Chapter 16: Authority Is Measured in Blood
The Northern Plains did not punish mistakes immediately.
They waited.
Snow stretched thin across the ground, wind pulling it into long pale streaks that hid tracks and softened distance. The sky was a dull, washed-out gray, offering no sense of time or warmth. Sound faded too quickly here, swallowed by open space and cold air.
The army moved like something weighed down by its own caution.
The central advance element advanced in layered blocks, shield companies overlapping, officers placed carefully between formations. It was a structure designed to survive pressure through discipline alone.
It was not designed to adapt.
Aren felt the difference within minutes.
He walked with his squad embedded between two shield companies, boxed in by protocol rather than terrain. The space around them felt wrong—movement lanes narrowed, angles restricted, initiative stripped away one command at a time.
This formation did not trust judgment.
It trusted obedience.
Aren raised his hand instinctively when the wind shifted—
—and stopped.
He lowered it slowly, fingers curling into his palm.
Not his call.
Rovan noticed immediately. His eyes flicked toward Aren, then forward again. He said nothing, but his shoulders tightened slightly.
They continued.
Boots crunched in the snow, rhythm dull and heavy. Scouts moved ahead, but not far enough. Not deep enough. They were close enough to be controlled, not far enough to be useful.
Aren's eyes kept drifting to the right flank.
The snow there was wrong.
Not disturbed.
Not natural.
Compressed, flattened in irregular patches where the wind should not have touched it.
Aren stepped closer to the officer ahead, careful not to break alignment.
"Right flank," Aren said quietly. "Movement masked by wind. We should shift."
The officer glanced sideways but did not turn fully. "Scouts haven't reported anything."
"They won't," Aren replied. "They're using the ridges."
The officer shook his head. "Maintain formation. Orders are clear."
Aren inhaled once.
Slow.
Controlled.
He stepped back into line.
The Plains waited.
The first horn sounded too late.
It was sharp, close, panicked.
"Contact right flank!"
The enemy did not charge.
They cut.
Figures burst from behind a shallow rise, low and fast, shields angled inward to force separation. Spears punched forward immediately—not at the front line, but at the seam between units.
It was deliberate.
Practiced.
The central formation reacted—but slowly.
"Hold alignment!" an officer shouted. "Do not break!"
Aren saw the flaw instantly.
Holding meant the seam would widen under pressure.
He stepped forward.
"Shift left!" Aren called. "Seal the gap!"
"Negative!" the officer barked. "Maintain—"
The enemy broke through.
A scream cut through the wind.
A soldier near the seam staggered as a spear punched through his side, slipping past shield coverage that hadn't shifted in time. Blood sprayed dark against the snow.
Aren moved.
Not as a commander.
As a man refusing to watch.
"Rovan, with me!" Aren shouted. "Corin, cover!"
The squad reacted instantly, breaking partial formation to plug the breach. Shields slammed together. Steel rang. Snow churned under boots as the fight collapsed into brutal closeness.
Aren fought hard but restrained.
No Sword of Paradise.
No risks.
Just denial—placing his body and blade where the enemy had to pass.
They forced the attackers back.
But the damage was already done.
The soldier lay in the snow behind them, blood pooling beneath him, breath coming in wet, uneven gasps. His eyes were wide, fixed on nothing.
Aren knelt beside him immediately.
"Stay with me," Aren said.
The man tried to speak. Blood bubbled at his lips instead.
A medic pushed forward, hands shaking as he pressed cloth against the wound.
Too late.
The man's body went slack.
Silence followed.
Not shock.
Understanding.
The enemy disengaged moments later, retreating cleanly, mission accomplished.
The wind carried their footsteps away.
No one spoke.
The officer who had given the order stared at the body, jaw tight, face pale.
Aren stood slowly.
He did not look at the officer.
He looked at the soldiers nearby.
They had seen it.
They had heard Aren's command.
They had heard it denied.
And they had watched a man die because of the delay.
No anger.
No shouting.
Just recognition.
One soldier swallowed hard. Another clenched his jaw. A third looked at Aren with something new in his eyes—not admiration.
Trust.
Later, as the body was carried back, the murmurs began.
Quiet.
Controlled.
"He warned them."
"I heard it."
"If we'd shifted…"
No one finished the sentence.
That night, camp was established early.
The mood was different.
Not grief-stricken.
Sharpened.
Aren stood apart from the fires, snow crunching under his boots as he stared out across the Plains. The system surfaced quietly, as it always did.
[Outcome Recorded]
[Casualty: Preventable]
[Cause: Command Delay]
Aren closed his eyes.
That was enough.
He turned.
And walked toward the command tents.
No summons.
No escort.
Guards stiffened as he approached Seraphina Valecrest's tent, hands tightening on spear shafts.
"I need to speak to her," Aren said.
One guard hesitated. "You weren't—"
"I know," Aren replied.
A pause.
Then the tent flap lifted.
Seraphina stood inside, already armored, expression unreadable.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I know," Aren replied.
He met her gaze steadily.
"I'm requesting a duel."
The tent went silent.
"A duel?" Seraphina asked.
"For command authority," Aren said. "Limited scope. Forward tactical control."
Seraphina studied him for a long moment.
"Against whom?" she asked.
Aren did not hesitate.
"An officer," he said. "Chosen by command."
The wind howled outside.
Seraphina's eyes sharpened—not in anger.
In interest.
"You understand what that means," she said.
"Yes."
"And if you lose?"
"I accept the leash," Aren replied. "Fully."
Silence stretched.
Seraphina did not answer immediately.
The Plains waited.
And so did she.