Silpatra's borders did not fall all at once. They frayed first—like cloth pulled too many times at the same seam—until one morning the seam gave way.
The eastern watchtowers were the first to go. Not with fire or screams, but with silence. The horns that usually greeted dawn did not sound. The road remained empty. By noon, riders were sent. By dusk, only one came back.
He had no shield. His spear was broken halfway down the shaft. Mud and blood clung to him so thick they looked painted on. When he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out at first. His throat worked like a dry hinge.
"They waited," he said finally. "They watched us change shifts."
That single sentence did more damage than any blade.
The beasts had learned.
Until now, raids had followed old patterns. Claws at night. Fangs at the edge of forests. Monsters rushed walls and died on spears. That was how it had always been. That was how the manuals were written.
But this time, the beasts did not charge.
They counted.
They let the outer patrol pass. They moved only after the second bell. They struck supply wagons instead of soldiers. They dragged bodies away so none could be counted.
By the end of the week, five border forts were gone.
By the end of the second, twelve.
Messengers rode until their horses collapsed. Ink ran out in the war offices. Maps were stabbed so often with knives that the parchment tore. Each tear marked another place that had been there yesterday and was not there today.
In the capital, the council chamber filled with voices. The room itself seemed to shrink under the weight of them.
"These are not beasts," one lord said. "They move too cleanly."
"They retreat when wounded," another answered. "They protect their flanks."
"They leave scouts," a third added, pale. "They're testing us."
No one said the word war out loud. They did not need to. It hung in the air like smoke, stinging the eyes whether you acknowledged it or not.
Orders were sent before the vote was finished.
All warriors over eighteen were to report.
All forges were to burn day and night.
All grain was to be counted twice.
And all royal trainees were to be scattered.
Far from the capital, far from one another, far from anything worth attacking.
Because someone—something—was being hunted.
In the forested mountains of Biwa, the news arrived slowly.
A merchant cart brought it first. The driver talked too much, his words spilling like grain from a torn sack. He spoke of burned roads, of caravans that never arrived, of prices climbing like ivy up a wall.
Jade listened with her arms crossed. She had that look she got when she pretended not to care but was already sorting details in her head.
"Coordinated raids," the merchant said. "Never seen that before."
Dill swallowed. He had been pale for days, the kind of pale that came from thinking too much and sleeping too little. He scribbled notes even though there was no one to report to.
Kael stood by the fence, lifting a log thicker than a man's torso and setting it aside like it weighed nothing. The fence posts creaked as if relieved.
The log thudded into place.
Then his stomach growled.
It was not dramatic. It did not roar. It was a low, steady sound, like distant thunder that never quite arrived. The fence seemed to lean away from him.
Jade sighed. "Yes, yes. War for the world, tragedy everywhere, and you're starving."
Kael wiped his hands on his trousers. "Meat."
That was all.
They ate in silence that night. Outside, the forest shifted with wind and night creatures. Branches knocked together like bones. The fire popped and leaned, throwing light that climbed the walls and fell again.
Far away, a border village burned.
Closer still, scouts moved through undergrowth with care that would have impressed any academy instructor. They marked paths. They memorized streams. They left nothing behind except one symbol carved into a stone, shallow enough to be missed by anyone who did not know to look.
The cult was patient.
On the western plains, Cassian drew his sword for the first time in the war.
The blade drank deeply.
It cut through scale and sinew alike, its edge shifting subtly with each strike, as if learning the resistance of flesh. Cassian did not swing wildly. He stepped, turned his hips, and let the sword do what it was made to do.
Bodies fell. The ground darkened.
By nightfall, the plains were quiet.
Someone whispered his name with reverence. Someone else whispered it with fear. The sword hummed softly, like a satisfied thing.
Back in Biwa, Kael finished his meal.
He stood, picked up his blade, and checked the edge. The steel caught the firelight and let it go again. He moved through three basic forms without thinking. Step. Turn. Cut. Reset.
No flourish. No wasted motion.
Jade watched him out of the corner of her eye. "You know," she said, "most people train when war starts."
Kael stopped. Considered. Then he set the sword down and reached for another piece of meat.
"Later," he said.
The wind pushed against the cabin walls. Somewhere beyond the trees, something large moved and then went still, as if listening.
Silpatra's borders were falling.