The Council of Ash convened beneath a ceiling blackened by centuries of smoke.
No banners hung in the chamber. Draeven did not need symbols to remind its leaders who they were. The stone itself bore witness—scarred by fire, etched with scripture, polished smooth by the hands of men who believed endurance was a form of devotion.
I was not present there, yet by the time the sun set, every decision made within those walls would bleed onto the fields of Aereth. War, after all, was never born on battlefields. It was conceived in rooms like this.
At the center of the chamber stood High Strategos Valen Draegor, his hands resting on the stone table as if weighing the continent itself. His armor was unadorned, iron dulled by years of use. The only mark of rank was the crimson cord tied around his forearm—a reminder that authority in Draeven was carried, not displayed.
"The Kaeldorians did not retreat," Valen said calmly. "They bled us instead."
A murmur rippled through the council. Not outrage. Not disbelief. Calculation.
Across from him, Prelate Marros, voice sharp as flint, leaned forward. "They defied judgment. That alone demands response."
Valen's gaze flicked toward him. "Judgment is meaningless if it is wasted."
Silence followed.
Marros frowned. "You question doctrine?"
"I question efficiency," Valen replied. "Faith is strongest when it wins."
Maps lay spread across the table—inked rivers, ridges, cities reduced to dots. The river where Draeven cavalry had broken lay circled in red. Losses were noted not in names, but in numbers.
"Kaeldor fights like a patient animal," Valen continued. "It does not chase. It does not roar. It waits for the throat."
A younger commander, Ser Caldus, scoffed. "They are led by a man, not a beast. Men grow tired."
Valen nodded. "So do believers who are misused."
That earned him several sharp looks.
"We underestimated their restraint," Valen said. "They allowed us to come. They allowed us to strike. Then they punished only what they needed to."
Prelate Marros slammed his palm on the table. "You speak as though restraint is strength."
Valen met his gaze without flinching. "In war, restraint is the sharpest blade. Zeal breaks walls. Restraint decides where the wall stands."
By the time the council adjourned, Draeven had chosen its path.
Not retreat. Not escalation.
Correction.
Orders were dispatched before dawn. Units reassigned. Supply caravans rerouted. Messengers rode toward allied temples and border garrisons. The language used was careful—measured, devoid of fury.
Draeven would not crush Kaeldor with weight alone.
It would reshape the battlefield until Kaeldor had nowhere left to stand.
Three days later, we felt the change.
The riverbanks grew quiet. Too quiet.
Scouts reported fewer patrols, fewer probing attacks. At first, my officers assumed Draeven had withdrawn to regroup. I knew better. Silence in war was never absence—it was preparation.
"They're tightening their grip elsewhere," I told Ril as we examined the terrain. "Starving us of certainty."
Ril frowned. "No attacks. No messengers. No visible movement."
"Exactly," I said. "They want us guessing."
That evening, a messenger arrived—not from Draeven, but from a neutral trade city to the south. His clothes were dusty, his eyes hollow.
"They've closed the southern road," he said. "Draeven patrols. No passage. Not for grain. Not for salt."
My jaw tightened.
Logistics.
They weren't fighting our army. They were fighting our future.
Within days, the effects were felt. Supplies dwindled faster than expected. Horses grew restless. Soldiers spoke less, listened more. Hunger sharpened fear into something more dangerous.
Captain Elren approached me late one night. "If this continues, we'll have to move. Or fight on ground they choose."
"That's their aim," I said. "To make movement desperation."
I stared into the fire, watching sparks rise and vanish. "They believe certainty is their shield. Let's show them it's a cage."
That same night, Draeven's hand moved again—this time not with steel, but with words.
Leaflets appeared in nearby villages. Simple parchment. No threats. No insults.
Only scripture.
"The land remembers who bled for it.
Those who walk it without faith walk alone."
Some villagers burned them.
Others did not.
Fear, I learned, was not Draeven's greatest weapon.
Belonging was.
Reports reached us of defections. Not soldiers—but laborers, traders, locals who believed Draeven's certainty promised order. Stability. Meaning.
Ril slammed his fist against a crate when he heard. "They're stealing our rear without drawing a blade!"
"Yes," I said quietly. "And every man who leaves us forces three more to guard what remains."
I summoned the officers.
"We respond, but not with cruelty," I said. "Any harsh reprisals turn their scripture into truth. Instead, we offer protection. Food where we can. Justice where possible."
Elren hesitated. "That costs resources."
"So does ignorance," I replied. "War is not only about breaking the enemy. It's about convincing the world not to join them."
That night, I wrote in my journal—a habit I had not yet abandoned.
Faith makes men brave.
Strategy makes them dangerous.
But only patience makes them victorious.
I closed the book.
Draeven was patient.
So was I.
Far to the east, Tarek al-Rhazim read the same reports I did.
He smiled.
Not because Draeven was winning.
But because the board had grown more crowded.
In war, the greatest advantage was never strength.
It was options.
And Aereth was offering them in abundance.