Morning arrived quietly.
A pale gray light crept through the thin seams of the medical tent, soft and hesitant. The night's tension had not vanished. It merely slept and coiled beneath the surface.
Commander Incarceratus lay still.
For the first time since they had pulled him from the tunnel, his body no longer trembled. No violent spasms wracked his limbs, no strangled groans escaped his throat. His breathing was slow and steady, chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. The sweat had dried on his skin, leaving him pale but no longer deathlike.
He looked… peaceful.
Jeanne Ancora stepped inside the tent and paused at the entrance.
She had braced herself for the worst, but the sight before her loosened something tight in her chest. She exhaled slowly, a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding since dawn.
She crossed the tent quietly and knelt beside his bed.
"Incarceratus," she murmured.
No response.
She studied his face closely now, searching for signs of pain, of fear, of whatever nightmare had consumed him. His brow was smooth, jaw relaxed. For the first time in days, he looked like himself again—not a commander, not a symbol, but simply a man resting.
Relief washed over her, warm and dizzying.
She reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a strand of damp hair away from his temple. As she leaned closer, her gaze shifted and something caught her eye.
Behind his ear.
Jeanne frowned slightly and adjusted her angle, pushing his hair aside more carefully. There, just beneath the hairline, was a thin, jagged scar. It curved unnaturally, the skin pulled tight and uneven, as if it had been crudely sewn together. The stitching marks were faint but unmistakable.
Her heart skipped.
She leaned in further, fingers hovering just above the scar, afraid to touch it. The wound looked old—healed enough to not stand out.
As she lifted her hand to inspect it more closely, the tent flap rustled behind her.
"Commander Ancora."
Jeanne startled and straightened instantly, heat rushing to her face. She turned away quickly, composing herself as a medic stepped inside. She clasped her hands behind her back, grateful that the dim light concealed the faint flush creeping up her cheeks.
"Yes?" she said, voice firm.
The medic glanced at Incarceratus, then back at her. "Commander Incarceratus is stable. Vitals are normal. No signs of neurological distress. He should be ready to resume command duties soon—after rest, of course."
Jeanne nodded. "Good. You're dismissed."
The medic saluted and exited without question.
Jeanne lingered only a moment longer, casting one last glance at the scar behind his ear before turning away. Questions swirled in her mind—too many, too sharp—but now wasn't the time.
Outside, the camp had fully awakened.
Soldiers moved with renewed purpose, packing equipment, checking weapons, exchanging quiet words. Lieutenant Vage stood near a command table, reviewing reports with a tense focus.
Jeanne approached him.
"Status," she said.
Vage snapped to attention. "The night was uneventful, ma'am. No disturbances inside the tunnel or at the perimeter. Search and rescue is preparing to descend again now that they are fully rested."
"Good," Jeanne replied. "Proceed."
Minutes later, the rescue team vanished into the darkness below, their lights swallowed by the tunnel mouth. Jeanne watched until the last glow disappeared, unease settling deep in her stomach.
Time dragged.
Hours passed with no word.
Then the radio crackled.
"Command—do you read?"
Jeanne moved instantly. "Go ahead."
Breathing—ragged and panicked—came through the speaker.
"We've reached the end of the tunnel," the voice said. "There's… there's something here—"
Another voice shouted over him, frantic. "We found Constable Armando! He's alive—injured, but alive!"
Jeanne's heart jumped. "Status?"
"We're stabilizing him now, but he needs medics immediately. The other two soldiers—" A pause. Static. "They're missing. No sign of them… —We're declaring them MIA."
"Understood," Jeanne said tightly. "Bring Armando up. Medics are on standby."
The rescue team emerged shortly after, carrying Armando on a stretcher. His uniform was torn and stained, his face pale beneath streaks of dried blood. He was unconscious but breathing, chest rising weakly.
They rushed him into the medical tent and placed him beside Incarceratus.
Before Jeanne could follow, a ripple of unease passed through the camp.
Soldiers stiffened. Everyone started muttering and turning heads to the commotion.
Boots marched in perfect rhythm.
Colonel Ira had arrived.
He was flanked by his men, their presence oppressive and deliberate. Ira himself was a compact, solid man, broad shoulders packed with barely contained aggression. His black hair was parted neatly down the middle, falling to his shoulders, framing a face carved by resentment. His eyes—dark and sharp—burned with a constant, simmering fury, as though the world itself had wronged him personally.
Black gloves covered his hands.
He wasted no time.
"Lieutenant Vage," Ira snapped, stepping into his space. "Care to explain why I'm hearing about missing soldiers without me knowing?"
Vage straightened. "We followed protocol, Colonel. Everything's under control."
Ira sneered. "Protocol?" He laughed humorlessly. "You report to ME. Also, YOU lost men. And now you're telling me everything's 'under control'?"
Vage clenched his jaw but said nothing.
Ira leaned closer, voice dripping venom. "You should be grateful I'm not relieving you of duty right now."
Jeanne stepped in.
"That's enough."
All eyes turned to her.
"Colonel Ira," she said coolly, "this operation is under my authority. Lieutenant Vage acted appropriately. Return to your station."
For a heartbeat, Ira's eyes flashed with pure hatred.
Then he smiled.
"Of course, Commander Ancora," he said smoothly, stepping back. "As you wish."
But before leaving, he tilted his head. "I'll just check on my favorite Constable. If that is allowed? "
Jeanne's jaw tightened, but she allowed it.
Inside the medical tent, Ira stood over Armando's unconscious body. His gaze roamed slowly, meticulously, as if dissecting him piece by piece. Then his eyes narrowed.
Something was wrong with the uniform.
He reached down and slid his hand inside the torn fabric, pulling out a small, unfamiliar object.
Metal.
Dark, angular, and unlike any standard equipment.
Ira turned it over thoughtfully.
"Hm," he murmured.
He slipped it into his pocket, then turned to one of his men. "Have this analyzed."
"Yes, sir."
Ira exited the tent moments later, his smile gone, replaced by something far more dangerous.
Behind him, the camp buzzed with unease.