The wind cut sharp through the morning fog as the soldiers of Ysera gathered in the yard.
Alpha stood rigid, formation perfect. Omega lounged like a pack of wolves waiting to see who'd bleed first. Kael Drayven stood in the middle of the ring, his blade already out, the steel whispering like it knew the ending.
Renard stepped into the circle.
No flourish. No ceremony. Just him, his cloak trailing behind like it was trying to hold him back.
"Let's see if the one calling the shots can survive a single cut," Kael said, smile lazy but eyes locked.
The yard fell silent.
Kael struck first. Fast, but not recklessly. A high diagonal cut—a test more than a kill.
Renard moved.
But not like a swordsman.
He stumbled sideways—too early, too clumsy. His foot caught a crack in the stone, and his shoulder pitched forward like he was already falling.
Gasps fluttered through the crowd.
Kael adjusted mid-swing, blade still aimed center mass.
Renard twisted—arms loose, grip wrong, motion jerky—and lashed upward in what looked like a wild, panicked swing.
[Phantom Tactician - Reflex Protocol Triggered] Technique: Ghost Edge Displacement Strike Type: Vital Arc (Lethal Intent Suppressed Late) Intent Level: Unfiltered Execution
The blade came from below. Fast. Too fast.
Kael's instincts screamed.
He twisted at the last second. Parried—not clean, not full—just barely.
Steel collided. Redirected. Bit shallow.
Still, blood spilled. A red streak across his shoulder. Deep.
Kael staggered back, breath caught in his throat.
The yard exploded in noise.
"Did he mean to do that?!" "That wasn't luck—" "It looked like he tripped—"
Renard stood still. Blank. Not confused. Not victorious.
Just still.
Kael looked at the wound. Then at Renard.
And laughed.
Later.
The medic tent smelled of rustleaf, steel, and a pinch of bad humor.
Kael sat on the edge of a cot, shirt off, shoulder wrapped in layers of bandage and vinegar poultice.
Across from him, leaning one elbow on a crate of spare scalpels, was Lysara Vale—medic, saboteur, and sometimes sharpshooter when the mood hit right.
Her grin was lazy. Dangerous. Her braid fell over one shoulder like a fuse waiting to light.
"Two inches left," she said, dabbing his bandage again, "and your heart was a kebab. Two inches right, you're drinking meals through a tube."
Kael winced. "Sounds like I got lucky."
"You did," she said. Then smirked. "So did he."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You think he held back?"
"No," she replied. "I think he meant to kill you. And you just barely ducked being a corpse."
Kael looked at the tent flap, where the fog still curled outside like breath.
"That wasn't a mistake. That wasn't a wild swing. That was death in the skin of a panicked cadet."
Lysara's smile faltered.
Kael tapped the bandage once.
"He didn't look like he meant to strike. But I've seen battlefield kills. I've done them. That wasn't hesitation. That was a clean lethal move, angled wrong at the last possible second."
He leaned closer, voice low.
"He's not a swordsman. He's something else pretending to be bad at it. And I only survived because my instincts were faster than his training."
Lysara blinked. Then gave a short, quiet laugh.
"...Shit."
Kael smiled. "Exactly."
And outside, the fog pressed in again.
Waiting for someone to recognize what walked within it.
Renard found Kael just beyond the tree line, where the bramble met stone and the fog curled like a warning. The air was colder here, and the silence deeper—too deep for the usual forest stirrings.
Kael sat on a mossy log, the remains of a whetstone beside him, his blade untouched.
He didn't look up. Just muttered, "I deflected that strike because I had to. Not because I could."
Renard crossed his arms, silent.
Kael finally glanced at him, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "You ever get the feeling someone sent you to die somewhere no one would bother checking?"
Renard raised an eyebrow. "That why you're here?"
Kael exhaled through his nose. "Officially? Reassigned for 'nonstandard tactical conduct' during the Caerenhold border push. Unofficially? I was too good at surviving the wrong way. They dumped me here three weeks ago. Said this ridge line covers an old pass. 'Strategic if necessary.'"
He pointed vaguely east, toward the horizon. "That pass hasn't seen a real skirmish in ten years. But I've felt something in the mist lately. That kind of stillness you only get when someone's watching."
Renard lowered himself to a squat, fingers brushing the dew-slick moss. "Wraithpine was the same. The fog didn't roll in—it settled like it already owned the place. Pitch-oil anchors. Dead air. No footprints. Rotating pairs..."
Kael straightened. "Hold on. You saw that too?"
Renard nodded slowly. "They didn't want the land. They wanted to see who noticed."
Kael's smirk disappeared. He looked around as if re-evaluating every tree.
"Caerenhold doctrine. I fought it in the Ember Reaches. They don't announce war. They test terrain. Erase scouts. Build false positives. They don't conquer—they substitute. Replace normal with silence."
He ran a hand through his hair. "But this? This is the first time I've seen them move this early. Fog manipulation that deep? That's not probing. That's staging."
Renard's gaze sharpened. "Then this post wasn't a punishment. It's a watchtower. Quiet. Disposable. But placed exactly where it needed to be."
Kael gave a low whistle. "You think someone up high saw this coming?"
Renard said nothing for a moment.
Then: "I think someone gave me a chance. I was too dangerous to keep—but too useful to discard."
Kael looked at him again. Really looked.
And extended his hand.
"Then let's prove them right."
Renard took it. Not as commander to soldier. But as one ghost to another.
Phantom Wing wasn't united.
Not yet.
But it wasn't broken anymore.
It was waking up.