The wind carried no birdsong.
The road to Bustleburg had once been loud with merchants, caravans, laughter, festival drums, the clang of metal from its great artisan markets. Now the air hung still—heavy, cold, as though the land itself had forgotten how to breathe.
Four figures halted at the city's border, where broken stone met trampled earth.
Mikage Reiken stood at the front.
A monk of few words, shoulders relaxed but presence sharp. His fists rested loosely at his sides, each hand wrapped in iron gauntlets that looked too heavy to be used quickly—yet moved faster than sight when he willed it. Among Ostoria's scouts, his title was not "captain," but simply one who decides. That was enough.
Behind him adjusted her satchel straps a woman whose sleeves were stained with the familiar colors of herbs, acids, and recovery tonics—Fukashi Senyaku, alchemist and medic, known for her patient eyes and steady hands. She smelled faintly of mint and sulfur.
To the right knelt Hana Hyakui, short bow resting beside her knee. Her movements were silent, almost gentle, her expression unreadable. Her eyes were her legend—able to read lettering on a hanging sign from half a league away. Her ears, sharper still.
Last stood Jitsumu Zankyō, carrying a shield the size of a door and a lance longer than a carriage axle. He neither tried to hide nor rush; he moved with slow, deliberate strength, the kind that makes a mountain out of a man. He breathed slow, storing calm for when it would be needed.
None of them spoke—not yet.
Bustleburg lay before them.
Reclaimed.
Not by nature.
By industry.
The distant cityscape glowed orange from furnace fires, their smoke stacks rising in disciplined cadence. Kobold work teams moved rubble in coordinated shifts. Ogres patrolled—not wandering, but in formation, step after synchronized step.
No chaos. No disorganized tribal frenzy.
This was military structure.
Hana adjusted her stance, bow resting lightly against Jitsumu's shield. She exhaled, slow, measuring distance and rhythm.
"…Patrol formations rotate every six minutes," she murmured, voice barely above breath. "Six for kobolds. Eight for ogres." Her eyes narrowed. "No overseers in sight. They learned enough to self-direct."
Fukashi removed a tiny glass vial from her belt and flicked it open to catch the wind. The liquid inside shifted from clear to a dirty gray, swirling with agitation.
"Industrial-grade smelting acid," she whispered. "Poor coal. And… something else. Valerian binding agents. A lot of them."
Mikage didn't respond. He watched the movement below.
There was a rhythm to it—an invisible conductor.
Not instinct.
Authority.
"Eyes forward," he said quietly. "We go lower. Ridge ravine, then east gully. No noise."
They descended, bodies low, steps careful on frost-hardened soil. Snow crunched once, and only once—Jitsumu adjusted his footing so lightly it barely registered. They followed the curve of a collapsed irrigation trench, using stone and earth to break their silhouettes.
Halfway down the gully, Hana's hand lifted.
Not a word.
Just a gesture:
Stop. Patrol.
Kobolds—four of them—approaching the narrow pass.
No way to go around. No brush to hide in. The space was too close. Any clash would echo.
Mikage looked to Jitsumu.
The man nodded once.
He stepped into the pass and became stillness itself.
Shield angled. Lance braced. Feet planted with deliberate finality.
The lead kobold struck the shield.
And simply—folded.
The others recoiled in confusion, scraping backward, retreating without sound or plan. The pass fell silent once more.
No killing. No alerts. No wasted motion.
They moved on.
From this lower vantage, Hana Hyakui saw the command building clearly: Bustleburg's old mayoral hall, reinforced and repurposed, torches and forges burning inside.
She sharpen her eyes, to see deeper.
Inside the hall:
The Ogre King paced, massive frame trembling—not with rage, but with restrained rage.
The Kobold King leaned over maps, claws tapping in patterns of calculated focus.
And around them—
Valerian military officers.
Not allies.
Not envoys.
Not negotiators.
Commanders.
"They're being directed," she said quietly. "Their wills are not shared. They are subordinated. This is not an alliance. This is a military chain of command."
Silence.
Hana suddenly stiffened, chin turning toward the south road.
"…Cart wheels," she whispered. "Heavy. Four wheels. Moving slow. Two drivers. Light escort."
Mikage did not hesitate.
"We intercept. No deaths."
The ambush unfolded with the precision of habit.
Jitsumu stepped onto the road and set his shield—an unmovable wall.
Hana's arrows hit with surgical accuracy—shoulders, calves—dropping guards without ending lives.
Mikage moved like a whisper of wind and iron. Three strikes. Three men down.
Fukashi swept the cart, hands fast, mind faster.
Crates of Valerian rations.
Bars of standardized spearheads.
And one sealed courier satchel—official military seal intact.
She passed it to Mikage.
He opened it.
Orders.
Deployment calendars.
Supply rotations.
Siege manufacture quotas.
A march schedule.
Toward the Amarath Plains.
Hana swallowed once, voice thin.
"…Korvath is next."
No one spoke.
There were no words large enough.
They retreated in silence, the ridge rising to meet them again.
Standing there, looking down on the city—they understood:
This was not a horde gathering.
This was a professional army. Forging weapons.
Organizing ranks.
Preparing to march.
Not tomorrow.
Soon.
Mikage tightened the courier satchel at his belt. The weight of it settled into his spine.
Fukashi whispered, barely audible:
"They were not preparing to invade.
They already began."
Mikage didn't respond.
Bustleburg's forges lit the sky like a sunrise.
But there was no dawn here.
Only the start of a war that had already begun.