The cold of the night cut through the forest like a thin blade, and each gust seemed to steal more than warmth — it felt like it was taking what little was left of them.
The shadows of the trees stretched over the damp ground, twisted, almost human, as if the forest itself were trying to remind the soldiers how many it had already swallowed in that darkness.
The formation walked in silence — not from discipline, but from exhaustion.A silence broken only by the heavy drag of boots and the uneven breathing of men who had seen more than they ever should have.
Iaso appeared first.
She stepped out of the shadows with her body whole — but her gaze fractured.
Snow-white hair, long to the middle of her back, tangled and streaked with earth; pale green eyes, once bright, now shivering with exhaustion.
Her fair skin showed fresh scratches.
Despite her gentle, economical movement, her clothes were torn by branches, thorns — marks of direct combat.
Dust and dried blood stained the fabric.
"The North is… clear," she said, voice coarse, breath faltering mid-sentence. "The creatures I found were eliminated. Nothing that threatens immediate advance."
No soldier relaxed.
"Clear" did not mean safe.
Not anymore.
Lys appeared shortly after — emerging from the west like a shadow newly stitched into the world.
Her slim, almost skeletal body moved with the precision of a tired ballerina.
Her black hair, braided into thin cords tight to the scalp, was streaked with dirt and leaves.
Metal-gray eyes — still as cold blades — scanned the troop with clinical attention.
Her pale skin made the grayish stains on her hands stand out, long dried cuts scoring through them.
Her fitted clothes — dark, satin-like tones — were torn, revealing hidden sheaths and fine wires used in the fight.
"West clear," she said, her voice low and controlled. "The creatures were neutralized. The terrain isn't fit for camp, but it's high enough for watch. I found no enemy movement."
Their battle-scarred clothes were a cruel reminder of what they had lost — and who they had left behind.
A muted murmur moved through the troop.
No one spoke of the 158 who had stayed behind.
No one needed to.
The forest seemed to carry their sound for them.
Neriah came last.
She didn't walk — she advanced, as if her body were pushing through resistance itself.
Her cold, pale skin glimmered under the moonlight like wet marble; deep blue eyes, crystalline, held a steadiness that defied exhaustion.
Silver hair, long and faintly translucent, hung damp as if she had passed through a veil of living fog.
Her garments were torn by recent blows, dark stains still fresh along the cloth.
"Southern area clear," she said — voice whispered but intense, like a promise of survival.
"The creatures I found were eliminated. I discovered a shelter… a clearing surrounded by high stone. Protected. Silent. Enough to last the night."
Enough for them to stop bleeding.
Brianna stepped forward.
And the air seemed to shape itself around her — as if even the night recognized the weight she carried on her shoulders.
"Lead the group," she ordered. "No one slows down. We have too many men at their limit… and an attack to prepare by dawn."
No one argued.
None would dare.
Some looked away.
Others only tightened their grip on their weapons, feeling what went unspoken:
with so few left, hesitation would be fatal.
Brianna glanced at Ryden — restrained, but distant, as if part of him had been left behind in the metamorphosis that nearly devoured him.
"He remains under constant watch," she said, voice too low to echo. "We won't lose anyone else tonight."
The company moved, following Neriah.
The forest's silence seemed to watch.
And as the soldiers advanced toward the clearing, the weight of a night full of ghosts walked with them — each step pushing them closer to dawn.
And to the inevitable assault on the Eastern Kingdom.
The clearing revealed itself gradually — an irregular circle surrounded by high rocks, deep shadows gathering in the cracks like stone mouths waiting to swallow sound.
It was narrow.
Cold.
Empty.
But it was enough.
Brianna stepped in first, not waiting for the soldiers to finish entering the open space.
"Skýra. Kaelir. Rynne," she said — voice steady, needing no volume to command. "Search everything. Cracks, stone, the underground if you can. No one rests until I'm certain we are alone."
The three moved immediately — fast, precise shadows vanishing between the stones like blades sheathing themselves into invisible scabbards.
When she turned, she saw Karna emerging from the narrow corridor of trees, carrying Ryden alone across his shoulders, the body pressed to his chest — as if letting go would be a risk he could not take.
"Here." Karna signaled two soldiers with a brief gesture.
They ran to him and he transferred Ryden into their arms with exaggerated care, as if any movement might shatter him.
Only after ensuring he was steady did Karna step back.
Brianna turned to the rest of the troop.
"Lay Ryden down," she ordered, pointing to a patch of relatively flat earth. "Blankets underneath. His breathing needs to stabilize."
Two soldiers hurried, clearing a space and settling the Sleeping One's body with the delicacy of someone handling glass.
Brianna crossed the clearing then — cold wind against her face — and stopped before Neriah.
Then her eyes moved to Lys.
And lastly, to Iaso.
The three stood upright — barely.
"I need to confirm if any wound has begun to darken… any sign of contamination must be treated before it sets," she murmured — more to herself than to them.
She examined each detail — breath, stance, bruises half-hidden under cloth — then gave a short nod.
"Good. You're clean. Anyone with ANY wound — minimal, superficial, invisible or visible — form a line at the center of the clearing. Now."
The soldiers hesitated only a second.
More than a dozen stepped forward.
Then twenty.
Then nearly fifty.
Only the sound of stones shifting under boots broke the silence as they aligned, exhausted — some limping, others merely fighting to stay upright.
Brianna walked among them like someone inspecting survivors of a ruin.
Because that's what they were.
Ruins of an army.
When she finished, she lifted her face, breathed deep, studying the empty space beyond.
"Prepare the perimeter," she said. "No tents. No fires. No banners." Her jaw tightened. "We don't have the luxury of looking too alive."
The soldiers worked with what remained: scraps of canvas, broken spears, frayed rope, provisions so scarce they barely filled a clenched fist.
The clearing shaped itself not into a camp…
…but into an improvised shelter for those still fighting to exist.
Zeph watched in silence as Karna approached — posture hard, still unsettled.
"Sir… Your Highness, the Prince," Zeph asked, voice respectful. "Will he be able to find us?"
Karna didn't answer immediately.
He took an arrow, walked to a fallen tree, and drove its tip into the wood, marking it with precise force.
"We're still within the range of his technique."
The quiet labor of the soldiers spread across the clearing — each moving as if carrying double their weight.
No one spoke more than necessary.
No one had the strength.
The shadows seemed to watch.
And the wind — thin, cutting — carried the metallic scent of dried blood that clung to the group.
Brianna moved among them, assessing positions, perimeter, the breathing of every man.
With each glance she seemed to calculate how long they had until dawn demanded what remained of them — and perhaps more still.
Skýra returned first, stepping out from behind a moss-covered boulder.
"Nothing alive," she said — voice low, almost a nocturnal whisper. "No recent tracks."
Kaelir appeared soon after, wiping soil from his hand onto his trousers.
"Underground intact. No tunnels. No hidden caverns." His sigh was heavy. "For the first time in many hours… I found nothing trying to kill us."
Rynne was last, approaching with steps too soft for someone so exhausted.
"Perimeter secure," she concluded. "For now."
Brianna nodded.
"'For now' is all we need."
The three took position at the clearing's edge like silent sentinels guarding what remained of a broken army.
From afar, Zeph watched soldiers improvising defenses with broken spears and stacked stones.
There was something in his gaze — a small doubt, enough to unsettle.
He approached Karna again.
"Sir… and if the Prince does not—" His voice cracked. "If he takes too long?"
Karna didn't look at him.
His eyes stayed on the arrow embedded in the tree.
"He will come," he answered without hesitation. "Princes don't fall that easily… and Éon less than any."
Zeph swallowed hard, but nodded.
Behind them, a faint groan drew attention.
Ryden moved.
Not much — but enough for Brianna to step closer, expression sharp, assessing his breath, the cold sweat, the unstable metamorphosis flickering beneath his skin.
She touched his forehead.
Too cold.
"He'll fluctuate through the night," she said to herself. "But he's alive. And that's enough."
The night felt heavier now.
Fuller.
As if each of them knew this rest was not a reprieve…
…but one last breath before the sun forced them onward.
Karna finally stepped back, moving away from the marked tree.
He stopped beside Brianna.
"When dawn comes…" he said, without looking at her. "We'll have no reinforcements. No time. And no numbers."
Brianna drew in a slow breath.
"I know."
"It will be a massacre."
She closed her eyes for just a moment — and in that brief stillness she seemed to carry the weight of every dead, every living, all at once.
"Which is why," she answered, "we'll make them pay for every step they take toward us."
The wind slipped between the rocks, dragging silence like a veil behind it.
And for the first time since they arrived, someone dared to look at the sky.
The moon was sinking.
Dawn approaching.
And the Eastern Kingdom…
…would soon be forced to face what remained of them.