"Fine. No matter." Elric Vales' words came out clipped, brittle as broken glass. He kept his eyes narrowed, tracking Kael's smallest movements with the wary precision of a hunter sizing up a wounded wolf. The war-hammer in his hands gleamed dully in the reflected light of distant flames more threat than ornament. "I got the gist of your plan. We don't have time to argue."

Kael Vi-rel gave a lazy, insolent shrug and the faintest grin that never reached his eyes. "Sure, sure. We'll talk. But right now, move. The attack won't pause for your melodrama."

Elric hesitated only long enough to swallow a lungful of smoke and pulverized stone. He turned, but not before his gaze lingered, measuring. Suspicion sat heavy on him like another piece of armor.

He still doesn't trust me, Kael thought, and his face remained carefully unreadable. He thinks I'm tied to the Black Lands, that this is all a prelude to betrayal. He had expected it. For someone bred on military strictures, a blank past was reason enough to doubt. Kael let the tension slide into a cold, efficient mask.

He pivoted to the remaining cluster of cadets and issued orders with the clipped clarity of someone used to command. "Silva. Clara Winslet. Selene Whitmore. Head to the main building. It's the primary target. Secure the structure and clear the immediate perimeter. No hesitation, no heroics. Stick to the grid I provided."

Selene Whitmore moved like a shadow given shape. Her boots whispered against the stone as she ran, blades already drawn to catch the weak wash of morning sunlight fighting through smoke. Combat for her was muscle memorypredatory, precise. She flowed through the enemies Kael had funnelled into their trap: a silent cut here, a precise, economical strike there.

How is this possible? she thought as she dropped another armored intruder. Kael had called the attack to the hour. He had known its scale, the number of opponents, their tactical aim not random destruction, but something far more surgical: acquisition. He moved like someone reading a script he had written months ago.

Even the Whitmores whose name threaded the continent's spy-networks, informants, and whisper-lines had heard nothing of this operation. The invaders had achieved total operational security, yet Kael seemed to navigate their plans as if he already owned them. Selene's surprise stiffened her for a heartbeat; then she let it go, because there was no time for wonder.

He glanced back at her across the chaos. "Don't worry. I'll make everything clear once this is over. I know what this looks like, but I wouldn't do anything reckless with your lives. I'm not what you think I am." His voice was polished, practiced, but the grey in his eyes held a resolute steadiness. "Just trust me. One day."

Selene almost asked why. Almost. The stench of blood and the momentum of the battle swallowed the question. She nodded, then sprinted toward the main building.

Kael let out a tight breath. Good. Silva and Clara obeyed without question cold logic over pride. The initial deployments fit his pattern; the attackers moved into the zones he'd designed. But the real trouble lay with those whose egos outweighed their obedience.

He picked his next mark by the way the man turned his shoulder away from instruction. "Lucian Crowe," Kael called, voice steady enough to challenge the other's arrogance. "In case you don't understand the sequence for the eastern flank—"

Lucian cut him off with a smirk, eyes not bothering to meet Kael's. He checked the edge of his enchanted broadsword as if polishing its superiority. "Don't worry. I'll figure it out. The instructions were annoyingly detailed, but simple enough for even you to follow."

Beside him, Julie Wartin cracked her gauntlets with a snort. "Just point me at something to break, Kael. Save the flowery speeches."

The two left together pride in step with pride dismissive and synchronized. Kael's smile faded the moment they were out of earshot. Inside, he bristled. That egoistic bastard. Lucian's raw power is necessary, but managing his contempt is exhausting. He needed Lucian alive and convinced, not alienated.

The board was clearing. One crucial piece remained: the fragile archer.

"Octavia Blake," Kael said, softening his voice in a manner that made strain audible. "Can you lend us your help here?"

The girl jumped, nearly dropping the high-tension bowstring she was checking. Her hands trembled, cheeks flushed from exertion and fear.

"Yes..uh..me?" she stammered.

Kael stepped closer, the weariness in his posture carefully performed. He let a hint of moisture gather at the corners of his eyes, not enough to cry, only enough to look near-collapse. "We really need your help. Desperately. I'm tied down here providing cover. Please… I need you on that roof."

The sudden focus on her unsettled the cadets. For a moment, Octavia's smallness was replaced by a swollen, dizzy importance.

Before she could answer, a muscular boy with a wooden staff eagerness written across his face rushed in. "I can help too, Kael! Two flanks are better than one!"

Kael turned. The air around him cooled. He closed the distance so quickly the boy flinched.

"Did I ask you?" Kael's voice was low and flat, a blade wrapped in velvet. The boy's smile died. Kael leaned in until his breath brushed the other's ear. "I have every role planned. Every casualty accounted for. Your interference could destabilize the formation and cost lives. Walk away. Now. Pretend nothing ever happened here. If I see you on that flank, I'll assume you're an enemy agent."

The boy's face drained color. Terror replaced his enthusiasm. He backed away, stumbled, and vanished into the scattering ranks, staff forgotten.

When Kael straightened, the flash of menace had already melted back into his exhausted mask. "Good. Then, Octavia," he said with a faint, warming smile aimed only at her, "let's fight together. Focus on the towers. I'll provide the distraction."

Octavia blinked, still shaken, then nodded. "Okay."

Kael watched her go another pawn placed exactly where her skill minimized risk to his core assets. His thoughts were a razor beneath the calm surface. They move where I need them to be. They trust because they must. The board is set.

In the distance, the academy burned with a terrible, controlled beauty. Flames licked the old stone, smoke stitched the sky into blackened seams. Kael watched, detached, the way a master watches the last pieces of a long-prepared trap fall into place.

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