into Qashir, Tarek had been forced to react.
Far away, atop a distant ridge, Tarek al-Rhazim watched the Kaeldorian army change course.
A thin smile touched his lips.
"So," he murmured, "you learn."
An aide approached. "Should we pursue?"
"Not yet."
"Then what do we do?"
Tarek's gaze sharpened. "We let him win something small."
The aide hesitated. "And if that emboldens him?"
Tarek mounted his horse. "Good. Pride is easier to kill than fear."
As night fell again over Aereth, both armies moved—one with resolve, the other with anticipation.
The war had shifted.
And for the first time, I understood the truth:
This conflict would not be decided by strength, nor numbers, nor even courage.
It would be decided by whose mind broke first.