Garrick stood with his hands clasped behind his back watching the riders from Savidor approach, white flag raised high. The garish black and red field on their horses’ flanks billowed as they galloped closer. Every soldier in Garrick’s camp bristled with tension, and the silence felt heavy.

  As the first rider approached, the entire camp stilled. No one moved. No one breathed. No one put a hand to their weapons either. Even the horses and dogs fell silent, as if sensing the tension of their masters. They stared at the encroaching enemy, eyes gaunt, faces hard. Beyond the shadow of war and death loomed something new, something Garrick had not seen from his men in quite a while: Hope. Their eyes glittered with it. Even men whose limbs had been removed or their bodies ravaged from the fires of war gathered to see this moment, shoulders tight and standing as proudly as pain would allow.

  Seven. Seven of Savidor’s best accompanied the message bearer. But not the best.

  They’d seen to that.

  The horses slowed to a halt in the clearing in front of the war tent where Garrick and his own advisors stood. The Savidor knights dismounted first, their hands clenched at their sides but not on weapons as they formed a half circle, eyes on the rest of the camp. Their scabbards were bare. Garrick knew how they felt - empty, naked. His own scabbard felt too light at his side without his blade.

  Then, the messenger dismounted and approached Garrick cautiously. He bowed stiffly.

  “Commander Garrick,” he said.

  Garrick nodded at him as he straightened.

  “I am Lord Wallace of House Jorgund,” the messenger continued. “I have been given full authority to negotiate the ceasefire between our two countries.”

  Garrick’s brow twitched in surprise. Full authority? That was…interesting. He took a deep breath and then stepped aside, gesturing to the tent.

  “Please, come in,” he said with a little bow of his head.

  No need to antagonize someone with full authority to negotiate.

  Lord Wallace swept inside, followed by two of the Savidorian knights. The other five remained just outside, eyes wary beneath their helms. Garrick followed. His own chosen men were already inside the tent - a single knight and two of his most trusted advisors, Field Captain Elias Varne and Archmage Veylan Caelan. Lord Wallace stiffened at the sight of the archmage, who smiled his serpentine smile as the Savidorian Lord dropped into a deep, formal bow.

  “Archmage,” he said through a false smile. “I…didn’t expect you to be present.”

  “It was quite the harrowing journey getting here on time,” Veylan admitted, standing and bowing his head. “But I would be remiss if I were to be absent on such an occasion as this.”

  They sat without further formalities. Garrick, flanked by his advisors, watched as Lord Wallace pulled out a scroll and laid it on the table before them.

  “Savidor proposes a ceasefire. Certainly, we have clearly struck a balance in this war. There is no further need for bloodshed.”

  Garrick nodded in acceptance. Wallace continued.

  “Terms shall be outlined and agreed upon by both parties,” he said. “If a disagreement arises that cannot be settled, the ceasefire will fail and we shall be at war still. However, according to the articles of war, you shall ensure safe passage for myself and my men.”

  “Of course,” Garrick said. “We are all honorable men here.”

  Wallace smiled a thin smile.

  “Now, to negotiations. Savidor will cease all advancement and both armies shall remain at our respective borders,” he offered.

  Captain Varne scoffed. “We both retreat to the nearest defensible positions - Rising City for us, and for you that would be Fordan’s Hill. No man’s land between.”

  Wallace hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. Garrick’s brow twitched in surprise again. He could feel Varne’s gaze on him. A small gesture beneath the table warned the field captain off. Veylan quickly leaned forward with interest.

  “No further attacks from both parties unless provoked, and we collect our wounded and fallen without interference?” Veylan pressed.

  Wallace nodded. No hesitation this time. Garrick felt the quickening of his heart in his chest. This was indeed interesting. He sat up straighter, signalling his intent to step forward into the negotiating ring. Veylan and Varne suddenly became smaller presences in the shadow of the great war commander.

  “Continue,” Garrick said.

  Wallace swallowed and did. “We ask for five days to collect our fallen.”

  “Three.” Garrick’s voice was firm.

  This time Wallace hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. His jaw tightened, and his lips pressed together as he considered his next words carefully.

  “Three days is not enough. The battlefield is vast, the landscape rugged. Five is far more reasonable.”

  “Five is far too long. My own men will have cleared the wounded and fallen in three,” Garrick said.

  “And yet you have the advantage. This was originally Adern land.”

  “It still is,” Varne interrupted.

  Garrick gestured under the table again, his movement sharp. Varne sat back.

  “Four,” Garrick said finally. “No more. And it begins and ends the same hour the ceasefire is signed.”

  “That is…reasonable,” Wallace said, nodding. “We accept.”

  He reached for the pen and ink that sat on the table and dipped the quill into the inkwell. He scratched a note into the scrolls, his fingers moving deftly across the parchment. When he finished, he laid his pen to the side and looked up.

  “As for supply routes,” he began, but Garrick cut him off.

  “Neither side shall barricade any supply routes to either party. Such an action will immediately be deemed an act of violence and the ceasefire will be no more,” the commander said.

  Again, Wallace hesitated, and again it was too short, as if it were a play in consideration.

  “Agreed,” the Savidor noble said, and made another note.

  When he was done, he looked up once more. Garrick could read his question before Wallace even thought to ask it.

  “Prisoners of war captured in battle remain where they are,” Garrick said.

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  This time, the silence was longer, more thoughtful. As Wallace shifted in his seat, his eyes flickered to the tent flap in the direction of Savidor’s camp.

  “We will demand a list of your captives and ask for negotiation for their return,” he said.

  “That is your right and we accept,” Garrick said quickly. “But we set the ransom price.”

  Wallace swallowed. Garrick could tell what he was thinking - this was too quick. Too easy. Good. Wallace was too quick himself.

  “Agreed,” Wallace said.

  The quill scratched against parchment again. Garrick and the others looked it over. Some small arguments of wording ensued, but it was minor - Veylan’s territory. Then, the signing. Subdued, the men all stood and picked up the quill in turn, signing their name at the bottom, each carrying the weight of their nations. Veylan was the last, and the ink of his name glowed briefly before dulling into the black of everyone else's signature.

  “There,” he said, as pleased as a cat with its whiskers damp from stolen milk. “Now any side who breaks the terms of this treaty will be known right away.”

  Wallace swallowed nervously before bowing to Veylan. “Thank you, most auspicious archmage, for presiding over the ruling and ensuring a just and fair accord.”

  It was done.

  As Garrick shook Wallace’s hand - expected, not welcome - Wallace said, “Perhaps we will meet again over a peace treaty.”

  “Perhaps,” Garrick said steadily.

  Wallace hesitated and then added, “Your soldiers were commendable in the last battle. Your victory must have encouraged them. Tell me - what was it like standing against him in battle? The Monster?”

  Behind Garrick, Varne stilled. Veylan smirked but remained silent.

  “He was strong,” Garrick finally said after a moment of thought. “But he fell to Adern, just like any other.”

  “And the body?”

  “Burned up.”

  “How…unfortunate.”

  “Indeed. It was quite the sight, one I won't forget. I think my people shall rest well upon seeing the proof for themselves, too,” Garrick said.

  Wallace swallowed nervously. The meaning of Garrick’s words was clear. He released his hand and bowed again. Then, he turned and left. Garrick stepped out to watch him go. Behind him Varne and Veylan also came out to stand at either side. As the Savidorian knights mounted, they turned their horses towards the camp in the east, following Lord Wallace. The moment they were outside the camp, the horses began thundering away, their hooves churning up the dust and dirt of the war torn plains.

  For a moment, the camp was silent. All eyes turned towards Garrick and the others, watching and waiting. Garrick waited until the Savidorian party was enough of a distance away before giving a curt nod to his men.

  Cheers erupted from the camp. Men shouted and hollered jubilantly, clutching comrades in battle and pumping fists into the air.

  “The Monster is dead! Long live Adern!”

  Garrick smiled grimly as he looked over his men. Varne and Veylan chuckled.

  “Can’t blame them for being excited,” Varne commented. “It’s been two years of blood and tears. And damn if I don’t want to join them myself.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Garrick pointed out.

  “But it’s over for now,” Veylan said. “Let them celebrate.”

  “Oh, I intend to pay every tavern upon our return to the city,” Garrick said as he turned to go back into the tent.

  The knight who stood behind the three men during negotiations now sat, his helm resting on the table. His dark hair lay plastered against his forehead and his blue eyes glittered at the three men as a grin stretched his lips wide.

  “Sounds like quite the celebration,” he said.

  Garrick, Varne, and Veylan bowed before Veylan asked with a twinkle in his eyes, “So, your majesty, are you satisfied with the proceedings as they went?”

  “More than satisfied,” King Fenric said. “But I'm a little concerned we weren't convincing enough.”

  “It's not a matter of being convincing or not,” Garrick said. “As long as they have nothing, we have the advantage. And time is a grace we were not expecting but now have thanks to that battle.”

  “When you said the monster fell, I was expecting them to probe, but perhaps not that boldly,” Fenric said.

  “Your bluff came across quite well,” Veylan told Garrick.

  Garrick held a finger to his lips and motioned for Veylan to be silent. “We don't know who's listening.”

  But Veylan simply smiled. “ If you don't think I didn't put up a magical sound barrier the moment he was brought into this tent. Then you don't know me very well, do you?”

  “Hell of a bluff to pull off when he's right under their noses,” Varne muttered.

  Garrick barely acknowledged him. He went to the back of the tent and pulled at a small, barely concealed cord. No magic, just in case. Only simple, pure, human cleverness. The canvas at the back of the tent, which was taut with tension suddenly loosened and Garrick pulled it aside to reveal the silent group of healers who hovered over the crumpled form of a man, small and agile and covered in terrible burns. The explosion had done its damage, taking one half of the face and upper torso. Garrick could still remember the screams that echoed as the magic fire burned, muffled behind the mask that now lay shattered in the very crater he had burned in. Veylan clicked his tongue.

  “Still wish I could have seen it,” he said wistfully. “The Monster of Savidor falling right into that trap.”

  “They would have sniffed you out a mile off like always,” Garrick told him flatly. “That's what made the damn thing so deadly.”

  “We still never figured out how they knew where you would be and when,” Varne muttered. “Every damn time.”

  “We knew they were planting spies, just not where,” Fenric said. “But that is a matter for another time.”

  The steady rise and fall of the monster's chest was shallow and labored. The healers looked on, nodding to Garrick and bowing briefly to Fenric who came to stand behind them, watching. Garrick stood tense, watching the figure. Its limbs trembled, every nerve on fire still. The extent of the damage was severe.

  “It’s a damn miracle he’s even still alive,” he muttered.

  “You know, if that Wallace person was asking questions, they probably suspect he's still alive,” Fenric said with a pointed look at Garrick. “Frankly, I'm wondering why he's alive myself given all he's done against our people.”

  “We can learn much from him,” Garrick said, coming to stand at the monster's bedside.

  He noticed almost immediately how his own shoulders tensed even with the monster laying so still. It was quite eerie to be standing so close to the living embodiment of death. And yet here he was. Here they all were.

  Fenric’s expression hardened. “Is that truly worth the risk?”

  Garrick’s jaw tightened. “I believe so, sire. He is a valuable tool.”

  “And what if you’re wrong? What if keeping him alive costs us everything?”

  Veylan cleared his throat and said, “Your majesty, at the very least we cannot deny this chance for insight into the magic that this being wields. Chaos magic is largely unknown. The chance to see it in action will give us an opportunity to find weaknesses in an otherwise impossible situation. Should the worst happen and the monster fall back into the hands of the Savidorian, at least we will have had the opportunity to understand the mechanics.”

  “It is a gamble,” Varne admitted. “But what else can we do? We were lucky that day, lucky that it was a fraction too slow, a hair too distracted. And we still didn’t manage to kill it completely.”

  “I’ll bear the burden of this if it fails,” Garrick said. Before anyone could protest, he held up a hand and continued. “If I’m wrong, I’ll pay the price. But if there’s a chance this could turn the tide of the war, if this is what gives us victory when we need it most...can we afford not to take it?”

  Fenric rubbed the back of his head. The tent went still but for the shallow, labored breathing of the monster. The small twitch of his skin, the fluttering of his eyelids kept them tense despite knowing the sedative was at work.

  “You know I can’t protect you if this all comes to ruin,” the king said finally. “Not even our friendship would withstand that kind of pressure.” But he sighed and nodded. “You have until the end of the ceasefire, Garrick, if that.”

  Garrick nodded. It was all he needed. Fenric shook his head and turned to others.

  “Come,” he said. “The men celebrate and we should, too.”

  “I have a lovely bottle hidden in my satchel,” Veylan told them, eyes glittering. “I had an inkling we’d need something of the sort.”

  Their voices faded as they walked away. Healer Jolen looked at Garrick and smiled wanly.

  “You should join them, commander,” he said, though his eyes were tired. “We can handle this just fine. He’s sedated and under control.”

  Garrick nodded. “In a moment.”

  He lingered near the body of the man who had terrorized the battlefield for years. He could still remember the sight of him tearing through a company of Adernian soldiers, still remember the screams of panic as soldiers upon soldiers fell. Crimson and obsidian magic lashed across the field, searing flesh and cleaving armor, leaving nothing in its wake. So many lives lost, and yet he remained alive. The thought was unsettling, but Varne was right. This was it. Their last shot. If Adern didn’t take advantage of this opportunity now, then everything would be lost.

  He lifted a hand and stopped short of the sedated figure on the cot. There was nothing in this broken, ravaged body to suggest who he had been before, only what he was now.

  “Soon,” he mumbled. “We’ll understand.”

  And then, he left.