Elisa moved through the camp with the steadiness of a patrolwoman, though her gaze lingered less on the wounded than on the medics bustling around them. Armin, half unconscious, had clean bandages applied. Inès, her skin mottled with purple bruises, sipped at a bitter-smelling decoction. The healers, disciplined, had divided the work among themselves, each focused on a specific task. It was a grim but necessary dance: repair what could be repaired, keep standing the bodies that still had use.

Yet Elisa did not linger. Her eyes paused, then her steps remained brisk. This was not her role. Not tonight. Not now.

A little farther on, by a hastily kept fire, four silhouettes waited. Tonar, massive, leaned on his blade planted in the earth. To his right stood the two other surviving squad leaders: Jarven, a man with a chiseled face and a ready growl, and Sira, the frailer figure known for tactical insight. Finally, facing them, the newcomer: Audel, leader of the reinforcements, beard well-kept, bearing erect, and that sharp calm you find only in men who have led troops into death—and brought some back.

Elisa took her place without a word, her spear resting against her shoulder. She knew Tonar would open the discussion. She was not wrong.

The veteran raised his chin, his steel gaze fixed on Audel.

"We've held, barely, but not without losses. Tell me: what are the latest from the forward units? The ones with the stigmas—the awakened," he asked.

A brief silence followed. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to hold its breath. The word "stigmas" carried weight. Those awakeneds were not ordinary soldiers. They were the Count Martissant's elite, warriors whose mere breath could break an enemy line. They were placed at strategic points where a breakthrough or a defeat could seal a front.

Audel nodded, as if he'd expected the question.

"The stigmatized hold. Not without difficulty, but they hold. To the east, near the Erevan pass, Lorkas's unit repelled three consecutive assaults. His stigmas are defensive—like stone ramparts. The enemy did not break through."

He paused; a shadow crossed his eyes.

"But further south… Deyra's unit was forced to fall back. She bore a fire stigma—offensive, powerful—but against waves of demonic beasts the fire turned on them. The woods themselves caught. They had to withdraw, abandoning a key position. Losses were heavy."

Sira folded her arms, face closed.

"That means the southern border is weakened."

"Exactly," Audel confirmed. "But the Count anticipated. Other units are on their way."

Tonar furrowed his brow, his voice rumbling like a hammer on an anvil.

"And the Count's orders? What does he want now, beyond the reinforcements you bring?"

Audel fixed his stare on the old warrior.

"The Count refuses stagnation. You know this. His command is clear: advance. Consolidate, yes, but always advance. Every lost position must be retaken or offset by a breakthrough elsewhere."

One of the squad leaders let out an ugly grunt.

"Always the same madness. One would think he wants to dance a waltz with death."

Audel did not flinch.

"No. Not madness. Conviction. If we stand still, we are already condemned. Martissant repeats it constantly. And he's right."

Elisa, silent until now, finally spoke. Her voice was steady but sharp, cutting the air.

"Easy to say when you talk in strategy terms. But here, in this camp, we have no room for blind heroism. If we must advance, it must be with regard for the wounded, the losses, the broken spirits. It's not only lines and breakthroughs."

Audel watched her closely, his eyes measuring the depth of her resolve.

"I understand. And I am not here to throw your lives into useless fire. That's why I bring the Count's orders. You are to hold this position three days more. Three days to strengthen defenses, treat the wounded, prepare your men. Then we march."

Tonar lifted his head.

"March where?"

A strange glint crossed Audel's eyes.

"To the north, of course. Where Pilaf has concentrated part of his forces. Martissant wants to open a new passage, cut their lines, force them to disperse."

Tonar squinted, the fire casting harsher reliefs across his face. His voice, low and vibrating with contained anger, cut the air like a blade.

"We've already tried to push forward. Two entire squads were lost. And another…"

He stopped for a fraction, weighing his words, then exhaled heavily:

"…Zirel's squad hasn't returned in three days. Three days of silence in those cursed woods. So forgive me, Audel, but I doubt it. The north doesn't look very welcoming. We haven't even reached the center of this damned forest yet."

His words fell heavy, like stones dropped into a deep well. Around the fire, even Jarven stopped his grumbling, even Sira dropped her gaze. Zirel's name hung like a specter. They all knew what three days without news meant: the abyss of the unknown, the scent of death, and the possibility that their comrades had been torn apart by beasts—or worse, swallowed by that black essence infesting the forest.

Audel did not blink. He met Tonar's gaze, unyielding.

"I know your losses. I know what it means to send men into those woods. But Martissant wants a breach, and that breach will not open anywhere but the north."

Elisa inhaled slowly, her face tight.

"You speak as if the Count's will can draw a road. But here, it isn't his boots sinking into the mud, nor his guts thrown to the beasts. Three days is already a reckless gamble for those still standing. Then you ask for a march toward the most murderous direction. Tell me, Audel: what's the difference between conviction and blind sacrifice?"

Audel answered without raising his voice, but every word sounded like a verdict.

"The difference is that isolated sacrifice dies in the mud. The sacrifice placed in a strategy changes the course of a war."

Jarven, exasperated, struck his fist against his knee, his look dark.

"Fine philosophy. Except here, these aren't pawns you move on a board. They're our men. Our brothers-in-arms. And if Zirel is dead, it's because we sent him toward that cursed north without thinking of the consequences."

Tonar growled, a low, almost animal sound.

"Not 'if.' As long as we haven't seen their bodies, I won't bury them. But I'm not stupid either: three days stinks of the end. And you, Audel, you want to plunge back in?"

A heavy silence followed as each measured the other. The fire crackled, casting shadows that seemed to dance like ghosts around them.

Sira finally spoke, in a voice soft but firm.

"Tonar is right. We can't ignore the missing. But if we stay frozen, Pilaf will only tighten the noose. Our options shrink, and soon there will be none."

Elisa tightened her hold on her spear. Her mind raced at two speeds: the rage at losing comrades again, and the cold clarity of a leader who knew a flat refusal wasn't an option.

She ended up saying, sharply:

"Then don't ask us to go blindly. Three days, fine. But during those three days I want scouts in every corner of those woods. Eyes in the night, ears in the mist, and not a single step north until we know what awaits us."

Her words landed like a resolution. Tonar nodded slowly, and Jarven, despite his gruffness, did not protest. Even Audel, faced with the demand, simply replied:

"That's reasonable. Three days of preparation, three days of observation. Then we strike. Martissant will accept nothing less."

The fire leapt, as if to punctuate the fragile agreement just made.

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