Fog pressed low along the ridge as Renard Valtierre approached Forward Command Post Ysera.
It wasn't a fortress. It barely qualified as a post. The wooden palisades were rotting in places, the southern watchtower leaned like a drunk on a cane, and moss clung to the training yard's half-toppled fenceposts. The whole place felt abandoned, even as smoke curled from cook fires and dull steel caught the morning light.
No honor guard waited at the gate. No banner unfurled to acknowledge his arrival.
Just two men.
One stood tall and stiff in polished armor, posture unbending, expression unreadable. Lieutenant Sorell, from the documents.
The other leaned against a crooked wall post, arms crossed, wrapped in a weather-stained cloak that failed to hide the glint of steel at his hip. Kael Drayven. The so-called ex-assassin, and leader of what the paperwork generously labeled "Omega Squad."
Renard dismounted in silence.
"Acting Captain," Sorell said, delivering a salute that was perfect by the book, and colder than frost. "Welcome to Ysera."
Kael gave a lazy grin. "So you're the one they sent. E-rank swordsman. Tournament disgrace. Baron's boy."
His voice was rough silk, intentionally loud enough for the nearby soldiers to hear.
"Real inspiring résumé."
Renard handed his reins to a sleepy stablehand and surveyed the yard—half a dozen soldiers drilling badly, others loitering, gear mismatched and routines inconsistent. The Alpha squad stood in formation, crisp and clean, but lacking spirit. Omega lounged like mercenaries at rest.
The contrast was as sharp as it was intentional.
"I'll be inspecting the grounds," Renard said, his tone flat. "You may return to your posts."
Neither man moved at first. But both watched him as he walked deeper into the post—their eyes measuring him, weighing the title he bore against the rumors that preceded him.
They already hated him.
Not openly. Not yet. But enough.
Alpha Squad—tight-knit, disciplined, perfectly polished—looked at him with veiled contempt. They knew the rumors: that he'd been kicked from the tournament for dishonor. That he was no swordsman. No warrior. Just another nepotistic failure playing at command.
Omega Squad? They didn't need polish to sneer. They were the outcasts, the wild cards, the broken tools of other men's wars. And they saw Renard's baron-born posture and quiet aura as proof he was just another noble airhead in a too-big coat.
Both sides hated him—for entirely different reasons.
Perfect.
They weren't unified. Yet.
He had time.
He said little during inspection. But his mind worked constantly.
He saw that the barracks were organized by division, but the Omega bunks were left unassigned—like they refused to be counted.
He watched Branley from Alpha cleaning his boots obsessively while ignoring a crooked support beam behind him that could collapse mid-drill.
He passed Silva in the corner of the courtyard, laughing softly as her fingertips flicked with unstable flame, other recruits giving her a wide berth.
He stepped into the armory and noted that the left-side racks were missing quarterstaves entirely.
Lieutenant Sorell followed him like a shadow, offering no commentary.
Kael vanished somewhere between the kitchens and the yard wall.
Renard said nothing.
But he was already rearranging the post in his head.
That night, both squads gathered for mess in the great hall.
The divide was visible in everything—seating, speech, posture. Alpha sat in lines, eating in silence, uniforms impeccable. Omega pushed three tables together, swore too loud, drank too much, and passed a skin of wine between them like a joke.
One of them juggled knives.
When Branley from Alpha crossed toward the water barrel and nearly tripped over Thorn from Omega's massive warhound, the sparks lit.
Branley muttered, "Get that beast out of the hall, freak."
Thorn stood up. "Say that again, tin can."
Chairs scraped.
Hands flexed.
Renard stepped between them without warning.
No drawn weapon. No shout.
Just him.
"Fight outside my command," he said quietly, eyes on both of them. "Or don't fight at all."
They froze.
Thorn held his stare. Branley blinked first.
Neither spoke as they stepped back.
Renard walked away.
Not a single raised voice.
But the room was dead silent when he left it.
In his quarters, the file folder lay open on the desk.
Each page told a story of failure, redemption denied, or suppressed brilliance. Soldiers with battlefield instincts but court-martial records. Others with noble potential but no ability to think beyond doctrine.
A perfect mess.
He found the last folded page tucked at the bottom.
Meritorious field command under wartime threat may result in battlefield elevation to Viscount status.Awarded by Strategic Command at discretion.
His fingers tightened slightly.
So that was their game.
A leash. A test. A carrot on a chain.
But it was enough.
If he could make this unit work—this disgrace of a posting, these clashing squads—he wouldn't need to hide anymore. Wouldn't need to pretend his blade was dull.
He could use his skills legally. As a Viscount, he'd have jurisdiction.
Not to impress. But to survive.
And perhaps… more than that.
The next morning, just after dawn, he summoned both squads.
They formed up in the main yard. Alpha on the left—rigid and proud. Omega on the right—slouched and half-armed, more amused than interested.
They faced him with a hundred expectations—and not one of them respectful.
Renard stepped forward.
He didn't shout.
"You are not soldiers," he said.
Murmurs stirred. Eyes narrowed.
"Not yet. You are two broken blades. One too rigid, the other too wild."
He paused.
"I don't care who you were. From today, you are one name."
He looked at both squads.
"You are Phantom Wing."
The name echoed in the yard like a blade drawn slow.
Some scoffed.
Others stared.
Kael Drayven stepped forward, his smile wide and dangerous.
"Big words, Captain," he said. "But out here, words don't command men."
He drew his blade.
It whispered like silk drawn across a throat.
"Let's see if the one calling the shots can survive a single cut."