Tonar's laugh still echoed for a moment, harsh and joyless, before fading into the crackle of the embers. The camp fell back into a weary vigilance. The brief attack had left behind it the stench of blood and upturned dust. Everyone returned to their posts, but their movements were slower, their gazes heavier. The night itself seemed weighed down, saturated with waiting and a diffuse menace.

Élisa felt the weight of every second. The gem's energy flowed through her, a warm current mending internal tears, but it could do nothing against the exhaustion of the soul. She remained standing, leaning against a wooden post, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the barricades. That was where Zirel had vanished. That was where, sooner or later, the real storm would come.

Tonar came to stand beside her, silent. His sword was sheathed, but his hand never left the hilt. Together, they made a strange bulwark: the young woman, stubborn by sheer will, and the veteran, worn down but unyielding.

Then a sentry, posted on a makeshift platform, gave a muffled whistle. A short, sharp sound that froze the blood of all who heard it.

"Movement!" she cried, pointing with a trembling finger toward the northeast. "At the edge of the woods!"

In an instant, fatigue was swept away by a surge of adrenaline. Élisa and Tonar exchanged a single look, heavy with all the fears accumulated over the past three days. This was it. The next trial. The one that would break them.

"Positions!" roared Tonar, his voice regaining its iron authority.

The able men snatched up their weapons, hastily forming a line. Élisa gripped her lance, fingers tight around the shaft still stained with black blood. Her heart hammered, yet her mind was strangely calm. It was time.

In the darkness, the shapes grew clearer. They advanced in formation, without hiding. Too straight, too orderly to be beasts. A dozen, perhaps more. The stars and the torchlight glinted against metal armor, helmets.

"Soldiers," murmured Tonar, brow furrowed. "But not Pilaf's. The uniforms are different."

Hope, forbidden and fragile, began to stir. Élisa hardly dared believe it. She squinted, holding her breath. The newcomers approached to a safe distance, and one of them—clearly the leader—raised a hand, palm forward. A sign of peace.

"Hail, camp!" shouted a strong voice, carrying the quiet authority of a seasoned officer. "We were sent by Count Martissant! We bring supplies and reinforcements!"

A stunned silence followed. Then a collective sigh, a release so sharp some men nearly dropped their swords. Tension evaporated like smoke, leaving behind a stunned relief.

Tonar was the first to lower his guard, a low growl escaping him.

"The stubborn old bastard… I knew he'd end up forcing fate."

Élisa, however, did not loosen her grip on her weapon right away. She watched as the group now approached without fear. Hard but honest faces, equipment in good condition. This was indeed the aid they had been waiting for. The promise fulfilled.

A sudden warmth stung her eyes, an emotion she immediately forced down. Turning to Tonar, she gave him a small nod, the exhaustion crashing back on her all at once, heavier than ever.

"About time," she said simply, her raspy voice betraying the immense weight just lifted.

Only then did she rest her lance against the barricade. The fight was over—for this night. The camp still held. And for the first time in three days, the horizon was not entirely black.

The camp's atmosphere had shifted in the span of a breath. The torches, which had been fragile weapons against the night, became beacons guiding the newcomers. The Count's soldiers crossed the makeshift barricades with the quiet discipline of those who already knew where to step. Their boots struck the hard earth with crisp sounds, their eyes scanning the shadows, assessing every corner as if already claiming it.

Élisa felt torn between relief and an instinctive wariness. She did not lower her shoulders until she stood before the squad's leader, a man in his thirties with a beard kept like a badge of rigor. His posture left no doubt: he was used to giving orders.

Tonar was the first to break the solemnity.

"How did you get here so quickly? We only sent the message four days ago."

The man gave a proud smile, almost satisfied to deliver his explanation.

"Well, on our side, we didn't just sit around in a military base. The Count refused to take root in one place. We followed the path you carved, consolidated your gains, and set up a new base two days from here."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the wounded and the makeshift shelters. His eyes held a silent recognition of the price that had been paid. Then, with calm pride:

"And I suspect that once he moves on, the Count will want to shift again. He cannot abide stagnation. To him, staying still is already condemning oneself."

Élisa's eyebrows rose slightly. The answer was no surprise: Martissant had always been known for his stubborn tenacity, the way he treated war like a chess game where the only rule was to keep the initiative. But hearing it confirmed by one of his officers cast that strategy in a brutally concrete light.

Tonar snorted, almost amused.

"That suits him well. Moving again and again… That's how he forces fate, the old war dog."

Élisa did not manage a smile. Her fingers absently stroked the shaft of her lance, as if the weapon could still absorb her doubts. She thought of Zirel, lost beyond the woods, of Maggie, lying in the tent, and of all the absences that weighed on the camp. The reinforcements had come, yes, but every new face was also a reminder of those who would not return.

The officer inclined his head slightly, as if he sensed the silence hanging around her.

"We did not come to replace your fallen. We came to ensure your sacrifices are not in vain."

The words, measured though they were, carried the echo of a promise.

Élisa drew a long breath. The fatigue was still there, crushing, but for the first time a different spark flickered beneath her ribs. This was not the end. This was the relay.

Tonar stepped forward, his eyes drilling into the officer's face with a gravity that was no longer welcoming.

"How many are you exactly? Fighters, healers… and the others?"

The silence that followed hung like an anvil. The men and women of the camp, still panting from their last skirmish, stared at the officer as though the slightest nuance in his reply could seal their fate.

The man drew his shoulders straighter, laying one hand on the hilt of his sword—not as a threat, but as if to anchor his words.

"One hundred and fifty." His voice rang out, sharp and polished as steel. "Among them, six awakened soldiers—battle-hardened, not green recruits. A dozen healers, trained on the field, able to hold a lifeline even in the midst of battle."

His gaze swept over the flimsy barricade, the faces worn with fatigue, the hands clutched around improvised spears. Then he added, with almost defiant pride:

"And the rest, ordinary soldiers… but well-trained. Not conscripts thrown together in haste. Each of them knows what it means to stand against the dark."

A murmur rippled through the camp, like a wave of relief mingled with disbelief. One hundred and fifty. It seemed immense compared to the pitiful handful they had managed to preserve here.

Tonar nodded slowly, his scarred features settling into a calculating expression.

"One hundred and fifty…" He repeated the number as one might savor a rare wine, gauging its weight. Then a bitter smirk crossed his lips. "That changes the game."

Élisa clenched her jaw. Her eyes lingered on Audel—for she had caught his name—and a fleeting thought crossed her mind: with such a force, they could hold for more than a night, perhaps even retake ground. But the voice of doubt, always present, whispered that every figure spoken by this man could sink into the mud at the first assault.

And yet… for the first time in a long while, the wind did not seem to blow solely against them.

"Good," Tonar said, turning his head toward Élisa, his voice harder than the steel he carried. "Guide the healers to the wounded, from the gravest to the least."

He paused, his eyes narrowing with a concern he barely masked.

"And make sure one of them keeps all her strength in reserve for Maggie. In her state, she's going to need it."

Élisa agreed without argument. She knew it wasn't an order born of discipline, but of the quiet dread they all shared for that frail silhouette lying under the canvas, breathing weakly, suspended by a thread.

"Understood," she said simply, before pivoting toward Audel and his group. Her quick steps struck the hard earth, a new energy carrying her movements despite her exhaustion. She lifted her hand, pointing toward the aligned tents at the edge of the camp, where the smell of dried blood mixed with makeshift remedies.

"This way!" she called to the healers, her voice carrying over the bustle of soldiers already settling in. "The most urgent cases are back there, in the far tent. Work in pairs, we can't afford to lose time."

The twelve healers had already detached themselves from the main body. Their sharp eyes, their measured movements, betrayed the experience of those who had seen broken bodies more than once. Each carried a small satchel marked with simple runes, the clink of vials and medicinal stones sounding within.

Élisa led them at the front, pushing aside the flap of a tent to reveal an interior saturated with muffled groans. Wounded men with ashen faces, some unconscious, others far too aware of their agony. Her throat tightened, but she did not yield.

Behind her, a young healer stopped short, pressing a hand to her mouth at the sight. Audel, who had followed with steady steps, laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Do not look away, miss. Remember why you came here."

The young woman nodded and continued on, her pupils wide with horror but her stride suddenly steadier.

Élisa then pointed to Maggie's tent, set apart from the others. Her voice dropped, low and grave:

"Her." She paused. "Keep someone at her side at all times. If she falls, the whole balance of this camp will collapse."

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