The night air smelled of ash and sweat. The Kaeldorian camp slept uneasily, fires flickering over tired faces. Even the horses shifted, restless and anxious, as if they knew the ground beneath them was no longer entirely safe.
I did not sleep. I walked between the rows of tents, listening, watching. Every sound—crackling fire, the occasional cough, the quiet murmur of soldiers—was a thread in the tapestry of the day to come.
Ril found me leaning against a ridge, eyes fixed on the horizon. "They're moving," he whispered. "Draeven. More of them. From the south."
I didn't need confirmation. The reports from scouts had been precise, repetitive, almost unnervingly so. Draeven did not make mistakes. They adjusted quietly, deliberately, shaping the battlefield without even stepping on it.
"They're testing us," I said, voice low. "Not with steel yet. With patience."
Ril frowned. "Patience is a weapon I understand less every day."
"Then learn," I said, and moved on. There was no time for argument.
By dawn, the first breach occurred—not at our front, but in our rear.
A supply convoy had been attacked, not destroyed, but delayed. Horses spooked. Carriages overturned. Grain scattered across the road. By the time the Kaeldorian cavalry arrived, Draeven forces had vanished, leaving nothing but confusion and minor casualties.
Elren rode up, fuming. "This isn't a raid. They're cutting us off!"
I studied the road, littered with overturned wagons and hoofprints. "They're not cutting us off. They're showing us where our weakness is. Every army has one. We find it, or we die."
Ril muttered something under his breath, but I didn't need to hear it. Fear is a whisper. Strategy is a scream.
I called the officers together. "We do not attack blindly. That's what they want. We do not retreat. That's what we need. We adapt."
The morning passed in tense calculation. Scouts returned with reports of Draeven troops moving in small, unpredictable groups along the rivers.
Their presence was minimal, but their effects were cumulative. Villagers were fleeing. Roads were unsafe. Every step Kaeldor took required more resources than before.
I felt the weight of command heavier than ever. Hunger, fatigue, and fear were creeping into the soldiers' minds, subtle but undeniable. One mistake, one moment of hesitation, and Draeven would exploit it mercilessly.
And yet, I refused to panic.
By midday, the first true engagement occurred.
A patrol of Draeven soldiers, lightly armored but disciplined, attempted to intercept a wagon train carrying grain. The patrol underestimated Kaeldorian patience. Arrows rained down from concealed positions. Cavalry flanked from the north. Horses screamed, men shouted, but the Draeven group did not break immediately.
They fought with zeal, refusing retreat. One of their captains even turned to face the volley, sword raised, as if daring death itself.
He died within moments.
I watched from a nearby ridge, silent. No triumph. No glee. Just calculation.
Ril muttered, "That zeal… it's unnatural."
I only nodded. "It's taught. It's drilled. It's dangerous until broken."
After the skirmish, the wounded were tended, the dead counted. It was never enough. War was never enough. The soldiers did not cheer. Some murmured prayers; some cursed. All of them knew that Draeven would not relent, and neither would we.
Elren came to me then, hand on his hip, mud covering his boots. "Their zeal… it's spreading. Some villages are… changing their minds."
I closed my eyes briefly, imagining the faces of those I had promised protection to. "We adapt," I said again. "We show loyalty where we can. But the ones who betray us… they'll meet consequences."
He swallowed. "Consequences?"
"Not cruelty," I said. "I'm not Tarek. But they will learn that their choices have weight."
The afternoon passed slowly, shadows creeping over the camp.
Reports came in faster now: a village had refused to provide supplies. A small garrison sent to check on it found only silence. Draeven banners had been hung in its streets, not by soldiers, but by villagers themselves.
I called a council of officers. The men were weary. Some were shaking with frustration. Some had lost friends to fatigue, hunger, or skirmishes. I did not comfort them. I reminded them of the stakes.
"We do not punish unnecessarily," I said. "But every choice against Kaeldor has a cost. Every refusal will be remembered."
Elren narrowed his eyes. "So we take what we need by force?"
I shook my head. "We take only what is necessary. Then we leave the rest intact. Brutality is easy. Strategy is hard. We survive because we choose the harder path."
Evening fell, and the first true test of leadership arrived.
A small unit of Kaeldorian soldiers refused an order to march toward Draeven-held territory. Fear, exhaustion, and hunger had overtaken their discipline.
I walked among them personally. They did not speak. They did not meet my eyes.
I knelt beside one young soldier, barely seventeen. "Why do you hesitate?"
He swallowed, voice trembling. "I… I don't want to die out there."
I studied him, letting the weight of command settle. "None of us do. But some die anyway. The choice is whether we die as cowards or as soldiers who understand the cost."
He looked at me, eyes wide. I left him alive. Not for mercy, but because obedience bought more survival than vengeance.
Night came, and Draeven's influence became clearer.
A group of villagers arrived at the camp, exhausted, hungry, carrying small sacks of supplies they had dared to hide. "We… we don't support them," one whispered.
I nodded. "
Then you're Kaeldor now. Follow our rules, and you'll survive. Betray us… and you won't."
No speeches. No sermons. Just a promise of consequence and reward. It was the simplest form of justice—and it worked better than eloquence.
By midnight, I stood alone again on the ridge. Fires burned below like scattered stars, and the wind carried the faint smell of smoke from Draeven tents far in the distance.
I thought of Tarek, of Draeven, of the countless soldiers who would die under banners that were not theirs. I thought of the villages, the children, the men whose loyalty was fragile, the officers whose patience was fraying.
I realized then that the war in Aereth was no longer about armies or territory.
It was about control. Control of minds, of loyalties, of fear.
And I would not yield.
Not to Draeven. Not to Tarek. Not to anyone who stood in Kaeldor's path.
A single arrow streaked across the ridge in the moonlight, striking a tree nearby. One of our sentries shouted.
Silence followed.
I watched the arrow embed itself into the bark and whispered, almost to myself:
"Every arrow tells a story. Some end lives. Some test patience. And some… mark the beginning of a lesson."
Aereth was waking. The first breach had been made. And I was ready to answer it.