06:30 p.m. - At Drakensvale Camp
The war tent smelled of smoke, oil, and old sweat. Torchlight jumped across the canvas in quick, warm sparks. Shadows crawled along the ceiling like tired insects. A worn map lay on the table, scarred by knife cuts and stained with wine. Men and women crowded around it, voices clashing like struck metal.
Varrik: !( "More dragons, that's what we need! We hit hard and burn faster. We cannot let them breathe!" )
The shout rolled through the tent, heavy as a hammer. Varrik's scarred face looked harder with every word. He stood big and loud, like an axe waiting to fall.
Lyscia (taps the map): "Two hundred villagers with pitchforks won't hold those walls. If we garrison there, we can use the village to trap Draemyr."
Mersha (fingers steepled, protective): "And if we force him into the open? Draemyr doesn't fight fair. He will lead us straight into a trap."
The noise rose and dipped. Some spoke of revenge. Some spoke of careful plans. Seraphina stayed still, hands flat on the wooden table. Her black-red armor drank the torchlight and sent it back like sparks. She did not shout. She waited until the storm of sound fell around her.
Seraphina (rests her palms on the map, calm): "Cease."
The single word cut the arguing. Silence settled like a heavy cloak. Faces turned to her—curious, respectful, doubtful. Her gaze moved from one face to the next, slow and steady.
Seraphina's mind thinking must be: (I cannot let our men die for pride. I must hold us together.)
Lyscia looked at her like a hawk. She respected Seraphina's courage and judged every plan with a cool mind.
Varrik (glowers, voice like gravel): "You want us to stop using what has always worked for Drakensvale? Strength and fire win wars, Seraphina, not hesitation."
Seraphina met his glare without flinching.
Seraphina (meets Varrik's stare): "Loyalty frays when you feed it only with fear. Fear buys obedience for a night, not devotion for a life. We must keep our people with us, not push them to hate."
Mersha—Seraphina's older sister—watched from across the table. Years of campaigns had carved lines into Mersha's face. She moved like a woman used to giving orders and making them obey.
Mersha (sharp, sisterly): "You choose caution, little sister (younger sister). What good is caution when Draemyr has bled us dry?"
Seraphina's hand slid to the hilt of her dragonfire blade. The metal glinted thin and dangerous in the torchlight.
Seraphina (soft, firm): "Mersha… your counsel steadies me. But we cannot let Draemyr gather his forces."
Mersha laughed, but the sound was bitter.
Mersha (laughs, bitter): "Easy to say from a warm tent. Will walls and banners stop a shadow like him?"
Varrik jabbed a finger toward the inked circle where Eryndral Village lay. The map sat like a wound in the center of the table.
Varrik: !( "Draemyr butchered ten thousand of our men at Blackfen Gorge. Ten thousand. If we do not act now—if we let him rebuild—he will carve us apart. We take Eryndral Village tonight. Cut his supplies. Force him out." )
The words fell like armour striking wood. Some men straightened, quick as strings pulled. Some looked only at the map and the red ink that marked the target.
Lyscia (analytical): "Stone walls will hold better than a field. Garrison there; we get a staging point. From there, we can hunt him."
Mersha (snaps, losing patience): "Logical? Last winter you said burning that village was logical. Look at the ash and the hate we left. Draemyr will use that. They rebuild for blood, not peace."
Seraphina blinked. The memory of that burned winter sat heavy in her chest—faces she could not forget. The inked path to Eryndral glowed red on the map, like a fresh wound.
Seraphina (quiet, guilty): "I promised you land, Mersha."
Mersha's gauntleted hand crushed the map until the lines smeared.
Mersha (voice rough): "You promised me retirement near the Silver Peaks. I walked those slopes last spring."
Seraphina (measured): "The deed is signed. Ten square leagues of vineyards."
Mersha (cold laugh): "Do not buy me with land like some common sellsword. After Veyndral and the years, do you think fields will fix what is broken?"
The name Veyndral hung like iron between them. It held scars that would not fade.
Mersha pressed her gauntlet down harder. The inked route to Eryndral crumpled and tore beneath her fingers.
Mersha (voice low): "Twenty thousand soldiers. Four generals. Does Varrik mean to waste them on a hamlet that births traps?"
Seraphina swallowed. She wanted to argue that the walls would protect enough men to win a larger fight. The memory of Blackfen Gorge—the screaming, the mud slick with blood—stopped her voice halfway.
Seraphina (grips her sword tight): "Draemyr slaughtered ten thousand at Blackfen Gorge. We cannot let him regroup."
Mersha (cuts her off, voice sharp): "Must what? Throw good men after ghosts? You chase him and he leads you into slaughter. He is no ordinary commander. He slips."
Mersha's eyes held both accusation and a plea.
Mersha (soft, hard): "After this campaign… your retirement deed will mean something. I want to leave this life with some peace."
Seraphina watched the older woman. The quiet in Mersha carried the weight of many losses—the men she had buried, the nights she had woken to distant screams. The torchlight mapped those memories on her face.
Then Lyscia spoke, her voice cool as blade steel.
Lyscia (tilts her chin): "The dragon we sent to hit the front has not returned. It's been too long. We cannot wait for a beast that may never come. If the dragon is lost, we move with what we have. Infantry only. No more waiting."
The tent shifted. Men exchanged looks. The idea of a dragon as a force was a vow turned into silence. Without the dragon, plans changed; speed mattered more than ceremony.
Varrik (barks): "We cannot stand idle for a wyrm that might have been struck down. The men expect orders. They expect action. Infantry moves tonight."
Varrik's voice was a drum beat. He pushed the choice like a wedge.
Seraphina (leans in, decision hard): "If the dragon is gone, then we do not wait. We take Eryndral with our boots and blades. But we must be clever—no blind charges."
Seraphina's mind thinking must be: (We act now with what we have. I will not throw men away for pride.)
Mersha (nods, hands steady): "Then I lead the Ashen Wing. We go in first, scout the walls, pin his scouts. If Draemyr tries to lure us—he will find iron instead."
Lyscia (calculating): "We hold the main road to the east. Supply lines stay tight. We cut any escape routes. Without dragon fire, we must deny him speed."
Varrik slammed his palm on the table and the map jumped.
Varrik: !( "We will show them that Drakensvale does not need monsters to break men. Tonight, our infantry will make the world burn." )
The words were raw and loud, meant to lift hearts and harden wills. Some men cheered softly. Others wore a look that mixed fear and grim resolve.
Seraphina (quiet, to Mersha): "Take the Ashen Wing. Keep your men close. Do not gamble on revenge."
Mersha (wraps fingers around a strap): "I will not gamble. I will tear him out of the wood if I must."
Lyscia bent over the map, tracing the paths with careful fingers.
Lyscia (points): "We march along the Sylva tributary until we hit the lane south of the village. We leave a reserve at the hill to the west. If Draemyr appears, we close like a net."
Varrik (short): "Midnight. No dragon, no delay. Infantry only."
The generals gave orders in quick, sharp bursts. Men outside the tent began to prepare. Boots were checked, pikes sharpened, flasks filled. The camp buzzed like a hive just before the queen stirs.
After the others left, the tent grew small and quiet. The map lay between Seraphina and Mersha, crumpled but still marked by the plan. The smell of smoke and leather hung heavy, and the torch burned a bit lower.
Mersha (methodical, unbuckles her gauntlets): "You promised me retirement lands near the Silver Peaks…"
Seraphina (firm): "The deed is signed. The vineyards are yours."
Mersha (bitter): "Words do not keep men alive. After Veyndral, what promise can truly hold?"
Seraphina's throat tightened. The memory of pulling Mersha from burning rubble when they were younger sat like a stone in her chest.
Mersha (traces the route on the map, voice rough): "We have twenty thousand men ready. Enough to besiege Castle Aurelthorn itself. Does Varrik expect us to throw them at a village without thinking?"
Seraphina (snap): "Enough, Mersha. I am First General of Drakensvale, not your—"
Mersha (cuts in, fierce): "My what? My charge? My responsibility? Or are you tired of the woman who changed your swaddling clothes?"
Seraphina flushed. The two women had been sisters in arms for years—the younger and the older, the steady and the hardened. The bond was fierce, messy, and real.
Seraphina (soft): "Do not call me weak. I lead because I must."
Mersha paused at the flap, her crimson cloak catching a stray breeze.
Mersha (pauses): "We both know that vineyard deed was more a promise than a thing to take. Bring me back home when this ends."
She stepped into the night. Her cloak whipped behind her like a dark banner.
Seraphina stood alone by the table. The torchlight turned the red edges of her armor into a glow like coals. Outside, the warhorn echoed again. Men would march at midnight. The horizon beyond the tents was a dark line of movement and intent.
The dragon had vanished from the sky; its absence shifted the plan like a missing tooth changes a bite. They would not wait for monsters that might never return. They would move with the men at their backs.
The choice sat before Seraphina like the dawn: slow, unavoidable, and burning.
(The horizon held men and motion. Decisions would come in their own time—sharp at first light, and heavy with the cost that follows.)
06:30 p.m. At Drakensvale Camp
The night smelled of torch smoke and iron. Men and women pulled their cloaks tight against a cold wind that moved across the plain. Rows of tents made a black line that broke the horizon. Banners snapped and clicked like hard tongues in the dark. Twenty thousand soldiers stood like a sea of shadow, each face lit by moving firelight.
On a raised wooden platform, Varrik stood above them. The torches painted his scarred skin in orange and black. His face was hard and old in the light, though he was not old by years. The scar from his jaw to cheek caught the flames and threw a crooked shadow. He held a blade that flashed silver when he moved. When he cleared his throat the camp fell quieter than a held breath.
(Varrik's mind thinking): (Tonight we make a clean mark. They will know who we are.)
Varrik: !(Warriors of Drakensvale! Look at those men beside you! Each one has been forged in fire. Each one has stood when others fled!)
The sound that answered him was not quiet. It was a low, rising roar that rolled across the camp like distant thunder. Men slammed their spears on shields. Horses snorted. Torches bobbed.
Varrik: !(Do you remember Blackfen Gorge? Do you remember the ten thousand taken? Draemyr thinks we sleep. He thinks we will not fight. I SAY NO!)
A cheer broke like a wave. It struck the sky and came back down. Men who had not laughed in months found their voices. They shouted the name of their general until the word shook.
Soldier (pounding spear on shield): "For Blackfen! For Varrik!"
Young Soldier (yelling): "We won't forget! We won't forgive!"
Varrik moved his arm. The scarred line of his hand cut the air. The flame light made his eyes bright and hard. He let the words fall clean, like a blade.
Varrik: !(At dawn the enemy will wake and find only ash where their homes stood. Eryndral Village will be ours!)
The words hit the crowd like a drum. Some shouted for food and grain. Some shouted for fire. Their voices braided into one thing: hunger and wanting and war. Varrik's voice grew louder as he spoke, and even those at the back of the camp heard every word.
Varrik: !(Its walls will be our shield. Its granaries will feed our people. When we take Draemyr from his hiding place, King Aldric will learn what counting corpses costs!)
A few men spat. A woman in a wool cloak laughed, low and rough. The old and tired stood straighter. The camp smelled stronger now—sweat and oil and iron and the small sweet smell of wine.
Crowd (cheering): "For fire! For empire!"
Varrik's blade flashed. He raised it high, and the sound of twenty thousand voices rose to meet it. It was not a quiet thing. It was war spoken aloud.
Varrik: !(You do not march alone! The Dragons of Veyndral watch above us! The legions behind us will not fail! FORWARD—TO VICTORY!)
The last shout threw the torches higher, as if the flames answered. Shields banged in a steady thunder that matched the beat of men who had waited long for a reason. The platform shook with the shout and with the weight of hope and hate.
Soldier (roaring): "FOR VARRIK! FOR DRAGONS!"
Young Woman (whispering to her older brother): "We fight tonight, older brother. Stay close." Older Brother (clasping her shoulder): "I will. We go together."
For some, the words meant bread and a new life. For others they meant blood and an ending. Yet all of them were pulled forward like iron to a magnet. In the dark the lanterns marched, and each step was a promise to those who would be left behind.
The horns blew. Long horns, low and full, rolled out across the tents. Packs were slung. Horses were mounted. Men tightened straps and checked blades. A slow, steady movement began. The whole camp uncoiled and became a single, moving thing.
Varrik descended the platform and walked among them. He did not speak then. He only let his presence be a weight. Men touched his cloak. Some spat on their hands and gripped his arms like a talisman. His scarred face was close to theirs. He looked like a leader and like a man who had seen too much.
Old Captain (hand on sword): "Keep your lines tight. Watch the flanks."
Sentry (shouting): "Guard the camp's rear! Do not let scouts pass!"
A child—no older than a young sister—hid behind a barrel, peeking at the soldiers with wide eyes. She had come with a mother who carried a bale of cloth. The mother bent down, whispered, and kissed the child's brow.
Mother (softly): "Be brave, little one. Pray to the gods for us."
The air smelled of iron again as men sharpened knives and strapped on armor. The crescents of their helms looked like teeth in the firelight. Horses stamped, impatient for the road. Commanders passed orders. No one lingered. The line of the horizon leaned toward the east where Eryndral waited under a black and thin sky.
Varrik: !(They cut like thieves in the night, Draemyr and his foxes. Tonight we close the den and burn the brush. Let the fox smell smoke and know fear.)
His words were sharp. Men began to chant. The chant was a simple thing: "Burn them. Take them. No mercy." It matched the hardness in many faces.
Drummer (beating drum): "Wheels forward. Step on the march!"
The army moved like a dark tide over the plain. Torches bobbed like a second, broken line of stars. The banners moved slow and proud. They were all shapes and colors when a wind hit, and then they were nothing but black against the sky.
As they walked the trees at the edge of the camp seemed to breathe. Between their trunks, small points of light appeared—strange, like broken glass held to the night. They pulsed in patterns that did not belong to any campfire. Men whispered and pointed, but the army did not slow.
Scout (pointing to trees): "Look—those lights. What are they?"
Varrik (stopping, looking to the trees): "Keep moving. Don't watch the dead things. Eyes on the road."
Yet even as he said it, the lights grew. They pulsed like fractal designs, moving in tight loops that made the air feel thin. The torches flickered. Some men cursed. Others made signs to the gods. No one quite knew what those lights meant, but they moved between the trunks and seemed to breathe with a mind of their own.
Young Soldier (swearing): "What the hell—?"
Older Captain (gripping rein): "Do not break rank. March!"
The army crossed a low ridge and began its slow descent toward Eryndral. In the distance the village lights were two small stars. The road wound like a thin scar across the fields. The night pressed close, and the wind sounded like low voices. Men tightened cloaks. Some hummed old songs. Others stared at the blade that hung from their hip.
Varrik walked at the head, his blade catching occasional moonlight that slipped behind the clouds. He did not show fear. He showed will. Men followed that will because they had no other safe place to put their trust.
Crowd (soft chant): "For Varrik. For home."
As they moved, a traveler on the road, wrapped in a gray hood, watched them go. He did not say a word. He only watched and then stepped back under a tree, where the strange lights between the trunks pulsed and blinked like small hearts.
No one sang about the future. No one promised a morning. They only promised this night and what they would do within it. The road carried them toward a place where history shifted and where, unknown to them, the patterns of the trees would remember this march long after the bodies were gone.
Varrik: !(Forward! Take what is ours! Leave nothing for Draemyr to boast about!)
When the cry came, the whole line answered as one. It was loud enough to wake birds that slept deep in the woods. It was loud enough to mark the world with its shape.
They marched into the black. Torches made long lines that bent and broke. The wind took away the banners' sound until all that was left was the steady beat of feet and the faint, strange pulse of lights between the trees. Somewhere ahead, the road turned toward the village and toward whatever end the night had chosen for them.
Somewhere in the dark, the fractal light between trunks made a slow pattern, like a clock turning. The trees watched. The horizon swallowed the road. The soldiers did not know that they were walking into more than a battle. They did not know their march would be a word in a long story that the land would tell for years.
Crowd (whispering): "Eryndral. Take it. For home."
The torches moved on. The night took them. The camp that had been a roar was now a long, moving line. The platform where Varrik had stood was empty, lit only by a single torch left burning as a sign. The scarred leader looked once at the glow, then forward to the road.
Varrik (quiet, to no one in particular): "Tonight we make a mark. May the world remember us."
He mounted his horse and rode with the tide of men. Behind him, the camp fell silent at last. The air where they had stood was already cooling. Where their footsteps passed, the grass bent like a city street after a parade. The torchlight dimmed and the strange lights between the trees pulsed once more, as if keeping time with a heart no one could see.
They went on, toward dawn and toward the unknown. The world waited, and the road swallowed the sound of their march.
10:10 p.m. - At Eryndral Village
Jonas (wiping soot from his hands): "Ryan," he said softly, "you risked yourself for me back there. I won't forget it."
Ryan (scratching the back of his neck): "I just... couldn't stand there and watch. Didn't feel right."
Jonas (studying the ruins): "This is Eryndral Village. We've been trapped for years between Aurelthorn and the shadow of Drakensvale. War never leaves us in peace."
(Ryan's head felt empty and loud at once. Where am I? This can't be real. Maybe it's a dream, or some hyper-real game.)
Ryan listened to Jonas and tried to keep his voice steady. The man's eyes showed tired thanks more than praise, and that was easier to handle than a crowd staring. Ryan kept his hands tucked near his backpack as if it could steady him.
Jonas (patting the bundle of herbs): "I gather roots and leaves from the forest, mix them into medicines. Without them, half this village would not have survived fevers, broken bones, or raids. That is my craft, and my duty."
Ryan (glancing at the herbs he had found): "I found some plants when I was out. I don't know much, but maybe you'll recognize them?"
Jonas (brightening): "A traveler who gathers herbs? That is rare. Tell me what you found."
Ryan listed what he remembered, stumbling over the old names he'd heard from the villagers. Jonas corrected him kindly, explaining uses for each plant. The list was real and useful; the names fit the world around him.
Jonas (counting and nodding): "
Healing Balm x 3: promotes healing of minor wounds.
Sootheleaf x 5: reduces inflammation and soothes pain.
Nightshade x 2: a potent poison when misused, but effective against fevers if prepared correctly.
Firethorn x 4: used to create tinctures that ward off colds when brewed correctly.
Moonflower x 6: known for calming effects; often used for anxiety.
Ironroot x 2: boosts physical strength; beneficial for those recovering from exertion.
Mystic Fern x 1: enhances clarity of thought; reputed to improve focus during spells.
Bramblethorn x 3: provides defense against minor spells; used as a protective charm.
Lunar Peppermint x 2: good for digestion and calming stomach aches.
Bloodberry x 4: increases stamina and vitality; great for athletes and laborers.
Frostbloom x 1: enveloped in cold magic; can be used to treat burns but must be handled with care.
Starlight Herb x 3: used in potions for sleep, granting peaceful, restorative rest."
Jonas (patting Ryan's shoulder): "You have a good eye. These will help heal the wounded tonight. Even if you didn't know their worth, you still brought them."
Ryan (quietly): "Guess I was just lucky."
(Jonas thinks I am a merchant. I should not correct him. The last thing this place needs is more questions. Keep it simple.)
Jonas (leaning forward): "Where do you come from, Ryan? Your speech is... different. And your clothing—unlike any I've seen."
Ryan felt the twinge of panic. The village smelled of smoke and damp straw; the sky to the west was low with cloud and shadow. He tugged the sleeve of his bright jacket as if it could hide him.
Ryan (forcing a small smile): "Far from here. Westward, mostly. I travel with caravans, trading what little I can. The road was long, and... not kind. Bandits took most of what I carried."
Jonas (nodding slowly): "A merchant, then. The west breeds many hardships, and those who survive the roads are seldom ordinary men."
(Ryan laughed in his head. I look like a walking billboard—rainbow jacket, orange shirt, running shoes. If this is a game, it's got a weird outfit glitch. If it's a dream, I picked a strange wardrobe.)
Ryan (shrugging): "Useful. I can only hope."
Jonas (watching the ruined houses): "Then perhaps that is why the others looked to you earlier. You stand out. And in times like these, standing out can make a man seem stronger than he is."
Ryan swallowed. The words hit him harder than he thought they would.
(Ryan thinking): (Sometimes fate chooses not the strongest, but the one who cannot walk away. Great, now my life sounds like a damn novel. I should know this—I've read too many war stories. Romance of the Three Kingdoms... those battles, the plans, the failures. But reading is not the same as swinging a blade.)
Ryan had never fought in a real war. In his old life he had read about sieges and formations and the brilliant but bloody strategies of old generals he admired from books. Those pages lived in his head like equations and flowcharts. Now he stood among smoldering houses and frightened villagers who needed more than theory.
(Ryan thinking): (Books give you ideas. They don't give you courage. They don't stop arrows.)
He looked at Jonas again. The man's hands were thick with calluses and soot. He smelled of herbs and smoke, not of polished armor. He did not seem to expect a commander from Ryan, just a neighbor who cared.
Ryan (softly): "I may not have magic, or a sword arm worth much, but where I'm from... we solved problems differently."
Jonas (half laughing): "Not everyone here can cast spells. But some are gifted by the spirits of earth, water, fire, and wind. It is not trickery—it is the breath of the land itself."
(Ryan thinking): (No skill, no status, no magic shown on any HUD. If this is a game, it's a brutal one. If this is a dream, the rules are missing. I don't even know my stats.)
The smoke drifted between them, and a child ran past, clutching a bundle of clothes. Villagers moved like ghosts along the edges, their faces hollow but alive. Ryan felt both useless and restless. The urge to act pulled at him, but his hands were not callused for wielding spear or mortar; they were made for keyboard taps and precise clicks.
Ryan (muttering when Jonas looked away): "Okay. Think. You read strategy books. Use them."
(Ryan aloud, to himself): "We need a place to hide the injured, get firewood, and set a watch. Rotate shifts. Use the herbs for triage—start with Firethorn and Sootheleaf for the cold and inflammation. Starlight Herb for sleep if they can't rest."
Jonas (turning back): "What was that, Ryan?"
Ryan (embarassed, rubbing his glasses): "Nothing. Just... thinking out loud."
Jonas (smiling): "A quiet man who speaks to himself. Perhaps that is the right sort for this work."
(Ryan thinking): (God, I'm talking like a strategist from my books. Not the same as being brave. But maybe strategy is what I have. Maybe that's enough.)
Ryan (determined, but low): "Then we start small. Stabilize the wounded, barricade what we can, and keep watch. I can help with plans and making teams."
Jonas (eyes steady): "It will do. We need minds as well as swords."
(Ryan thinking): (All those nights with Romance of the Three Kingdoms... Zhang Fei's roar, Zhuge Liang's schemes. This is not them, but the thinking is the same—use what you have. Keep the people alive.)
He might be dreaming. He might be in a game. He might have no skills on a menu, no magic to cast. But he had a head full of strategies, honest hands that could tie a bandage, and a will not to walk away.
Ryan (softly): "Then let's do it. Show me what to do with these herbs."
Jonas (gathering the bundle): "Come. The wounded are inside the long hall. We will work by lamplight."
(Ryan thinking): (This is real enough for now. If it's a dream, I'll keep playing smart. If it's not, then I have to be useful.)
10:10 p.m. - At Outskirts, Eryndral Village
From the dark edge of the woods two scouts pressed themselves low against the gnarled roots of an old tree. Their breaths came quick and small. Between them, the clearing opened on a sight that did not belong in any quiet night.
Across the valley a huge army lay stacked like a red-black tide at the mountain's base. Tents in shades of black and crimson made a rough city. Banners snapped in the cold wind. The boys stared as if the world had flipped.
Scout (whispers): "Do you see that?"
Scout (stammers): "It's like the old tales... an army."
The first scout pointed, eyes wide. The second's face drained of color.
Scout (whispers): "They must be ten thousand. At least. Hidden in the fog."
They slid back through the trees, boots soft on leaf and root. Every step felt heavy, as if the dark itself pushed on their shoulders. Fear made them quick.
Scout (runs in): "We found the Drakensvale forces!"
Ryan met the scout's gaze. He felt small under the weight of that news, like a player whose save file might be erased. He did not know where he was. He did not know what rules this place ran on. Everything looked too real—he kept thinking it was a dream, or a very good game.
(I must be dreaming. This has to be a game. I don't know any skills or magic here. What if I can't do anything?)
Ryan (quietly): "How many?"
Scout (panting): "Ten thousand. They wait at the mountain's foot, wrapped in fog. We must hurry."
The words landed and did not leave. Ten thousand. The number felt impossible. Ryan's chest tightened. He hated crowds when all eyes turned to him—he was an introvert. But when he was alone with his thoughts he spoke to himself like a running program, testing ideas out loud.
Ryan (mutters to himself): "Okay. Okay. Keep it together. Don't panic. Think like a puzzle."
Around him villagers moved from confusion to action. Farmers, women, children—some of the children clutched at older hands. The village made a small sound that was not quite a cry, not quite a prayer. Tools were raised; crude spears were passed to those who had never held them for battle. Faces hardened.
Villager (shouts to others): "Arm yourselves! Help carry the wagons!"
Ryan felt the plan he'd sketched in his head slip into place. He was no soldier, but he could organize. He could make lists, give orders. That he could do.
Ryan (commands, voice low): "Sound the alarm—gather everyone to the square. Bring what can be used as shields. Lock the granary."
The scout nodded and ran. The sound that followed—footsteps, shouted names, the metallic clink of hurried hands—pulled the village into motion. People moved with grim purpose, doing what needed to be done.
Ryan watched them. He wanted to shout louder, to stand on a crate and preach bravery. He didn't. He felt the old pull to hide, to be small. Instead he gave clear, quiet instructions. Quiet worked better than noise.
Ryan (to himself): "We have to hold, at least until help comes. Find cover. Move the children. Don't waste weapons."
He flitted between commands and private tests of thought, like someone debugging a program in real time. His mind kept circling back to the same questions: Where am I? Are the rules fixed? Do I have any power here? None of it answered. The fog across the valley kept its secrets.
A cold wind moved through the village. The banners on the enemy line shifted like a pulse. Ryan felt the horizon press in—this night would decide a lot. The scouts ran back toward the trees to find more information. The village braced.
Ryan (soft, to himself): "We're going to need every bit of luck."