Chapter 22: When the Board Bleeds
They brought Aren back like a corpse.
Not carefully.
Not ceremonially.
They carried him the way soldiers carried the dead when there was still fighting to be done—fast, desperate, hands slick with blood and snow, breath coming hard through clenched teeth.
His head lolled once as they crossed the camp boundary, dark hair matted, face drained of color. His armor was shattered in places, plates bent inward where blows had landed that should have killed him outright. Blood had frozen into black crusts along his side and down his leg, stiffening cloth and leather alike.
Someone shouted for a medic.
Someone else shouted louder.
Torches flared to life as soldiers rushed in from surrounding tents, boots skidding in the snow as the elite fifty staggered through the camp perimeter. They did not slow. They did not stop to explain.
They only said one thing.
"Clear the way."
The words carried weight.
Men stepped aside instinctively, faces tightening as they took in the sight. Whispers spread faster than fire.
"That's Aren—"
"He's alive?"
"Is he—?"
No one finished the question.
They laid him down inside the medical tent with less care than guilt demanded. There was no time for gentleness. His chest rose shallowly, unevenly, each breath a question mark.
A healer pressed fingers to his neck and swore softly.
"Still here," she said. "Barely."
Armor was cut away.
Cloth followed.
Blood flowed again where warmth returned, red blooming against white bandages. Cracked ribs shifted under trembling hands. One leg jerked involuntarily, then stilled.
Someone vomited outside the tent.
The elite fifty stood just beyond the entrance, snow melting into mud beneath their boots, weapons still in hand. No one sat. No one leaned.
They waited.
Not for orders.
For permission to breathe.
Word reached the command tent before the medics finished their first assessment.
And so did the men.
They came in groups at first—two, then four, then more—officers, captains, aides, all drawn by the same unease. The murmuring outside the medical tent grew until it became a low, continuous sound, like a storm that hadn't decided to break.
Eventually, Seraphina Valecrest arrived.
She did not run.
She did not hurry.
She walked through the camp with the same measured pace she always used, cloak drawn close against the cold, posture straight, face composed. If anyone expected urgency, they did not find it there.
She stopped just outside the medical tent.
She did not go in.
Her eyes flicked once—to the blood on the ground, to the shattered armor stacked hastily aside, to the elite soldiers standing like statues carved from exhaustion.
Then she turned.
"Report," she said.
The word cut cleanly through the noise.
Rovan stepped forward first.
His face was gray with fatigue, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped beneath the skin. He did not salute. He did not embellish.
"He saved us," Rovan said.
Seraphina's gaze did not change.
"Details," she said.
Rovan swallowed once.
"We cornered the riders," he began. "Drove them toward their own army like planned. They panicked. Ran straight into enemy lines."
Several officers stiffened.
"They were wiped out," Corin continued, stepping beside Rovan. His voice was steadier, but his hands shook slightly. "Heavy casualties. The enemy didn't hesitate. They killed their own cavalry to stop the bleed."
A murmur rippled through the officers.
Seraphina nodded once. "And then?"
Lethan spoke next.
His leg was bound heavily, blood seeping through fresh wrappings, but he stood straight anyway.
"An enemy commander stepped out," he said. "Aura knight. Mid-core. Refined. Not like the riders."
The word aura shifted the air.
"He understood the strategy," Lethan continued. "He was angry. Not loud—focused. He came straight for us."
Seraphina's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the edge of her cloak.
"Aren ordered us to fall back immediately," Rovan said. "No hesitation. Full withdrawal."
One officer frowned. "Then how did he—"
"He stayed," Corin said flatly.
Silence fell.
"He stayed behind," Corin repeated. "To delay the enemy commander. Alone."
Someone inhaled sharply.
"He knew he couldn't win," Rovan said. "He didn't even try. He fought to buy time."
Another officer shook his head. "That's suicide."
"Yes," Lethan said quietly. "That's why he did it."
The words landed like a blade.
"He was helpless against that aura knight," Rovan continued. "Couldn't match strength. Couldn't use aura. Every strike nearly killed him."
Rovan's voice cracked, just barely.
"He kept standing anyway."
A long pause.
"We heard it," Corin said. "All of us. The steel. The impacts. Him hitting the ground."
He looked away.
"We heard him breathe like it hurt."
Outside the medical tent, a muffled cry echoed as a healer called for more hands.
Seraphina did not move.
"And the end?" she asked.
Rovan's eyes lifted to meet hers.
"When he was about to die," he said, "we broke orders."
Several officers stiffened.
"We fired everything," Rovan continued. "Every arrow we had. Didn't matter that it wouldn't kill the commander. We needed space."
"It didn't hurt him," Lethan added. "But it distracted him long enough for us to pull Aren out."
"And the enemy commander?" Seraphina asked.
"He let us go," Corin said. "He said he'd find us again."
The camp seemed to exhale all at once.
The report ended.
No one spoke.
Seraphina stood still, face perfectly neutral, eyes steady, posture unbroken.
Anyone watching would have seen nothing.
No anger.
No fear.
No concern.
Just command.
"Thank you," she said finally. "Return to rest. Medical evaluation for all of you."
The elite fifty hesitated.
Then, one by one, they saluted—not sharply, not formally, but with something raw behind the motion—and dispersed.
As they moved away, the camp slowly resumed motion. Orders were passed. Watches reassigned. Fires rebuilt.
War continued.
Seraphina did not move.
Only when the last of the soldiers had gone did she turn back toward the medical tent.
She stood there for a long time.
Long enough that the cold should have bitten through her boots.
Long enough that someone should have noticed.
No one did.
Inside the tent, Aren's breathing hitched.
A healer cursed softly and pressed harder against a bandage.
Seraphina closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
And something twisted inside her.
She had known Aren was a piece on the board.
She had placed him there herself.
A useful piece.
A sharp one.
Expendable, if needed.
That was how war worked.
So why—
Why did her chest feel tight?
Why did the image of him standing alone against a mid-core aura knight refuse to leave her mind?
She had sent men to die before.
She had chosen it.
She had lived with that weight without hesitation.
So why did this—
Anger surged suddenly, violent and unwelcome, flaring hot behind her ribs.
Not at the enemy.
At herself.
At the fact that she had watched him step closer to the edge and done nothing.
At the realization that she had expected him to survive because the board needed him.
Not because she wanted him alive.
Her jaw clenched.
This was unacceptable.
Emotion was weakness.
Attachment was risk.
Aren was a tool.
A blade.
A position.
And yet—
She opened her eyes.
The anger did not fade.
It settled.
Cold.
Sharp.
Focused.
If the enemy commander thought he could hunt Aren freely—
If he believed that piece could be taken without consequence—
Seraphina's gaze hardened.
Then the board would change.
She turned away from the medical tent and walked back toward command, cloak snapping sharply behind her in the wind.
Orders would be given.
Not yet.
But soon.
And when they were—
The enemy would learn something the riders never had time to understand.
That some pieces, once bloodied,
were no longer expendable.