Dawn broke gray and heavy, carrying the kind of silence that felt like a weight on the chest. Then, from somewhere above the ruins, came a strange cry — a coarse, rasping caw that didn't belong in this desert of stone where all life seemed to have been drained away.

A single raven circled lazily over the encampment. One might have thought it was searching for scraps, some leftover carcass, but its flight was too calm, too deliberate. It wasn't scavenging. It was watching.

The first to move was Tonar. The commander — a mountain of a man, two meters tall, whose mere presence steadied the soldiers — stepped away from the group. He climbed partway up a collapsed wall that gave him a vantage point, his silhouette cut sharp against the pale sky. He raised one arm, leather bracers glinting faintly in the weak light — a gesture that was both an invitation and an order.

The black creature, feathers dark as a moonless night, ceased its circling. It descended in utter silence, wings beating without a sound, and landed with surprising grace upon Tonar's outstretched arm. Its claws gripped the leather tight.

The raven tilted its head, one gleaming black eye locking on Tonar's weathered face. A shiver ran through the camp. The soldiers, exhausted from their night watch, held their breath.

Then the bird opened its beak. Its voice was wrong — as if human words were being forced through a throat not made for them.

"Craa… messssage…" it rasped, the sound both hoarse and metallic.

Tonar's gaze sharpened. He showed no surprise, only full attention.

"Speak," he said gruffly. His low voice carried clearly to Maggie and the others.

The raven shook its feathers and, with visible effort, continued:

"From… Count… Martissant. Orders… change of… priority."

It paused, shuddering as if the act of speech cost it strength.

"Avoid… the enemy. Do not… provoke. The area… is… dangerous. Priority… survival of… the group. And… protec-tion… of the… girl."

Its black eye flicked briefly toward Élisa before returning to Tonar.

"Await… further orders. Do… not… advance. Signed… the Midnight… Raven."

Message delivered, the bird sagged slightly. It stayed motionless for a few seconds, drained, then pushed off silently, wings cutting the air in a few powerful beats before vanishing into the gray morning sky.

Tonar climbed down from the ruins, his face impassive though his mind was clearly turning. He rejoined the group, his voice gravel-deep as he spoke:

"You heard him. The Count knows. Orders are clear — we hold position. We keep quiet. We stay alive. And we protect her," he said, his gaze falling on Élisa.

It was reassuring, in a way — proof they hadn't been abandoned. But it was also deeply unsettling. If Count Martissant, a man known for his audacity, was ordering complete caution and naming Élisa a strategic priority, then the threat sensed beneath these ruins had to be far greater than any border conflict. The Midnight Raven had confirmed their worst fears.

Silence fell again, heavier than before. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as though nature itself was listening after the messenger's departure.

Maggie lifted her gaze to the empty sky, where a last black speck faded into the horizon.

The Midnight Raven.

A name that made veterans shudder. Few had seen it up close, and none enjoyed telling the tale. It was said to have served Count Martissant since before the war — before the Brigades themselves. A messenger, a spy, or perhaps something else entirely. Something no longer quite a bird.

Tonar stood still at the center of the camp, a living statue. His arm, where the creature had perched, trembled faintly with restrained tension. He was not a man who feared easily — but a talking raven carrying an order of retraction, one that singled out a young woman as a strategic asset, was never a good omen. It was the kind of news that came before storms.

He lowered his arm and exchanged a look with Maggie — one glance, dense with unspoken understanding.

She didn't need words.

"Pack up the perimeter. No tracks, no fire marks. Zirel, send two men to sweep the western ridge — make sure we weren't followed. Élisa…" Maggie paused, her eyes briefly resting on the girl. "You stay close to me."

The orders came out in murmurs, almost whispers. No one argued. Discipline wasn't about hierarchy anymore — it was survival.

The soldiers moved like ghosts, erasing all signs of human presence. The stones that had outlined their bivouac were scattered. The ashes of an imaginary fire were buried. Every clink of metal, every rustle of cloth, felt thunderous in the air, thick with invisible electricity. Even the birds — if there were any left — remained silent.

Élisa watched Tonar and Maggie with a dazed, feverish expression. The raven's message echoed in her mind like a refrain she couldn't shake.

"The girl."

Not her name. Not her title. "The girl."

An object to protect. Or to contain? The weight of those words pressed down on her chest, mingling with the eerie resonance of the monolith buried below — a burden threatening to crush her.

Zirel returned, panting, emerging from the ruins like a shadow.

"Nothing on the hills. No movement. Not even an echo."

"Then that's worse," Maggie muttered without looking up, closing her maps and snapping her journal shut. "When everything goes silent, it means something's listening. Or preparing."

Tonar crouched near the remains of the fire, running thick fingers through the mix of ash and sand.

"The Count wants us to wait. But wait for what? If the Raven came this far, his command post must be close. Maybe the lines have shifted."

He implied that Count Martissant himself might be moving — bringing his headquarters toward the frontier. A dangerous maneuver reserved for only the gravest matters.

"Or they're moving," Élisa murmured.

Tonar and Maggie looked up as one. Her voice was barely above a breath, yet it sliced through the tension like a blade.

That single phrase, filled with quiet dread, sank deep into everyone's mind. They're moving. Not just the Count — the other units. The scouts, the shock troops, the elite corps. If Martissant was on the move, it was the signal. The reconnaissance phase was over. Occupation and consolidation were next. All the small squads scattered across the no man's land, like theirs, would be recalled, gathered, forged into the first outposts of a coming army. Martissant's army was about to take shape — here, in the shadow of cursed ruins.

That meant reinforcements. Logistics. A command structure.

But it also meant danger — massive, immediate danger.

So close to Pilaf's border, a buildup of troops was an act of provocation. A spark beside a powder keg. If enemy scouts had spotted them, the news would spread through Pilaf's lines like wildfire. Pilaf would not ignore such a movement. He would retaliate. The phantom war of skirmishes and ambushes could erupt into open conflict — here and now, on this poisoned soil.

And amid all that, an older, darker presence still slept beneath the stones — a presence only Élisa seemed able to sense.

Waiting was no longer passive. It had become the calm before the gathering of storms — human and inhuman alike.

⸻

Urgency settled in without sound — like a rising tide.

Maggie snapped her journal shut, fastened the straps on her coat, and glanced at Tonar. He understood before she spoke. With a curt nod, he stepped forward, his gravelly voice carrying just enough to reach the whole camp.

"We're switching to fortification phase. You know what that means — nothing improvised, nothing exposed. We prep the ground for the Count's arrival."

Despite the exhaustion, despite the dark rings under their eyes, the men went to work instantly. There were no shouts, no rallying cries — only the hard rhythm of tools on stone, the scrape of blades, and low murmurs of coordination.

Zirel took command of the northern ridge, marking firing lines, cover points, potential ambush zones. Two sharpshooters climbed into half-collapsed ruins. Others cleared out a buried corridor that could serve as shelter or escape.

Tonar focused on the center. He chose a natural rise — a rocky hill overlooking the area. There, he planted a simple spear in the earth, its leather grip marked with Martissant's sigil.

"This'll be the rally point. If things go bad — we converge here."

Maggie moved among the soldiers, inspecting fortifications, adjusting angles, correcting cover. Her commands were sharp and calm, stripped of emotion. She knew that within hours, this camp might turn into a battlefield.

Élisa watched the quiet frenzy around her, feeling both useless and alien among their precise efficiency. Yet beneath it all, she sensed something else — a faint vibration in the ground, rhythmic, uneven, echoing their movements.

The earth again. That pulse, buried deep, answering their every strike and footstep — as if whatever slept below was stirring.

She approached Maggie.

"Are you sure you want to build here? This place… it's still breathing."

Maggie didn't answer right away. She watched her men raise makeshift barriers, reinforce crumbling walls, dig shallow trenches.

"I know," she finally said. "But we don't have a choice. This is the only ground stable enough to hold an army."

Élisa frowned.

"Stable? It's crumbling under our feet."

Maggie turned to her, eyes heavy with meaning.

"I'm speaking strategically, not geologically. If Pilaf advances, we need an anchor point — something to defend. And this… will have to be it."

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.