The base was dead quiet.
Every head turned as the iron truck rolled past, wheels grinding over gravel. The mounted gun clicked as it rocked in place. Steam hissed from the vents.
No one said a thing.
Inside the front seat, Leon stared straight ahead. His jaw was tight. His fingers tapped the door.
Next to him, Manevela leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. Her horns grazed the roof.
"…This thing moves without horses?" she said, tapping the glass. "But it smells like fire. Is it breathing?"
Leon opened the door without answering and stepped out. His boots hit the dirt hard.
Before she could follow, he circled to her side and opened the door for her.
Manevela raised an eyebrow.
"You still do that sort of thing?" she asked, half teasing.
Leon didn't even look at her. "We can talk about technology and chivalry later. Right now, we move."
She stepped down lightly. "You're no fun."
He didn't respond.
The guards outside the command tent saw them coming. One of them blinked twice and then stiffened up fast.
"Commander," he said, voice tight, hand to the air in salute.
Leon gave a nod. "Open it."
They pulled the flap back.
Inside, the officers were gathered around the table. Someone was marking the last known patrol path with a grease pencil. Another was mumbling about the amount of ammo needed for exploration.
They all looked up.
Then froze.
One officer's eyes went wide. Another instinctively reached for his sidearm.
Leon snapped. "Don't."
The man froze, hand hovering.
"What the hell is this?" another officer barked. "Commander, are you serious? You're bringing that thing in here?"
"That thing is with me," Leon said. "Stand down."
Manevela stepped inside, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like she'd just walked into a playhouse.
One of the older officers stepped forward. "Look, sir, you can't just bring something like her into our—"
"I can," Leon cut in. "And I did."
The officer scowled. "We're not treating a beast like some damn guest."
Leon walked straight up to the table.
"You will if I say so."
That stopped everything.
He let the silence drag for a second.
"I've got full authority in this sector. Direct from General Bruno. You got a problem, I'll let him know myself. But you and I both know what happens if I make that call."
The room went still.
Nobody said a word.
"Exactly," Leon muttered. "Now move. Get a chair. Clear the table."
A younger officer blinked. "You want her to sit with us?"
"She's not here to attack us. She's here to talk. So yeah — give her a damn chair."
The officers hesitated. Then started moving.
Manevela leaned in toward Leon, smirking. "You humans are always so dramatic. It's exhausting."
Leon didn't even flinch. "You haven't seen dramatic yet."
One of the officers pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the tent and pushed in up to the table.
Manevela slid into the chair without being told.
The room stayed tense. Officers shifted in place, eyes flicking between her and Leon. A few avoided looking at her horns. Others didn't bother hiding their discomfort.
Leon stood tall beside the war table, arms folded.
"This is Manevela. She'll be staying with us for the night."
There was a pause.
Someone shifted their weight.
No one spoke.
Manevela rested one leg over the other. Calm. Composed. Like the room belonged to her.
Then, finally, she spoke — voice smooth, lightly amused.
"I suppose I should thank you for the seat. I've spent a long time watching humans from shadows… never thought I'd be sharing their chairs."
Leon didn't look at her. He kept his focus on the officers.
"I know what you're all thinking," he said. "I'd be thinking it too. But let me be clear—she's not our enemy. Not tonight."
Someone coughed quietly. Another officer adjusted his collar.
Leon continued. "I'll be contacting Central Command. The general himself will make the final call. Until then—no moves. No provocations. No heroics."
He stared them down.
"Is that understood?"
Silence.
Then the officers slowly looked toward one another — small glances, subtle nods. No one wanted to be first. No one wanted to be last.
Leon's voice cracked like a whip.
"IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"
"Yes, Commander," they answered in unison — tight, clipped, reluctant.
Leon let it hang a moment.
Then he nodded.
"Good. I'll call Central and report the situation. Until then, treat her with respect. She is my guest."
He turned to Manevela. His voice dropped a touch, firm but not cold.
"I trust you'll behave."
Her head tilted. The corners of her mouth curled.
"Don't talk to me like I'm some child," she said softly. "I know how to act. I've done this longer than you've been alive."
Leon didn't blink. "Good."
He straightened.
"I'll be back soon."
He turned and walked toward the flap without hesitation.
Outside, the air was cold. The fog still clung to the ground. A few guards looked his way as he stepped out, but no one dared speak.
Inside the tent, no one sat.
No one relaxed.
Manevela leaned back slightly, looking at the map table, at the brass pins, the grease-pencil trails marking patrol lines and fallback positions.
She smiled faintly to herself.
Then looked up at the officers still standing there.
"Well," she said casually. "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"
No one answered.
She chuckled.
"Didn't think so."
The wind hadn't stopped. Cold. Dry. Brushing through canvas and steel like a whisper that never ended.
Leon walked with purpose, boots heavy on the gravel path. His breath was visible now — not from fear, but from the air's bite.
The main camp was quieter. Just outside the eastern lane stood the largest tent in the forward zone — double-walled, surrounded by stacked crates, floodlamps, and two mounted guns facing opposite directions. Four riflemen stood guard, arms across chests, eyes sharp.
A black metal pole extended from the center of the tent, disappearing into the dark sky above — the radio tower. Wires buzzed faintly where they were held by glass insulators. Blue signal runes pulsed every few seconds near the top.
Leon walked straight toward the guards.
"Commander," one said, stepping aside, "Is this about the noise from earlier?"
Leon didn't answer. He pushed past the flap.
Inside, it was warm. Generator heat. Lanterns hung low, casting soft light across steel boxes and coiled radio wires. The table in the center was marked with inked maps, cipher keys, signal codes. A communications officer sat with headphones on, scribbling times and call signs. Another man adjusted dials near a glowing rune relay.
Leon brushed past them.
He muttered under his breath as he stepped to the main radio unit."…Fuck me…"
He pulled the mic closer. Clicked the side button.
"Central Command, this is Commander Leon of North Forward Post. Requesting direct line to General Bruno. Priority status. Immediate response."
The line clicked twice. Static.
Then—
"Leon," Bruno's voice came through, rough and low like gravel over steel. "What's the emergency?"
Leon took a breath.
"We've got something unusual. A being approached camp an hour ago — female figure, tall, red eyes, two horns. Claims to be a demon… but spoke fluent German."
Silence.
Then Bruno let out a long, slow exhale.
"Well… damn."
"She's intelligent," Leon continued. "Came unarmed. Requested to speak with me. No aggression so far. She's been civil. We let her in under controlled conditions."
"Well, dayum," Bruno muttered again. "That's interesting, alright."
There was a pause. Background noise came through — voices on Bruno's end, maybe another officer nearby.
"Listen," Bruno said. "I need you to just… keep her calm. Treat her like a guest for now. I'll inform the other departments what to expect when the sun rises. Until then — play it smart. Entertain her. Keep her close. And if anything goes south—"
"I'll contact you immediately," Leon said, voice firm.
"Good man. Anything else?"
"Negative."
"Then keep your head on. And Leon—"
"Sir?"
"If she tries anything funny… you know what to do."
Leon didn't answer. He simply clicked the channel off.
He turned.
The radio operator stared at him, not daring to ask.
Leon moved to the tent flap — then stopped, glanced over his shoulder.
"You," he said, pointing at the nearest soldier.
The man straightened. "Sir!"
"Get a sleeping tent prepped. One of the larger ones, near the officer barracks. Make it… luxurious. As much as you can manage. Comfy bedding. Clean furs. Lanterns. Anything warm. Get three or four of the other men to help you — and tell them I gave you full authority to use what's needed."
The soldier blinked once. Then slammed a hand to his chest.
"Yes, Commander!"
"Go."
The man took off running, boots pounding into the night.
Leon lingered in the warmth of the radio tent for another second. Just a second.
Then he stepped back out into the cold.
The night air greeted him like it always did — silent, wide, and full of questions.
Leon walked fast. Boots crunching gravel and dirt.
He reached the tent. Pulled the flap open.
Then stopped.
The sound hit him first — laughter, mugs slamming together, someone singing off-key.
"…What the hell," Leon muttered, eyes narrowing.
Inside, the officers weren't hunched over maps or radios. They were drinking. Loud. Relaxed. Like it was festival night.
One of them noticed him. Snorted. "Oh look — it's the commander! Come on in, sir, grab a mug!"
Leon stepped in slowly. His expression was flat — shock just barely hidden under the surface.
"Anyone care to explain," he said, voice low, "why my officers are getting intoxicated?"
"Lighten up," Manevela called out from the far side of the tent — holding one of his officers in a headlock, grinning, a massive wooden mug in her free hand. "They were all so tense. I fixed it."
"Lighten up?" Leon echoed. "How the hell did you even get alcohol in here?"
An officer stumbled toward him, arm flung around Leon's shoulder.
"I dunno," the man slurred. "Let's just say it got... mixed up in shipment. Ayyy."
Leon shoved him off with one hand. "Your breath smells like shit."
That got a round of chuckles from the rest of the table. Someone raised a mug. Another belched.
Leon took one more look around.
"Do what you want," he muttered, already turning toward the door. "Manevela, your tent's being set up. If you need directions—ask around."
She didn't miss a beat.
"I will," she said sweetly—then immediately slammed her mug down and pointed across the table. "You. Arm wrestling. Right now."
Leon didn't look back.
He stepped into the cold night air. Pulled on his black leather gloves, one finger at a time. Let out a breath.
Then looked up at the stars.
"Thank you," he whispered.
He adjusted his coat, buttoned the top, and started walking.
"That's another headache gone."