The victory, when it came, had the bitter taste of poisons that both save and weaken.

A rider covered in dust, wearing the colors of one of Pilaf's elite units, crossed the lines at dawn on the second day. He wasn't fleeing; he was surrendering. His eyes were hollowed out by such deep terror that it had turned into a kind of lucid calm.

"They're fighting each other," he rasped before the Count and his hastily gathered staff. "The Gorges have become hell itself. Men see traitors in their own brothers-in-arms. A commander was slit open by his lieutenants—they thought he was a demon from the old times. The panic is total. They're retreating."

A wave of relief rippled through the gathering—quickly stifled by the glances cast toward the sick tent.

Rhelas's strategy had worked beyond all expectation. Pilaf was in rout, not under the blow of steel, but under the assault of its own demons.

The Count turned to Valerius.

"General, the time has come for your Hammer. Send your best units. Harass their rearguard, capture their supplies. But do not enter the Gorges. No one goes in."

For once, Valerius didn't object. Even he could feel the madness emanating from that place like a sick heat.

Yet the celebration was short-lived. As the trumpets announced Valerius's advance, a new report arrived, carried by a pale-faced Zirel.

"The mist… it's crossed the western border," he said, avoiding the oddly stretched shadows around them—even in full daylight. "Three of our patrols returned claiming they heard voices calling them by name. One man tried to slit his own throat, saying insects were digging tunnels under his skin. It's not just psychic contagion anymore, Maggie. The symptoms are becoming… physical."

The Count listened, his face growing graver with each word.

The strategic victory was turning into a moral and medical disaster. His victorious army risked dying to the very weapon that had given them triumph.

"Rhelas," said the Count, his voice sharp as a blade. "You created this weapon. Can you shut it down?"

All eyes turned to the Captain of the Sixth Squad of the Awakened. Rhelas paled slightly.

"My Lord, the network has become self-sustaining. It's gone beyond the anchors we placed. It now draws from the collective fear, from the trauma of war itself. Shutting it down suddenly might… release all that energy at once. A psychic shockwave—magnitude unknown."

A glacial silence fell over the group. They were facing a fire that fed on the very air they breathed. To extinguish it could kill them; to let it burn would consume them slowly.

Then Maggie spoke, her command instinct cutting through the dread.

"We can't extinguish it, but maybe we can channel it," she said, her gaze shifting toward the tent where Elisa was confined. "Rhelas's first report mentioned Elisa was a vector—not a source, but a conduit. What if we used that? Not to amplify the phenomenon, but to give it a controlled outlet?"

Rhelas looked at her, and a new light sparked in his eyes.

"Using her link to the monolith… like a lightning rod. Draw the charge and redirect it toward… something else. The black structure. It's made of the same essence—it might absorb it."

The plan was terrifying. They would use Elisa as a living fuse, channeling the collective nightmare toward the ancient entity they feared most.

"It's a calculated risk," the Count admitted after a long silence, his politician's gaze weighing gain against ruin. "Contain an immediate disaster, or risk awakening an older one. But we have no choice. Rhelas, Maggie—prepare her. Do it."

As the sun reached its zenith, casting a pitiless light over the camp, Maggie and Rhelas stood before Elisa. The young woman faced them with unsettling calm. She had heard the screams, felt the rising dread. She knew.

"You understand what we're asking?" Maggie asked, her voice strangely gentle.

Elisa nodded, her eyes distant, as if listening to a music no one else could hear.

"The voice in the forest… it's always been hungry. Now there's so much more to feed on."

She closed her eyes. "Do it."

Under Rhelas's direction, the remaining Awakened formed a circle around Elisa. Their chants were not spells of power but melodies of attraction—calls meant to gather the corrupted essence saturating the air. Maggie, Tonar, and Zirel formed a second, human circle, swords drawn not to threaten, but to symbolize the boundary between mankind and the storm they were about to unleash.

Elisa began to tremble. Her stigma flared—not with golden light, but with the same violet-green glow of the cursed mist. She groaned—not in pain, but from immense strain, as if trying to swallow an ocean.

On the horizon, above the Umbral Gorges, the mist suddenly swirled, forming a monstrous vortex. The whispers turned into a high-pitched scream that tore the sky apart. Then, as if pulled by a colossal breath, the entire mass—the mist, the condensed fear—moved. It raced across the land like a spectral river, a current of pure horror streaming toward the forest where the black structure waited.

When the last wisp of mist vanished into the trees, an absolute silence fell. The silence of death.

Elisa collapsed—exhausted, but alive.

The camp was safe. For now.

———

Yet the triumph had a taste of ashes.

While the soldiers hammered out their victory songs, celebrating their advance and Pilaf's retreat, Maggie felt the weight of a victory too easy, too strange.

The forest to the west was silent. Too silent. Like a predator, sated, digesting—waiting for the next feast.

The Count, pragmatic as ever, had already moved his command to the former enemy encampments abandoned in panic. Under a captured tent, the map was once again unfurled—but the objective had changed.

"Pilaf has lost the Gorges, but not the war," said the Count, tracing a line north of their new position. "Scouts confirm their main forces regrouping here, on the plain just beyond. They've had time to fortify. That's an army, not an advance guard."

The plain was every strategist's nightmare—vast, open, perfect ground for a numerically superior force. Pilaf had built a fortified camp there, protected by palisades and, according to reports, guarded by their own Awakened—less subtle than Martissan's, but renowned for sheer destructive might.

Valerius slammed his fist on the table, making the cups rattle.

"Finally! A man's fight! No ghosts, no mist! We'll smash them head-on. The Hammer was made for this."

Lady Anya studied the map, skeptical.

"A frontal charge across the plain? You'd offer your flanks to their heavy cavalry. They're waiting for that. It's a trap. We need to draw them out—provoke them."

"How?" Valerius barked. "Offer them tea and pastries?"

"By showing them what they want to see," Rhelas interjected. He was pale, drawn—the toll of channeling the cursed mist still etched into his face. "They've just suffered a humiliating defeat caused by what they see as witchcraft. They're angry, humiliated. Let's use that."

His plan was bold, almost reckless. He proposed splitting their forces. A smaller army, led by Maggie and her battalion, would position itself at the edge of the plain—appearing exposed, vulnerable. Bait.

The main forces—Valerius's Hammer and Anya's reserves—would remain hidden in the surrounding hills.

"Their commander, General Korbac, is known for his impulsiveness," Rhelas explained. "If he sees what looks like a small Martissan detachment he can crush, he'll come charging out to finish it quickly. The shame of the Gorges will push him to seek a decisive victory."

"And if you're wrong?" Maggie asked, arms crossed. "If Korbac stays put? We'll be exposed—and alone."

"Then we lay siege," concluded the Count, his decision made. "But Rhelas is right—Korbac will bite. Maggie, your battalion will be the bait. You'll take the initial hit. Valerius, you'll strike the moment they engage. Anya, you'll seal their retreat."

It was a deadly assignment. Maggie's battalion would take the full brunt of Pilaf's army. Their survival would depend on Valerius's timing—minutes could decide life or annihilation.

Back at her camp, Maggie gathered her officers.

"You heard him. We're the bait. Our mission is to make them bite—and not get swallowed."

Tonar growled his approval. "We'll show them what Martissan steel tastes like."

Zirel, darker, added, "Scouts report their infantry's got improvised flamethrowers. Fire Awakened. They'll try to burn us out."

Preparations were fast, feverish. Maggie's soldiers—seasoned veterans—knew what awaited. They dug shallow trenches, built hasty barricades. The air was tense, electric. The fear of the Gorges had given way to a more tangible dread—the coming charge.

As Maggie inspected the defenses, she found Elisa sitting on a munitions crate, staring toward the distant forest. The young woman seemed physically recovered, but her gaze was different—older, heavier.

"You should stay back," Maggie told her. "You've done enough."

Elisa shook her head slowly.

"No. I have to be here. The thing in the forest… it's watching. It wants to see what happens." She turned her gaze toward Maggie. "It's tasted the fear of Pilaf's soldiers. Now it wants ours. And theirs. It doesn't care who wins. The battle… it's just the next course."

Her words chilled Maggie. They were fighting for the survival of their nation—but perhaps they were only unwitting actors in a grander drama, performing for an audience of endless hunger.

At dawn the next day, Maggie's army stood in position. Before them stretched the vast plain—and beyond it, the enemy camp, alive with movement. The sun rose, casting its light on Pilaf's banners, emblazoned with the golden serpent.

Then came the waiting. Hour after hour. The tension tightening like a vice around every chest.

Finally, just past noon, Pilaf's trumpets blared. The camp gates opened. A tide of steel rolled forth, deploying with ominous precision—lines of pikes, blocks of heavy infantry, cavalry on the flanks. At the center, men in black robes, their hands wreathed in fire: the Fire Awakened.

General Korbac had taken the bait.

Maggie felt her heart pounding. She turned to her soldiers, meeting eyes filled with resolve, fear, and grim acceptance. She drew her sword, its blade flashing in the sunlight.

"For Martissan!" she shouted, her voice carrying across the ranks.

The cry was taken up by a thousand throats—a defiant roar thrown into the face of death.

Across the plain, the tide of steel began to move. The thunder of boots, the clatter of armor—a symphony of war. The real battle, the one they had tried so hard to avoid through cunning and fear, was finally here.

And as the first volley of arrows screamed through the air, Maggie had time to recall Elisa's words.

The feast had begun.

And they were the main course.

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