The air around Raviel was never still. His flames licked at his skin in restless flickers, black curling into red, red bleeding back into black.
He'd done it. Played their game. Kept the fire where they told him to keep it. Precision strikes, no "accidents," no surprises, at least none they could see. The patrol had looked relieved afterward, even grateful.
And yet… he felt hollow.
They thought his chaos was recklessness. That he liked the sound of screaming enemies or the rush of heat across a battlefield. They didn't understand. Chaos was a language, one the world didn't speak anymore.
When you fought like they did... straight lines, predictable formations, you survive for a while. But sooner or later, someone learns your rhythm. And when they do, you die. Raviel had seen it happen a hundred times before the Crimson Pact found him. Commanders, heroes, friends gone in an instant because they'd been too easy to read.
No one read Raviel. Not for long.
He glanced at Valerian walking ahead, blue flames steady, calm as always. That control was beautiful in its way, precise, disciplined. But control could shatter. Raviel knew it, had watched it happen.
Lysa was harder to read. Her eyes held steel, but there was something under it, something that made her dangerous. She'd challenged him twice now and hadn't flinched either time. He liked that.
The trouble was, they both thought they were holding the leash.
Raviel smiled faintly to himself, letting the flames flare a little higher. He could play their game again if it served him. But when the day came that the straight lines failed… they'd need the chaos.
And when that day came, he'd make sure they remembered who taught them to survive it.
---
For the first time in days, no one was on edge, at least not openly.
Lysa sat cross-legged near the fire, sharpening her dagger in slow, steady strokes. She wasn't looking at anyone, but she was listening, to the conversations, the silences, the way the newer recruits glanced between Valerian and Raviel as if trying to decide which man was the greater danger.
Valerian was on the far side of the fire, he polished his sword. His eyes were on the weapon, but Lysa could tell his mind was elsewhere, measuring their supply counts, weighing their route, considering contingencies in his own way.
Raviel lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, watching the stars. Every so often his face darkened, then flared bright again, as though the night sky itself was tugging at his mood.
"You're quiet tonight," Lysa said, not looking up from her blade.
"Enjoying the peace," Raviel replied without opening his eyes. "Doesn't happen often. And it won't last."
"That's because someone usually sets it on fire," Valerian said dryly.
Raviel's grin was lazy. "Not always me."
A chuckle rippled through a couple of the soldiers, breaking some of the tension.
After a moment, Lysa sheathed her dagger and leaned back on her hands. "When we reach the Ironford crossing, we'll be within a day of Crimson Pact territory. From there, we either head straight to the Bastion or take the long road through Red Hollow."
Valerian looked up. "The Hollow's slower. More dangerous terrain."
"True," Lysa agreed. "But it's less predictable." Her eyes flicked toward Raviel deliberately. "And unpredictability has its uses."
Raviel smirked "Careful, captain. Keep talking like that and I might think you're starting to appreciate me."
"I appreciate results," Lysa said, her tone flat, but the faintest smirk touched her lips.
The conversation drifted into plans for the road ahead, shifts for the night watch, and quiet banter about who could out-drink whom. But under it all, Lysa felt the pull of something coming.
The morning mist hung heavy, swallowing the path ahead in pale gray. The patrol moved in quiet formation, boots sinking into the damp earth.
Lysa was at the front, eyes sharp, one hand resting on her dagger hilt. She could feel it... something off in the air. It wasn't danger exactly. More like… attention.
"Smells wrong," Raviel muttered from the rear.
"The air's stale. No birds since we left camp."
Lysa slowed the pace, scanning the treeline. The forest here was different, darker, the branches arching overhead like a cathedral ceiling.
They crossed a narrow bend in the path where the mist thickened, curling around their legs. That's when Lysa heard it, footsteps that weren't theirs. Soft. Careful. Keeping pace.
She raised a hand, and the patrol halted instantly.
"Left flank," Valerian murmured, his eyes narrowing. "Close. Watching."
Raviel's flames flared black for a moment, then red again. "They're good," he said with a faint grin. "Almost didn't hear them."
"Almost," Lysa replied. She kept her voice low. "We don't move until we know what's in the mist. If they want to follow, fine. If they want to get close..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
The patrol stood in still silence, every ear straining. The unseen footsteps stopped too. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then, just barely audible, came a whisper. Not words, something older, stranger. The kind of sound that felt like it slid under your skin rather than into your ears.
One of the younger soldiers shivered. "Captain… what is that?"
Lysa didn't answer. Her eyes met Valerian's, then Raviel's. All three of them knew, the road was no longer theirs alone.
The whisper came again, closer this time, curling between the trees like smoke.
Then the forest erupted.
Shapes lunged from the mist, pale forms barely visible before they were upon them. Their skin was ashen, their eyes a dull, unnatural white, and their movements sharp as blades. They didn't shout, didn't roar, they struck in silence.
"Shields!" Lysa barked, drawing her dagger in one fluid motion. The front line locked together, steel ringing as the first attackers hit.
Valerian's blue flames flared instantly, a wall of heat and light forcing two enemies back. He moved with deliberate precision, cutting down anything that broke through the shield wall.
Behind him, Raviel's red-and-black fire exploded outward, searing the mist into curling black smoke. His grin was sharp, almost eager. "Finally!" he shouted, launching a wave of flame that lit the shadows in strobing bursts.
But the mist fought back. Every time Raviel burned a patch clear, more rolled in, thick and heavy. The attackers moved with it, vanishing into the gray and reappearing at their flanks.
"They're using the fog!" Valerian called, deflecting a blade aimed at a soldier's throat. "They're herding us in place."
Lysa's mind raced. She could see the pattern, two strikes from the front, one from the side, retreat into cover. Whoever was directing them knew exactly how to exhaust a formation.
"Break their rhythm!" she ordered. "Valerian, hold the front. Raviel..."
She didn't need to finish. Raviel's flames surged black, then crimson, spiraling out in erratic bursts. The attackers hesitated, their silent coordination faltering as their cover burned unevenly.
Lysa took the chance, breaking from the line and darting through a gap in the mist. Her dagger found an attacker's side, the blade slipping between ribs. He collapsed without a sound, and then she saw it, a thin black cord wrapped around his wrist, disappearing into the fog.
"Found your leash," she muttered.
The battle shifted. Valerian pushed forward, his blue fire slicing through their front line. Raviel swept the sides, a living storm of shifting flames that left no place for the enemy to regroup.
Within minutes, the mist began to retreat, dragging the remaining attackers with it. Silence fell again, broken only by the hiss of cooling steel.
Lysa crouched over the fallen body, cutting the black cord free. It pulsed faintly, like something alive. She glanced at Valerian and Raviel. "This wasn't a random attack. Someone sent them."
Raviel's flames dimmed, but his grin didn't. "Good. I was getting bored."
Valerian met Lysa's eyes, his tone serious. "Then they'll try again."
And somewhere deep in the mist beyond their sight, something was listening.
The campfire burned low, casting a tight circle of light in the darkness. Beyond it, the mist still hung between the trees, refusing to thin even after nightfall.
The patrol sat close, their voices low, eyes flicking toward the shadows just beyond the fire's reach. Even the seasoned fighters kept a hand on their weapons.
"We should push through now," one of the scouts said. "The longer we sit, the more time they have to regroup."
"And walk straight into another ambush?" another replied sharply. "We hold the position. At least here we control the ground."
Lysa sat near the fire, elbows on her knees, watching the flames as she listened. She could feel the tension tightening like a drawn bowstring. Both sides of the argument were right and both were wrong.
Valerian leaned against a tree, arms crossed, his blue flames faint but steady. "If we move in the dark, we lose the advantage of sight. But if we stay, they'll test us. Maybe not all at once, just enough to keep us tired."
Raviel lay on the ground a few feet away, hands behind his head, staring into the mist. "They're already testing us," he said, almost lazily.
As if on cue, a pebble rolled into the light. Every soldier tensed, weapons half-drawn.
"Wind," one muttered.
"No wind," Raviel corrected, his grin faint. "They're watching."
Lysa straightened. "Double the watch. Rotate every two hours. No one goes beyond the firelight."
For the next hour, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle from the mist. Then.. faint footsteps. Too light to be human.
The watch on the east side signaled, and everyone froze. Shadows moved just beyond the light, pacing the perimeter, never stepping closer. Valerian's blue flames brightened slightly, but he didn't move. "They want us to break formation."
Raviel finally sat up, flames flaring red. "Then let's give them a reason to regret waiting."
Lysa shook her head. "No. Let them circle. If they're not attacking, they're buying time for something else. We need to know what before we act."
Hours passed. The mist never lifted. The shadows never left. And the patrol slept in shifts, knowing the enemy could strike at any moment.
Somewhere in the darkness, the whispering returned, low, deliberate, and patient.
The morning fog was thicker than ever, curling around the trees like living fingers. The patrol moved cautiously, boots barely making a sound on the wet earth.
"Keep formation," Lysa whispered, her dagger ready. "No one breaks line."
Valerian's blue flames pulsed faintly at his shoulders, illuminating the edges of the mist. "Something's off. The fog… it's too consistent. Too controlled."
Raviel walked along the rear, flames low, shifting from red to black with every step, though his attention seemed casual.
At first, the mist simply thickened. Then it moved. Not with the wind, not like a natural drift but like it had intent. One of the scouts stumbled, caught in a sudden wall of fog that hadn't been there a second ago. Another shouted as branches tangled around their legs, invisible until they were wrapped tight.
"Pull together!" Lysa ordered, gripping her dagger. "We move as one. No one gets left behind."
Suddenly, shapes emerged from the gray pale, silent figures sliding through the fog. Their attacks were coordinated, striking from multiple directions at once. The patrol's formation shattered as soldiers were forced to dodge left, then right, and back again.
Valerian flared his blue flames, holding the front line as best he could. "Stay together! Cover each other!"
Raviel's fire erupted in bursts, black swirling into red, scorching anyone who got too close but his movements were almost reactive, rather than leading. The patrol had to adapt to the mist's attacks, not Raviel.
Lysa's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just an ambush. They're trying to split us"
Despite her command, the patrol fractured. Small groups were forced off the path, swallowed by fog. Shouts echoed through the mist as soldiers tried to regroup. Lysa and Valerian moved like twin blades cutting through chaos, rescuing their men while keeping the core of the patrol intact.
Hours passed like this, the fog rising, falling, pushing, pulling, until exhaustion began to gnaw at them. Every step forward felt like a battle of wills, and every glance into the mist made them flinch.
When the fog finally thinned near the Ironford crossing, the patrol was battered, soaked, and tense beyond measure. The pale figures had vanished, leaving only broken branches, trampled ground, and the lingering sense that the forest itself had been alive with hostile intent.
Lysa wiped her brow and surveyed her patrol. "We survived. That's what matters. But don't think the road is safe yet."
Valerian's gaze lingered on the mist. "No, it's not."
Raviel let out a quiet, almost content sigh.
[Lysa's Flashback – Before the Crimson Pact]
She had been sixteen. Her village lay at the edge of the Ashen Valley, a place where trade routes crossed and thieves were as common as merchants. Life was simple, structured, safe or at least it felt that way until the night the raiders came.
The alarms had sounded too late. Smoke and screams filled the air. Lysa remembered clutching her mother's hand, feeling it go limp in her grip as the chaos tore through the village. She had run, unseen, unseen enough to survive while the rest of her family fell.
For nights after, she wandered, feeding off scraps, sleeping in shadowed corners, learning to listen, to move without sound. That was when she realized: survival required more than instinct. It required choice, cunning, and the willingness to do things others wouldn't.
By the time she encountered the Crimson Pact recruiters, she was already hardened, already calculating. They didn't offer comfort or friendship at first only opportunity, purpose, and a chance to wield her skills for something larger than herself.
She had hesitated. Could she trust them? Could she trust anyone? And then she remembered the night her village burned, the helplessness she'd felt. She decided that trust could wait. Survival couldn't.
Joining the Crimson Pact wasn't about loyalty. it was about taking control.
[Back to the Present]
A branch cracked nearby, and Lysa's eyes snapped open. The patrol had halted again, the forest unnervingly quiet. She shook off the memory, letting it steel her. The past had taught her to survive, but the present demanded more, strategy, leadership, and nerves of iron.
---
The bridge over the river came into view first, its timber slick with mist, its ropes creaking under the weight of the patrol. Ironford's walls rose beyond, dark stone streaked with moss and shadow, promising refuge but offering none yet.
"Stay sharp," Lysa warned, her eyes scanning both the bridge and the surrounding forest. "Nothing here is natural."
Raviel trailed at the rear, restless and impatient. "Finally," he muttered, "something interesting."
No sooner had the first soldier stepped onto the bridge than the attack began.
From the trees lining the riverbank, arrows rained down, striking the wooden planks with sharp cracks. At the same time, shadowy figures emerged from hidden alcoves along the walls, pale, wiry, moving with uncanny precision.
"Shields!" Lysa shouted, vaulting forward to intercept a soldier whose footing had faltered. Her dagger flashed, cutting down one attacker before another lunged.
Valerian's blue flames surged, forming a protective barrier around the patrol's center. The attackers tried to press through, but every strike was met with precise, controlled fire.
Raviel's red-and-black flames erupted violently, scything through enemies at the flanks. His mood-driven shifts, sudden black bursts, then wild red surges, kept the attackers off-balance, reacting to chaos they could not anticipate.
Despite the patrol's preparation, the bridge began to shake under the combined weight of soldiers and attackers. One soldier screamed as a section of timber splintered beneath him. Lysa grabbed him, dragging him to safety, while fending off another assailant.
Valerian advanced beside her, blue fire lancing in arcs, cutting through anyone trying to exploit gaps. Every motion was measured, disciplined unlike Raviel, whose flames seemed alive with whim, yet somehow synchronized perfectly with the patrol's survival.
The attackers faltered, their coordinated assault breaking as they realized the patrol would not collapse. Raviel's grin appeared briefly as he unleashed a controlled wave of black fire, forcing the remaining assailants back into the mist.
Breathing heavily, Lysa surveyed the aftermath. The bridge was damaged, some soldiers wounded, but the patrol had held. Ironford's walls loomed ahead, offering temporary relief, but she knew this was only a trial. The enemy would not stop.
Valerian's gaze met hers. "We survived," he said, voice calm but sharp. "But we can't assume the next wave will be any easier."
Raviel stepped forward, flames settling into a low, controlled red. "Good practice," he said, smirking. "Next time, it'll be even more… fun."
Lysa clenched her jaw. She knew he thrived on chaos, but today, his fire had saved them.
The ambushers hesitated, regrouping, but the patrol, though battered and bloodied had held its core together.
Raviel stepped forward, flames settling into a steady red. His grin was sly but controlled. "And we made it through anyway. Not bad for a day's work."
Suddenly... a sharp crack from above. A large section of rock dislodged from the cliffside, tumbling toward the patrol. Valerian's flames flared, fending off most of the debris, but one jagged boulder hit with a sickening crunch.
Lysa dove to shield a soldier from the falling rock. She rolled, her body striking the ground hard, and the world seemed to tilt. Pain exploded across her side, and she felt herself sliding, half-conscious, toward the edge of the pass.
"Lysa!" Valerian shouted, lunging toward her, but the mist and dust swirled too thick to see clearly.
When the chaos finally settled, Lysa was gone from sight. The patrol regrouped, shaken and frantic, but there was no trace of her. Only her dagger, buried in the dirt, marked where she had fallen or been taken.
Raviel smirked. "Interesting," he muttered.