The night didn't fall gently.
It dropped like a body.
The battlefield smoldered under a dull, red haze—the remnants of flame doctrines clinging to the treeline, glowing like coals in the breathless dark. The pines of Starlight Ridge were no longer trees. They were scorched silhouettes. Silent witnesses to the dead.
Renard Valtierre stood at the heart of it all, sword still sheathed, boots caked with mud and ash. His coat clung to his frame, torn at the edges where flame and blade had licked too close.
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The silence around him was reverent. Or maybe afraid.
Alpha re-formed slowly. Bruised, battered, bleeding, but intact. Their shield wall was half-formed, their discipline shaken—but not shattered.
Omega was worse.
Kael leaned against a broken tree trunk, one shoulder wrapped in torn bandages. Silva's flames flickered low now—tired, too human.
Even C-Team, untouched by direct battle, looked drained. The illusions had held far longer than expected. Rin sat on a rock, fingers twitching like a snapped string.
The Phantom Squad reappeared from the smoke, as if the battlefield released them.
And the Black Sigil Knights?
They didn't retreat.
They simply... stopped.
Wherever they'd been placed, they still stood.
Obsidian helms unmoving. Blades pointed down in resting stance. They weren't men.
They were monuments.
Renard's system pinged softly in his vision.
[Commander Sync Stabilizing: 84%][Battle Morale: +5 | Status: Alerted][Enemy Movement: Ceased – For Now]
He turned, gaze sweeping over the field.
Sorell approached from Alpha's line. Blood dripped from his temple, but his stance remained straight.
"We held," he said.
Renard didn't look at him.
"We survived," he corrected. "That's not the same."
Sorell nodded once.
Behind them, Kael whistled low. "You always this cheerful after a win?"
"No," Renard said. "This wasn't a win."
He walked away from the center, toward the bodies. Cassara lay where she fell—armor split, her blade half-buried in black soil. Veyran stood over her, face unreadable.
"She was good," the Black Sigil captain said quietly.
Renard knelt.
"She was doctrine. Predictable."
Veyran's eyes flicked toward him.
"You always talk about the dead like that?"
"I talk about commanders like that."
A beat.
"And I know this wasn't her plan," Renard added. "She was sent to test us."
Kael joined them. "Then who's coming next?"
Renard stared out into the darkness beyond the ridge.
"Someone worse."
Two Hours Later
The field was cleared.
Not cleaned—there was no time for that—but stabilized.
C-Team worked furiously to recover the wounded. The few Caerenhold survivors had been either executed or taken into guarded custody. Veyran's knights handled the latter. No one argued.
Inside the makeshift war tent—formerly Cassara's—the new command group gathered.
Kael, Sorell, Maera, Nyra, Rin. Veyran leaned against a support beam, arms crossed.
The air was thick with ash and suspicion.
"We lost twelve," Sorell said.
"Eighteen wounded," added Maera. "Six critical. Mostly Omega."
Renard listened without comment.
"The second wave was coordinated," Rin muttered. "Timing, illusions, bait formations—it was designed to collapse our lines."
"But we didn't collapse," Nyra pointed out.
Kael snorted. "Yeah, because he made us retreat into a kill box."
"That kill box was our advantage," Veyran said.
Kael glanced at him. "Since when do you compliment people?"
"Since he earned it," Veyran said. "Today proved something. Not just about him. About us."
A pause.
Sorell finally asked the question that had been hanging unspoken.
"What happens when the next wave comes? When the real force arrives?"
Renard stepped forward.
His coat was clean now, though the scorch marks still clung like shadows. His hair was damp, as if he'd washed off blood but not the memory of it.
"We prepare," he said simply.
"How?" Maera asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he walked to the table in the center of the tent and rolled out a fresh tactical map. The ink was still drying. It wasn't Cassara's plan. It was his.
A new ridge defense.
Fortified kill funnels. Mobile retreat points. Ghost passages layered with false ground.
He tapped three points.
"These are our chokeholds. This is where we bleed them."
He looked at Nyra. "Your team maintains illusion cover."
To Sorell. "Alpha rotates shield walls in staggered rhythms."
To Kael. "Omega doesn't break ranks unless I say."
To Veyran. "The Black Sigil stays hidden until they forget you're there."
Kael gave a low whistle. "You're planning another ambush?"
"I'm planning a funeral," Renard said. "Theirs."
Later That Night
Outside the camp perimeter, Renard sat alone on a high ridge.
The stars were sharp tonight. Cold.
His system flickered.
[Commander Condition: Exhausted][Focus Threshold: 62%][Internal Assessment: Moral Drift – Stabilized][Kill Count: 141]
He closed the interface.
Footsteps approached.
Kael.
He sat down beside Renard without a word. They watched the burning horizon together.
"You always this quiet after a killfest?"
Renard didn't answer.
"Was it worth it?" Kael asked.
A pause.
"They're not broken," Renard said finally. "Just scared."
Kael laughed, low and sharp. "We all are."
"No," Renard replied. "I'm not."
Kael turned. "Then what are you?"
Renard stood.
"Ready."
Next Morning
Renard stood before his troops.
All 159 of them now, with the reinforcements that had trickled in after the Caerenhold lines faltered. Survivors from broken northern posts. Bastards with nowhere to go. Knights with shamed banners.
They stood in formation. Not perfect. Not polished.
But unified.
Renard didn't shout.
He didn't smile.
He only spoke.
"You stood against an army. And you didn't break."
"You followed a ghost into hell. And came back stronger."
"You think the war's done?"
He drew his blade.
It gleamed in the sun.
"It hasn't even begun."