Date: May 22, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Dawn at the Agrim estate was like the slow awakening of a sleeping giant. First, the first stars would ignite in the sky over the hills, like the eyes of a titan opening after a long night. Then, wisps of steam would rise from the depths of the stone chambers—from the kitchens where servants prepared breakfast, from the baths where the morning shift workers were already taking hot baths. But most importantly—from the windows of the library, where archivist Orwen began his day.
Today, Dur and Maël were going there not just as students, but as "observation subjects," as Sarim Agrim himself had called them. After yesterday's performance and Koh's words, their status in the house had changed. They were no longer just "wards," but potential instruments in the coming game against Alvost. And the first step of this game—teaching not the sword, but the mind.
The Agrim library was not just a repository of scrolls. It was a living organism, pulsing with knowledge. High ceilings disappeared into shadow, where hung maps not only of the lands of Ligra and Alvost, but also of distant regions Dur had never even heard of. The air was dry and cool, saturated with the scent of parchment, ink, and polished oak shelves. In the center of the hall stood a huge table, covered with a chessboard the size of a dining table. Only the pieces on it were not kings and queens, but miniature armies, fleets, and cities.
Archivist Orwen was already waiting for them. His thin figure was bent over the table, his long-nailed fingers carefully arranging the figurines. He looked up, and something akin to approval flickered in his gaze.
"Today we will not talk about Spirits and energy," he began, his voice rustling like the pages of an ancient tome. "Today we will talk about war. Not about a battle, not about a skirmish, but about war on its grandest scale. You have already killed people," he looked at Dur, "and perhaps it came easily to you. But killing thousands—that is not a feat, that is logistics."
He poked a finger at the map on the wall. There, beyond the Ridge of Sorrow, were marked Alvostian fortresses, roads, and mines.
"Consul Valerius does not intend to simply seize border villages. He wants to cut off trade. He wants Ligra to starve. And he knows how to do it."
Maël leaned forward. His face was focused, but a cold analytical fire burned in his eyes. He already understood where Orwen was leading the conversation.
"So, he won't attack from the front, but through the economy?" he asked.
"Precisely. But to do that, he needs to divert our attention." Orwen tapped his finger on the table. "Look at this map. What do you see?"
Dur came closer. The map was unusual—it wasn't just an image, but a magical artifact. Touching certain points on it made small glowing spheres light up, showing troop movements, wind direction, river levels.
"I see a lot," he said slowly. "Roads leading through narrow passes. Rivers that can only be crossed in one place. Cities that depend on supplies from the east..."
"And?" Orwen encouraged.
"He won't attack immediately," Dur concluded. "He'll wait until we exhaust our forces defending one direction, then strike from another."
Orwen smiled—a rare, almost imperceptible expression on his dry face.
"Correct. Valerius is not a savage with a sword. He's a chess player. He will move his pieces so that each one fulfills two functions. The attacking division in the south is not just an attack. It's bait. It will force us to throw our reserves south, and then he will strike the ports with his northern fleet."
Maël approached the table and began rearranging the pieces himself.
"If he knows we are strong on land, he will strike from the sea. We have no fleet that could oppose the Alvostian galleys."
"And if he attacks simultaneously on two fronts?" Orwen asked.
"Then we lose," Maël answered honestly. "But we can create an illusion of strength. Let him think we've thrown all our forces south, when in reality, part of them will be waiting at the northern ports."
Orwen nodded, his eyes gleaming with interest.
"Good. Now imagine you are Valerius. You have limited resources. You want to capture Ligra, but you don't want to lose your best legions. How would you act?"
It was a test. Dur felt his mind tense. He wasn't an analyst by nature like Maël, but the last months of training had taught him to think not only with his muscles.
"He'll use mercenaries," he said. "Those very 'Broken Fangs' we encountered in the forest. They know the terrain, they don't fear death, and they're cheap."
"And?"
"He'll give them sabotage missions. Burning warehouses, disrupting supplies, causing unrest in the city. We'll be putting out fires instead of preparing for a real war."
Orwen grunted.
"And if he bribes part of our garrison? What then?"
Dur felt a chill run down his spine. This wasn't just a training exercise. It was a scenario that could become reality.
"Then the war won't start from outside, but from within," he said quietly.
"Exactly. And your task is not just to kill enemies on the battlefield. Your task is to see them before they strike. You are not just fighters. You are the eyes and ears of Ligra."
Orwen went to one of the shelves and pulled out a heavy folio. On the cover was engraved a map of the entire continent.
"Today we will begin studying the tactic of the 'Divided Strike.' An ancient strategy used in the Great War against the Cursed Tribe. Let's see if you can figure out where Valerius has hidden his dagger."
Dur and Maël sat down at the table. For the first time in a long while, they felt not like instruments in Koh's hands, but like full-fledged participants in a great game. And this feeling was far more frightening than any training with a staff or waterfall. Because in this game, the stakes were not their lives, but the life of the entire city. And being "eyes and ears" meant seeing what others would prefer to keep secret.
Orwen opened the folio. Pages, thinned by time, crackled under his fingers. On the parchment, reinforced with alchemical compounds, was drawn a schematic of a battle—not a real location, but an abstract field with markings: "Point of Power," "False Maneuver," "Center of Gravity." It wasn't a description of a battle, but its diagnosis, like an anatomical atlas for a military surgeon.
"The Great War against the Cursed Tribe lasted seven years," Orwen began, his finger tracing a winding line on the map. "The whole point of the conflict wasn't bloodlust, but resources. The Cursed controlled the Salt Plains, where a rare mineral, 'Ash Stone,' was mined. Without it, our magical artifacts lost their power. Alvost also needed that stone. So this battle is not just history; it's a rehearsal for the future."
He tapped lines describing the maneuvers of the legendary Agrim commander—the grandfather of the current head. He had used the "Divided Strike"—the army was split into three parts, one of which always remained in the shadows, ready to strike at the most unexpected moment.
"Look," Orwen traced a line on the map. "Two armies advance to the front, as if for a head-on collision. But the third—numerically weak but mobile—outflanks them. The enemy, confident in their superiority, deploys forces to defend the center and front. And then—boom! The third army emerges from the forests, seizes the rear, and the whole system collapses."
Maël nodded—this tactic was familiar to him. The Agrim family had taught it since childhood. But Dur sensed a catch.
"That only works if the enemy is stupid," he said. "But what if they also know this tactic?"
Orwen smiled.
"Ah, now you're starting to think like a strategist. Of course, an experienced commander won't let himself be fooled. Therefore, the 'Divided Strike' is used with a feint. Look at this map."
He unrolled a scroll depicting the Alvostian lands. The River Liran, flowing along the border, was marked with special signs—bridges, crossings, forts. But one place was circled in red: a narrow gorge called the "Stone Gullet."
"This is the key point," Orwen explained. "Here lies the trade route between Alvost and Ligra. If it's captured, the supply of weapons and grain can be cut off. Valerius knows this. He knows we will guard it. So he sends one army to directly attack the Stone Gullet. We throw our forces there. Meanwhile, he captures something else."
"The western port," said Maël. "It's less defended, but reinforcements are easier to deliver from there."
"Close to the truth. But not quite." Orwen tapped his finger on the southern border. "He seizes the old mine at the Ridge of Sorrow. There, they mine a rare ore used to make the cores for magical shields. Without it, our protective enchantments weaken. This isn't just an economic target—it's a blow to our combat potential."
Dur felt something lurch inside him. He remembered the tavern talk about material shortages in the arsenals. He remembered Koh talking about the need to be an "investment." Now he understood—they were learning not just to fight, but to anticipate the enemy's blows.
"So, we need to think not like soldiers, but like enemies," he said.
"Exactly. And one more thing." Orwen closed the folio and looked at them both with unexpected seriousness. "Valerius is not just a consul. He is a bearer of the Spirit of the 'Inexorable March.' His power isn't in magic, but in his ability to inspire. His legions do not fear death because he convinces them that death is an honor. Against such an enemy, you need not only a sword and shield, but also cunning."
He opened a desk drawer and pulled out two thin wooden tablets—each the size of a palm, covered in fine script.
"These are code ciphers. Each day you will receive an assignment—to analyze one of the real reports from the border. Your task is to find lies, hidden meanings, hints at plans within them. This isn't just an exercise. It's preparation for the moment when you become not just executors of orders, but their creators."
Dur took the tablet. The wood was cold as steel. On it were carved not letters, but symbols—stars, waves, bones. This wasn't just a cipher; it was the language spies spoke.
"This is difficult," said Maël, studying his tablet.
"Everything real is difficult," Orwen replied. "But you've already killed people. You've already stood under the waterfall. Now you must kill lies before they kill the truth."
They stayed in the library until evening. The sun outside slowly set, painting the parchments in golden hues. Dur and Maël bent over the first dispatch—a dry, official text about a "minor skirmish near the village of Grey Meadow." But beneath the layer of formalities, they were looking for something else—the rhythm of the words, repeating phrases, strange details. Each line could be a lie or a key to the truth.
When they left the library, the city was already lighting its lanterns. The streets were full—not of a festive crowd like on the day of "The Resurrected Spirit," but of people with purposeful expressions. Someone carried a bundle of spears, someone checked a horse's bridle. The smell of oil and metal hung in the air—the smell of a war being prepared.
"Tomorrow there will be a new dispatch," said Maël, stretching wearily. "And a new cipher."
"And the day after tomorrow—Koh," added Dur. "He'll say we think too slowly."
They laughed—not merrily, but with bitterness. Because they understood: the deeper they delved into the world of strategy, the less room remained for simple human feelings. They were becoming weapons not only of strength, but of the mind. And this weapon was far more dangerous than any blade.
But that evening, looking at the stars over Ligra, Dur felt not fear, but a strange calm. He knew the path ahead would be thorny. But now he knew something else—he would no longer be a blind player in someone else's game. He would learn to control the chessboard himself. And one day, when the time came, he would make a move that would make the whole world tremble.