The table once again fell into silence. Stern looks passed between the gathered council. It was by no means a large meeting. Seated were the Matriarch, Selmak, Felix, Rifi, Hastor, and Tolga—the latter a Red-Core mage from the Sobriana clan. Standing behind Felix were Mira and Derek, while Varek lingered stiffly behind his father. Another attendant remained quiet at Tolga's side.
Tolga and Hastor, heads of powerful families who served directly under the Matriarch, had been granted seats out of both respect and necessity. Every figure in the chamber held weight, and every word spoken had the potential to shift the stronghold's future.
Selmak finally broke the silence.
"With Rifi rejoining us, our Orange-Core count rises to seven—putting us on even footing with the Esquiliana-Collina coalition. His timing is perfect. We've received new intelligence," he nodded to Felix, "indicating they are preparing another major assault."
Felix gave a slight nod. "The intel is credible—Helvia was present during the interrogation, and all of us already know how credible she is. We also had reports of movement near the western Suburana outpost, which, as it turns out, was about one person in particular." He cast a knowing glance toward Rifi.
Hastor cleared his throat, his voice calm but laced with concern. "If another attack is imminent, can we realistically hold the line? Yes, Battlemage Rifi is a valuable addition to our forces," he said, offering Rifi a respectful nod, "I mean no offense by this —but he only recently broke through to Orange-Core. Even a seasoned mage needs time to consolidate their new found power."
He paused, voice tightening. "With the City Lord still recovering, can we truly withstand another push? We've already seen what those cursed mana stones can do. Their short bursts of power can overwhelm even seasoned formations. Sobriana is down to a single Orange-Core mage. How many more losses can we afford?"
Rifi didn't dislike Hastor, but the tone irked him nonetheless. Still, the question was valid. Before he could reply, Felix responded.
"Every clan has bled," Felix said. "Sobriana's sacrifices are recognized by the City Lord. And they won't be forgotten." He turned to the Matriarch with a respectful nod. "Rifi's return strengthens us. I have already provided the Matriarch with the information on his capabilities while he was still a Red-Core battlemage—no doubt his abilities have grown significantly since. I believe we can hold—for at least another month with our current strength. That should be enough for the City Lord to recover fully. Their cursed stones burn bright, but briefly. If we hold through the surge, we will gain the upper hand down the line."
The Matriarch leaned back, lips curling with amusement. "Ah, our dear Sebas appreciates our sacrifices?" she said, her tone laced with syrupy sarcasm. "How utterly touching." Her eyes flicked to Felix, glinting with mock warmth. "But you, of all people, should know—words are cheap. Too cheap."
She waved a hand lazily, as if brushing away invisible dust. "If Sebas hadn't agreed to our proposal this time, well… let's just say we both know exactly where he could stick that carefully worded appreciation of his."
Rifi blinked, caught off-guard by the casual venom in her tone. What caught him even more off guard was Selmak's reaction—or rather, the lack of one. The old mage remained seated, unfazed, not even lifting a brow. He didn't interject. He didn't soften her jab with diplomacy, like he had done earlier.
Felix gave a shallow bow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Of course, Matriarch. The City Lord has accepted. I had planned to deliver the signed scroll after this meeting."
The Matriarch waved a hand dismissively. "Then hand it to my sweet brother. Wouldn't want you straining yourself over carrying such a weighty document."
Felix retrieved the scroll and used a precise gust of wind mana to float it toward Selmak.
"Thank you, Matriarch. Ever thoughtful as always."
Selmak caught the scroll midair, read it over quickly, and gave her a curt nod.
She clapped her hands together, clearly pleased. "What a lovely day. First, I witness a tearful reunion, and now my dear brother actually smiled. All I need now is a good battle to round things off."
A ripple of laughter followed—restrained, but genuine.
Rifi exhaled quietly. The whole thing felt almost rehearsed, as if choreographed to pressure Felix and the City Lord's side into agreement. Politics are so damn tedious.
Hastor tapped two fingers against the polished table. "I'm glad the Matriarch and the City Lord have reached an accord, but my earlier point still stands."
Selmak leaned back slightly. "You're not wrong. That's why our strategy must change. We've kept too many troops behind, always on the defensive, waiting. It's time to extend our perimeter and rotate the Orange-Cores more aggressively. If they strike with brute force again, they'll expect us to retreat—as we've done before."
Felix folded his arms. "Then let's surprise them. We give them an answer they don't expect—aggression. If they overextend, we cut off their retreat."
The Matriarch tapped a lacquered nail on her goblet. "A baited trap, then. I love it already. We dangle something irresistible, and when they reach out…" Her smile widened. "We break their fingers."
Tolga spoke for the first time, his voice steady. "That will take perfect coordination. Are we prepared for that kind of precision?"
"Speed will be critical," Selmak agreed. "Rifi gives us that. According to the City Lord's reports, he's well-suited to this role."
All eyes turned to Rifi.
He lifted one brow. "Not to brag, but yes. Speed is one of my finer qualities."
Hastor frowned. "But Kaelin knows your tactics and your strengths. Surely they're expecting you."
Rifi's voice was calm. "Kaelin doesn't know I've broken through. And the mages who saw me before I arrived…" He shrugged. "Didn't live long enough to report it."
A heavy silence fell over the table.
Then Mira spoke, her voice soft but firm from behind Felix. "If we feign a weak flank… Rifi can be waiting there. With a strike team. I'd gladly volunteer."
The Matriarch's eyes lit up. "I do like this girl."
Selmak gave a single nod. "We'll adjust the deployments. We can't cover every front—but we can feint weakness where we're strongest."
Felix tapped the table once. "I'll need some time to update scout reports from all outer postsfor us to chose the best move."
Tolga grunted. "I'll move what's left of our reserve squads into readiness. Better exhausted and alive than rested and dead."
Selmak looked around the table. "Then it's decided. We don't wait for their storm—we draw it. Then snap the trap shut."
The Matriarch stood, robes shimmering in the chamber's glow. "At last. A council that doesn't drone on forever. I might actually cry."
She raised a hand toward the room. "Prepare the battlefield. Rifi, join Selmak for strategic planning tomorrow. The rest of you know your roles. And Varek…" her eyes slid toward the pale figure behind Hastor, "try not to embarrass your father again."
Varek gave a stiff bow, jaw clenched.
"Dismissed," Selmak added, rising from his seat.
The chamber began to empty, chairs scraping lightly against the stone floor as murmured conversations faded into the corridors beyond.
Rifi lingered, his thoughts already drifting toward what came next—battle plans, deployments, unknown dangers.
Then Mira's voice cut through the quiet.
"So… do you finally have time to tell me what the hell happened?"
Rifi glanced her way with a crooked smile. "Don't you have more important things to do?"
Mira shrugged, casual and unbothered. "Not really. Derek's already off to inform the City Lord, and Felix will be buried in reports for the next few hours. So, no excuses. You're stuck with me."
There was little else Rifi could do but surrender to Mira's persistence. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn't mind. There was a certain comfort in her presence—familiar, grounding. Perhaps it was because she was one of the few left from the world he'd once known, or perhaps because she asked questions not with suspicion, but with genuine concern.
They slipped away from the stronghold's inner chambers, Mira guiding him through narrow alleys and past watchful sentries until they found a quiet tavern tucked beneath a weather-worn archway. The place was half-empty, mostly off-duty legionaries nursing warm broth and harder drink. They took a seat in a shadowed corner where flickering lanternlight kept the worst of the cold at bay.
Mira didn't rush him. She ordered them both a spiced tea with something stronger beneath it, and waited—elbows on the table, her eyes fixed on him with a softness Rifi didn't quite know how to respond to.
Finally, he began.
He spoke of the day they split at Brimstone Mountain—how he and Kaelin had remained behind, standing shoulder to shoulder to buy time for the others to escape. They were outnumbered, but united. Or so he thought.
Then came the betrayal.
Rifi recounted how Kaelin—once his comrade, once his friend—turned on him without warning. The strike had been swift, precise. A blade of searing heat driven through his chest. It hadn't been a fight—it had been an execution.
And it nearly succeeded.
Mira's expression darkened as she listened, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"He had us all fooled," she muttered. "I didn't want to believe it… not until I saw him myself—leading one of the attacks on Hepestus's walls."
Rifi gave a slow nod, the memory still heavy in his chest. "He nearly killed me before he ever reached those walls."
He continued, voice quiet but steady, recounting how he'd barely managed to scale the cliffs and escape into the mountains.
"I didn't have the strength left to fight—barely enough to crawl," he added with a tired smirk. "But somehow, the enemy never reached me."
Mira frowned. "They just… gave up?"
He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to the flickering lantern nearby.
"No," he said finally. "A beast. A guardian of the mountain. It killed them before they could reach me… and for reasons I still don't understand, it decided to spare me."
It was the truth—at least, the part he was willing to share. What he didn't say was that the spirit of his master, Nala, had played a far greater role. It had played a big role in the beast's decision to spare him. Stabilized his heart. Kept him alive.
But some truths were too dangerous to speak aloud. Not here. Not yet.
The Devils had eyes in too many places. And even if Mira meant well—even if he wanted to trust her—Rifi couldn't afford to gamble with her life.
Not again.
Mira leaned back slightly, studying him in the flickering light. "That scar… it went through your heart."
"Just missed," he replied, though they both knew it wasn't true.
"Do you think the beast was sent by someone?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I think… I was just lucky."
Mira didn't press. She could see the line he wasn't willing to cross, and for once, she respected it. Instead, she reached for her cup and drank, letting silence settle between them.
Rifi stared down at his hands for a moment. He had spent months broken—body barely functioning, every breath a struggle. Days blurred into nights, pain into numbness. But some truths served no one when spoken aloud. And Mira had carried enough grief already.
So he left it unspoken.
They spoke for a while longer, their words drifting between memory and silence. Mira shared what had happened in the aftermath of Hepestus' fall—not just the military loss, but the disintegration of her clan. The Aemiliana name, once proudly carried, had fractured under the pressure of war and betrayal. Many had fallen during the collapse. Those who survived were scattered, absorbed into other ranks or quietly folded into the City Lord's forces. No banners. No seat at the table. Just duty.
"There's still a handful of us," she said, voice steady but distant. "Fewer every month. We serve where we can. The City Lord honors my brothers sacrifice, at least… but we no longer stand on our own."
Rifi listened in silence. He had no easy words, no comfort that wouldn't sound hollow. The war hadn't spared anyone. Not the Aemiliana. Not the Sobriana. Not even him.
"I'm sorry, but do not blame yourself." he finally said.
Mira gave a faint smile, tired but genuine. "It's the way of things now. We survive. We move forward."
Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her cup, knuckles paling. "But I'll still make sure the name Aemiliana isn't forgotten. My brother gave everything to keep it standing. The least I can do is carry it with pride—so that wherever he is, he knows it didn't die with him."
There was a quiet strength in her voice—not the kind that shouted on battlefields, but the kind built from grief, duty, and the stubborn refusal to let memory fade.
They lingered there a while longer, sharing pieces of the past between sips of tea and quiet glances. There were stories of training days and old comrades, names spoken softly, as if saying them too loud might draw the attention of fate. Laughter, too, crept in—muted and rare, but real.
But time, relentless as ever, refused to slow. The lanterns in the tavern glowed brighter as the outside light dimmed, and the hum of evening activity swelled in the streets beyond the shutters. Night had crept in unnoticed, blanketing the city in a cool stillness.
Mira glanced toward the window, then back at Rifi. "I should go. Felix will have my head if I vanish for too long."
Rifi stood with her. "Duty calls."
She hesitated, then placed a hand briefly on his arm. "It's good to have you back."
He offered a faint nod. "It's good to be back… I think."
She gave him one last smirk before slipping out into the night, her cloak vanishing into the crowd beyond the doorway.
Rifi remained still for a moment, then turned toward the innkeeper. The tavern had a quiet charm to it—humble but warm, removed from the rigid formality of the stronghold barracks. Something about the place made him feel, if not at peace, then at least grounded.
"I'll take a room for the night," he said.
The innkeeper, a short man with a thick mustache and an apron stained from years of service, gave a nod and slid over a brass key. "Top of the stairs, second on the right."
Rifi thanked him and made his way up, the creak of the wooden steps echoing faintly behind him.
Tonight, at least, he would sleep beneath a roof not meant for war.