The sound of war horns echoed across the camp, their calls blending in grim unison. The day’s battle was over.

  Marius glanced at the mechanical watch on Ragnar’s desk. “A little early, isn’t it?”

  A soldier peeked through the tent’s curtain. Ragnar motioned him in.

  “General! We smashed ’em good today,” the soldier blurted, grinning wide. “Heard Commander Farlow’s cavalry tore through their charge, cut down a bunch o’ them sneaky assassin types too. The bastards ran off! Could’ve chased ’em, I reckon, but the lads are dead tired. Doesn’t matter though, Moloch shows his ugly face, we’ll still beat him! Just like His Holiness Amun beat that… uh… desperate one, Shraak!”

  “It’s the Despairing One,” Marius corrected without looking up.

  “We’ll show them desperation,” the soldier shouted.

  Marius sighed, deciding not to correct him again.

  “Anything else?” Marius asked.

  “No, Commander.”

  “Once the other commanders arrive, inform me.” Ragnar dismissed him with a nod.

  As the soldier left, Ragnar turned to Marius. “We need Arin by our side before the others get here.”

  “Leave it to me,” Marius replied.

  Ragnar shifted his gaze to Shayara. “Go find Darrius,he’s in charge of troop management. Ask him to give you a star insignia and say exactly ‘It’s for the cause’.”

  “A star insignia?” Shayara asked, uncertain.

  “You’re getting a promotion already? I’m envious,” Marius teased. “It means you report directly to the General instead of your troop captain, no matter your actual rank. You’re not a fledgling anymore.”

  Shayara’s cheeks warmed with pride. She had not only made it into the Crimson Army, she was now to serve directly under the famed Crimson Lord.

  “Getting a star insignia is only the beginning. There are… initiation rituals,” Marius added with a smirk.

  “Focus. Tease her later,” Ragnar cut in.

  Shayara rose to her feet and bowed deeply, hands pressed together as if in prayer., “I will not disappoint you, Sir. I vow that I, Shayara of the Syr, will fight for the Crimson Lord until my last breath.”

  It was the clearest Ragnar had ever heard her speak.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, accepting her vow. Even Marius allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.

  She looked up at Ragnar, and he could see the beginnings of a warrior in her eyes. She still had far to go, but her path had begun.

  When Shayara left the tent, Ragnar turned back to Marius. “We need to figure out how to lure Moloch. The Silent Road leads straight to the central camp.”

  The central camp was rarely attacked directly, most assaults were routed through the eastern or western fronts first.

  “We could ask General Collin,” Marius suggested. “He’s not a bastard like Arabus.”

  Collin, commander of the central camp, was a master of defensive warfare.

  “I don’t think he likes me much,” Ragnar admitted, “but I’ll speak with him.”

  “I’m sensing a pattern here,” Marius said with a knowing smirk.

  “I criticized his use of noble titles for his troops a few years back,” Ragnar replied.

  “He’s a traditionalist and a veteran general. Why would you do that?” Marius sighed.

  “Because it’s inefficient,” Ragnar said evenly. “And I don’t hold my tongue when it affects the army’s performance.”

  “Fine, but make sure you get him on your side,” Marius said as he prepared to leave. “Hopefully he won’t be stubborn. And what if Arabus causes trouble again?”

  “Then figure out a way not to get caught by him,” Ragnar replied.

  When Marius left, Ragnar sat alone in the tent, sifting through Shayara’s notes. The handwriting had a strange rhythm, perhaps a blend of her Syr roots and Arcadian education. Still, one thing was certain: to understand the Laws, you had to strip magic down to its most fundamental truths… a task far easier said than done.

  He glanced at the watch on his table, twenty minutes had already passed since Marius left. With a quiet sigh, Ragnar rose and decided to check on the troops before returning for the strategy meeting.

  Ragnar quietly assessed the camps. Some soldiers approached to salute, others boasted of their performance, and a few sought consolation for fallen comrades, but none had lost their spirit.

  He spotted Darrius chatting with another soldier and decided to check if Shayara had gotten the insignia.

  Darrius straightened and saluted. “Aye, evening, General.”

  “Did a woman come to you asking for the star insignia?” Ragnar asked.

  Darrius grinned. “Don’t worry, General, we’ve already got her locked up. Little lass thought she could pull one over on old Darrius? Not happening. Some bloody novice, hasn’t even been in the army a week, and an outsider on top of that, asking for a star insignia. She even knew the line! How’d that leak? Wait, ah, don’t tell me, this is a test for me, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not a test,” Ragnar said coldly. “I sent her.”

  The color drained from Darrius’s face. “I—I was just following security protocols, General. How was I supposed to trust the word of an outsider?”

  “And what makes you think she’s an outsider?”

  “Look at her. Not a speck of radiance where she’s from. Joined the army a week ago, came in from the southern camp yesterday. She was a student before this. How could she possibly get a star insignia? Besides, with all that going on she could be a spy.”

  “She’s from the Academy,” Ragnar said, his tone cutting through the air. “She’s no outsider, and in this war, she’s done more than many wearing that insignia already. That is why I gave it to her.”

  Darrius bowed low. “I’m sorry, General. I’ll get her out.”

  “You’ll apologize to her first.”

  “For what?”

  “For looking down on her. For failing to show the respect due to a fellow soldier,” Ragnar said, his voice hardening. “In the Crimson Army, we are brothers and sisters. Nobility, birth, none of it matters here. When she came to you, she wore our cloak, did she not?”

  “Aye, General.”

  “Each cloak is coded for the soldier wearing it. You could have verified it, but you didn’t. You made assumptions instead. Now bring her here.”

  Ragnar waited as Darrius brought Shayara forward. He glanced at her, then muttered, “I should have known better.”

  He turned, ready to confront Darrius again, but Shayara spoke first.

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  “It’s alright. Not everyone has the eyes to see.”

  Ragnar blinked, surprised by her quiet defiance.

  Darrius’s jaw tightened, anger flickering across his face, but with Ragnar present he didn’t dare answer back.

  On the way back to the tent, Ragnar broke the silence.

  “That was unexpected, but well done. Darrius won’t like it, but he knows better.”

  Shayara’s smile brightened. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. First, I wondered how you’d respond. Then I thought about what Commander Marius would say. In the end, I took a little from both of you.”

  Ragnar raised a brow. “So you guessed I’d make Darrius apologize, and that he’d do it poorly?”

  “I had… assumptions,” Shayara admitted.

  A rare smile touched Ragnar’s lips. “You’re more perceptive than you let on.”

  Ragnar and Shayara rode in silence, the pale moonlight lighting their path. Warhorses thundered beneath them, tougher and faster than anything Shayara had ever ridden. She clung to the reins, knuckles white, the wind stinging her face.

  “How much farther, Sir?” she called over the rush of air.

  “Close. Hold tight,” Ragnar replied.

  At last, flickering lanterns broke the horizon: the outline of the central camp.

  “Halt!” a voice barked.

  A soldier stepped forward, spear in hand. In the shadows beyond, Shayara could sense archers waiting, bows drawn.

  Ragnar reined in his horse and called out. “I am General Ragnar of the Crimson Knights. I came to see General Collin on urgent business.”

  The soldier approached cautiously, scanning their faces in the dim light. Recognition dawned and he bowed low.

  “Forgive me, Lord Ragnar. Couldn’t see clear in the dark. Please, this way.” He turned and shouted to the shadows, “Clear path for Lord Ragnar!”

  Ragnar’s gaze lingered on him. “Your name, soldier.”

  The man stiffened. “Bolton, my lord. And… my apologies for…”

  “Good work,” Ragnar cut in. His tone left no room for doubt.

  Bolton blinked, then lifted his head. He had only ever seen the Crimson Lord from a distance, never expected to be addressed directly. The recognition struck him like a spark of pride. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Time is urgent. Take us to the camp yourself.”

  “Yes, General.” Bolton quickly signaled a replacement to take his post, then disappeared into the shadows to fetch a horse.

  The first thing Shayara noticed about General Collin’s camp was its order. Compared to the their camp, it was almost unnervingly structured. What truly caught her eye, though, were the massive ballistas stationed at the perimeter. Troops carried bolts as tall as a man, while the distant clang of metal rang through the night.

  At last they stopped in front of the command tent. Bolton went in first.

  Ragnar leaned toward Shayara. “Stand close and perceive. I’ll need the emotions in stages so I can map the conversation.”

  She nodded as Bolton returned. “The General will see you, Lord Ragnar.”

  Ragnar stepped into the tent, leaving Shayara outside.

  “Welcome to the central camp, General,” Collin said. “The soldier mentioned urgent business?”

  Ragnar studied him. He had never liked Collin, too rigid, too bound to tradition but necessity came before sentiment.

  “General Collin,” Ragnar said with formal courtesy. “Good to see you again. I’ve heard of the central camp’s accomplishments.”

  Collin waved it off. “I hope that’s not your urgent business.”

  “No. But it is good to see our men thriving.”

  Collin’s expression hardened. “Ah, you mean Lord Arabus. A waste of nobility, that one. I don’t know what our Holy King or Prophet see in him. Just because a man can cast a spell doesn’t mean he can play general. In that regard, I must admit, you are far better than him. We may not always see eye to eye, but I can still respect you, General Ragnar.”

  Even Ragnar was caught off guard by the bluntness. “I feel the same, General. So, shall we get to business?”

  “Yes. Let’s not dally further,” Collin replied.

  Outside the command tent, Shayara stood watch. Bolton was beside her, spear in hand. After a moment, he leaned closer.

  “You’re with the Crimson Army, aren’t you? May I ask something?” His eyes gleamed with admiration. Shayara recognized the look, reverence for the Crimson Lord.

  She kept her posture steady. She needed to focus on sensing emotions within the tent, but ignoring him completely would draw suspicion.

  “Yes?” she asked softly.

  “What’s he like? Lord Ragnar, I mean. Up close. I’ve heard so many stories.”

  Her first instinct was to correct him, Ragnar doesn’t like being called ‘Lord.’ But she was on a mission.

  “He’s a great leader,” she answered, then steered him onward. “What stories have you heard?”

  If Bolton spoke long enough, she could focus on listening within while letting his chatter keep him satisfied.

  Inside the tent, Ragnar’s voice was steady. “We have intelligence that Moloch is approaching via the Silent Road.”

  Collin leaned back, frowning. “The Silent Road? Dangerous terrain. Raptors roam there… and the drake still nests.” His tone was contemplative, as if weighing possibilities.

  “The drake has been dealt with,” Ragnar said calmly. “By Moloch himself. And our scouts report he may already be a demi-god.”

  Collin’s brow furrowed deeper. “Nonsense. Even if he killed the drake, becoming a demi-god is no simple thing. The tales are old myths. Mortals don’t just… rise to divinity.” His words slowed, as though he were still trying to convince himself.

  “I would not be here if it weren’t true,” Ragnar said evenly.

  Collin fell silent, mulling it over. At last he spoke, his tone strained. “If he really is a demi-god, then we’ll wound him the only way we can. Our bolts are iron-hard, our soldiers willing to die for their home.”

  Ragnar leaned forward. He recounted the battle with the drake in grim detail: the molten breath that melted stone, the ridge collapsing under its weight, and finally how Moloch struck it down with lightning from the heavens and a hundred spears of despair called from the sky.

  Collin’s face tightened. “How do you know so much?”

  “Marius planted spies in their ranks. A contingency. Risky, yes, but it gave us the truth.”

  Collin grimaced. “That boy. I can’t stand him, cunning, arrogant. This is madness even for him.” He wiped his brow, the sweat betraying his composure. “Still… perhaps this madness gives us a chance. But tell me, what can we do against something like that?”

  “We set a trap.” Ragnar’s voice sharpened with conviction. “At the far end of the eastern front, we cut him off from the army marching down the Silent Road. To make it work, you must draw the bulk of their forces onto yourself. Ballistas. Cannons. Everything. Bleed them dry while we separate Moloch.”

  Collin recoiled. “What? Those weapons are costly. They must be used with care. We don’t know how many waves will come. Remember, we are on the defense here.”

  Ragnar’s reply cut through the air like a blade. “And if Moloch breaks through, there won’t be a kingdom left to defend.”

  “If your gamble is wrong, you’ll burn Arcadia. But if you’re right, you’ll be a hero for the ages,” Collin said.

  “I know. But I’m not doing this to become a hero,” Ragnar replied sincerely. “Only two men in this kingdom grasp the Laws: Arabus and I. And our research suggests that only Laws can stand against a demi-god.”

  “Then partner with Arabus,” Collin urged. “Even if he’s a waste, when his homeland is on the line, he may yet rise to action.”

  Ragnar’s expression hardened. He could not reveal the truth about the Prophet. “I went to the eastern camp. He didn’t believe me. He mocked me for even suggesting it.”

  Collin considered this. “Then perhaps we should go together. He can’t dismiss us both.”

  “Even if he agrees, when has anyone seen him wield a Law outside ritual? Strategy decides battles, Collin. A single mistake from him in the field would cost me my life—and with it, the kingdom’s.”

  Collin let out a breath. “I see. He truly is useless. Then tell me, how certain are you of victory?”

  “Not certain,” Ragnar admitted. “But I have plans to take him down with me.”

  Collin blinked, taken aback. “You would sacrifice yourself?”

  “That is the only way. So be it. It is our duty as soldiers of Arcadia, under the light of His Holiness, Lord Amun,” Ragnar answered, his tone stern.

  Collin slowly rose to his feet. “You are worthy of the title General.”

  Ragnar stood as well, and the two men saluted each other.

  Outside, Bolton carried on eagerly. “They say Lord Ragnar’s sword blazed like fire. He cut the enemy champion down in a single stroke—split him clean in half. His guts spilled into the dirt.”

  Shayara said nothing. Bolton mistook her silence for shyness, but her mind was elsewhere. Through her senses she caught more than emotion; faint threads of conversation drifted from within the tent. When Ragnar spoke of sacrifice, she felt his resolve like iron, steady and unyielding.

  Ragnar stepped out of the tent. Bolton snapped into silence, spine straight as he raised a salute.

  Shayara’s face was unreadable. She was still processing what she had heard, and what she had felt in Ragnar’s conviction.

  “Let’s go,” Ragnar said.

  “Yes,” Shayara answered, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Ragnar turned to Bolton. “We’ll head back ourselves.”

  Bolton remained in salute. “Yes, Lord Ragnar.”

  Bolton’s eyes lingered with pride as they rode off, blind to the shadows Shayara felt within.