The crows descended in irregular circles.
Too low.
Wings cut the air with a dry force, passing close to the raised spears, to the edges of shields.
The screams came from just below.
Short.
Cut off before they could complete.
The formation no longer advanced with the same precision.
There were gaps.
Small.
But growing.
The viscount kept his gaze fixed ahead.
Not on the men.
On him.
Éreon moved through the line like a conscious rupture — each step calculated, each strike without waste.
There was no haste.
There was no excess.
Only execution.
The viscount then lifted his gaze slightly.
The crows.
Circling.
Descending.
Rising.
Never out of place.
A knight approached on his right.
He stopped, firm.
Fist to chest, but without taking his eyes off the field.
"My lord…" his voice was restrained, but there was tension there "if this continues, we will lose more than men."
He swallowed, controlling his tone.
"The line is already beginning to give. And…" he hesitated for an instant "they are seeing it."
The viscount remained still.
Eyes still on the crows.
Then he spoke:
"What do you see?"
The knight frowned slightly.
He looked up.
Then back to the field.
"A boy…" the word came out almost with contained disbelief "he doesn't look more than fifteen."
The viscount did not shift his gaze.
"The crows."
Clearer now.
"What do you see?"
The knight hesitated.
He observed more closely.
The descents.
The movements.
The interruptions in the men's focus.
"They're… descending too much," he answered, still uncertain "disrupting the line."
The viscount nodded once.
"He is careful."
His gaze dropped, finding Éreon again among the men.
"He uses the crows to break their focus."
"Every time the line begins to close on him… they descend."
The knight fell silent.
Now he saw.
Too late to be comfortable.
The viscount continued:
"This isn't brute force."
"It's control."
The screams intensified for an instant — then ceased abruptly.
The viscount did not react.
"And control…" he said, low "is what decides wars before they even begin."
Finally, he turned his gaze fully back to the field.
Fixed on Éreon.
Without haste.
"We must kill him before nightfall."
The voice did not rise.
But it left no room for doubt.
"If we do not do it now… he will become a problem greater than we can contain."
The knight at his side remained firm.
But the grip in his fist tightened.
The viscount raised his hand.
A clean gesture.
Precise.
"Archers."
The order came out clear.
Without urgency.
But absolute.
"Forward."
Behind the main line, the men with bows were already moving.
Quick steps.
Organized.
Without completely breaking formation.
But advancing enough.
The viscount kept his eyes on Éreon for one more moment.
Then, without haste, he turned slightly back.
Not fully.
Just enough.
The figure was there.
Still.
A white mantle fell to the ground, without mark, without ornament — too out of place on a battlefield to be ignored, too contained to be questioned.
The fabric did not move as it should have.
The wind around it seemed to bend around her.
Circling.
Low.
Almost imperceptible.
The viscount looked at her for a brief moment.
"Do it."
There was no explanation.
There was no additional gesture.
The figure nodded.
A minimal movement.
The air around her contracted—
and then ceased.
As if it had never moved.
The viscount turned his gaze forward.
Raised his hand again.
Now without pause.
"Kill him."
The order fell.
Hard.
The archers were already positioned.
Strings were drawn in sequence—
uniform tension—
immediate release.
The sound came dry.
A rain of arrows tore through the air.
Éreon did not look up.
He felt it first.
The air shifted direction.
He moved his body a degree.
The first arrow passed close to his shoulder.
The second was deflected with the blade — a short, precise touch, without breaking the movement.
He advanced.
Another came.
Lower.
He rotated his wrist.
The blade met the shaft and sent it aside.
Without stopping.
Without slowing.
A third did not follow the same pattern.
The trajectory corrected in the air.
Subtle.
But enough.
Éreon noticed in the instant.
The blade rose.
The impact came dry.
He deflected—
but not completely.
The arrow grazed, lightly cutting the fabric and the skin beneath.
At the same moment—
a spear thrust from the side.
The knight took advantage of the opening.
Perfect timing.
Éreon turned his body out of the line.
The free hand touched the shaft—
shifted its path—
but not enough to fully nullify the attack.
The tip passed.
Opened a shallow cut along the arm.
Nothing that would slow him.
But enough.
He stepped back half a step.
Just one.
His gaze lifted for the first time.
Straight past the line.
Passing the archers.
The viscount.
Until it stopped—
on the white-mantled figure.
The silence around him did not change.
But the intent… did.
Now there was response.
And, for the first time—
opposition.
The second order came without delay.
The strings drew again—
and this time, there was no simple pattern.
The arrows rose in an arc—
and fell all over him.
Not scattered.
Converging.
Éreon moved.
One step to the left—
two arrows passed.
The blade rose—
another was deflected.
He turned his body—
two more tore the air where he would be.
But they did not cease.
They corrected.
Adjusted.
Followed.
Then came the spears.
From the front line.
Coordinated advance.
Trained precision.
The space around him closed.
That was when the ground responded.
A short tremor.
Deep.
The earth rose around Éreon—
fast—
compact—
closing like a cocoon.
The arrows embedded in the surface.
The spears struck—
without piercing.
The impact echoed muffled.
The structure held.
A few meters behind—
Gaia remained still.
Feeling.
The vibrations of the earth.
The impacts.
The internal pressure.
"If it continues like this… his body will give out."
The voice came low.
But final.
"Vital Echo."
The ground answered in a different way.
Not violent.
Ancient.
Deep.
Gaia placed her hands on the soil.
And spoke:
"I am the Earth that received them… the ground that held their pain."
The air around seemed to grow heavy.
"Hear me, those who sank into me, whose blood fed my roots…"
The first cracks appeared.
Thin.
Growing.
"By the memory of the earth… which does not return what it receives…"
The fractures multiplied.
"Tear apart what kept you in silence."
The ground split.
"Rise from me… my sentinels."
It broke.
Thousands.
Forms emerged from the ground as if they had always been there.
Bodies of clay.
Root.
Fragments of ancient armor.
Empty eyes—
but not without purpose.
"Walk… once more."
They advanced.
Without hesitation.
Passing by the cocoon of earth—
ignoring Éreon—
straight toward the enemy line.
The knights reacted in the same instant.
"Close!"
Shields rose again.
A wall.
Compact.
Locked.
The sentinels collided against it.
Weight against resistance.
Clay against steel.
The archers stepped back half a step—
repositioning.
Inside the cocoon—
a crack.
Small opened.
One of Éreon's eyes appeared in the shadow.
Partial.
But enough.
He looked.
Across the field.
Straight—
at the white-mantled figure.
And smiled.
Almost imperceptible.
"Shadow manipulation."
The crows hesitated in the air.
For an instant—
the wings lost rhythm.
The circle above the field broke apart.
The forms compressed.
As if something pulled them back.
The air around them darkened a degree.
Subtle.
But enough.
"καταβροχθίζω. (devour)"
The fall came all at once.
Without transition.
Without disorder.
"Targets above!"
The arrows changed direction.
Rose—
met wings—
tore through forms—
but did not reduce the advance.
The crows cut through the rain.
Descending.
They crashed into the knights.
The line absorbed it.
Shields raised—
men firm—
the shock was received.
Contained.
When they passed—
nothing seemed different.
The formation, still standing.
But something had touched.
And did not remain.
The viscount watched.
Without haste.
Eyes passing over the sentinels—
the line—
the resistance.
A knight emerged from the rear.
Breathing heavily.
"My lord! The preparations… have been completed!"
The viscount lifted his chin slightly.
Satisfied.
Without smiling.
The forest answered before the order.
A mist crawled between the trunks.
Dense.
Cold.
Expanding like a tide.
Taking the field.
Silent.
Inevitable.
The viscount spoke:
"Legions of the Eternal Mist…"
A short pause.
"Advance."
From the fog—
forms emerged.
First outlines.
Then—
soldiers.
Made of smoke and steel.
They passed through the line of shields—
as if it did not exist—
and materialized on the other side.
Blades appeared.
Strikes fell.
The earth sentinels began to give.
Undone.
Fragmented.
But still advancing.
The mist forms did not hesitate.
They turned to Éreon.
Attacked.
He stepped out of the cocoon—
the earth yielding around—
clean movement.
The blade met one of them.
Passed through.
Without resistance.
The form wavered—
and responded.
The strike came back.
Solid.
Éreon deflected—
but not entirely.
The impact touched.
Light.
But present.
He adjusted his stance.
More attentive.
More precise.
The field was no longer the same.
It was no longer a charge.
It was confrontation.
Forces nullifying each other.
Adapting.
Testing.
On the wall, the knights held position.
Eyes fixed on the field below.
None of them spoke loudly.
It was not necessary.
"That one…" one said, low, without taking his eyes off the fight "the one in the black mantle."
A brief pause.
"He is still fighting."
Another at his side narrowed his gaze.
Following the movements.
"It's been a while."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"And he's starting to feel it."
A third drew a breath, more restrained.
"It may not look like it…" he said "but before, he wasn't being touched."
His gaze dropped to the field.
"Now he is being forced."
The first spoke again, almost without realizing:
"Even so…"
He hesitated.
"How does someone advance alone against an army?"
"Is it bravery… or something else?"
The answer came from behind.
Cold.
Unhurried.
"That is not bravery."
"Bravery dies in the first rank."
The sound of the voice made them turn.
"What he carries… makes armies irrelevant."
Their gazes met the figure approaching.
Pale skin, marked by time and war.
Blue eyes.
Heavy.
A scar crossing the face — passing through the eye, without taking it.
Recognition came immediately.
Bodies adjusted.
"Forgive us…" one of them said, firm but restrained "we did not notice your presence."
"Commander Aldric."
Aldric did not answer immediately.
His eyes returned to the field.
"I was informed you would take command of the northern gate," the knight continued.
Aldric let out a faint breath through his nose.
Almost a smile.
"I did."
"And I came to see the south."
He did not move.
"A fog has taken the northern forest."
"And it's answering here."
One of the knights frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Aldric's gaze narrowed a degree.
"They are closing the field."
The knights exchanged a brief look.
One of them shifted focus for an instant—
to the field below.
Éreon still advanced among the mist forms.
Not with the same ease as before.
But he advanced.
He spoke again:
"Do you believe…" he began, weighing the words "that he can change the course of this war?"
Aldric did not answer immediately.
The wind passed over the wall.
Faint.
But enough to carry the distant sound of battle.
Eyes still on the field.
Éreon's blade cutting through the mist.
Lines breaking.
Reforming.
"You did not witness," he said at last.
The voice low.
Firm.
"The war against the gods."
Silence closed.
The air shifted.
Subtle.
"That…" Aldric continued "was not a war."
A brief interval.
"It was extermination."
His gaze did not leave the field.
"A single one of them was enough to erase thousands."
The fingers of one of the knights tightened slightly against his chest.
Instinctive.
"What happened at the Council of the Hundred…"
A short pause.
"It erased cities before anyone understood what was happening."
Aldric went on:
"I fought on many fields."
"I saw entire armies collapse…"
"more than once."
He moved his gaze.
Back to the men at his side.
"On one of those fields I had a brief glimpse… of a battle between gods."
The wind passed again.
This time, colder.
"And it was enough to understand."
"There is power…"
His eyes fixed.
"…and there is that which makes power irrelevant."
An interval.
Short.
"He is the second."
None of the knights answered.
There was nothing to say.
Aldric lifted his gaze slightly.
The sky was already darkening.
"Night is falling."
Simple.
Direct.
"Light the torches."
The men moved immediately.
"Maintain watch."
"Any change… must be reported immediately."
No rise in tone.
But absolute.
They nodded.
"Yes, commander."
Aldric was already turning when a voice called him:
"Sir…"
He did not stop.
Only turned his face enough.
"Which of the two… are you?"
The corner of Aldric's mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
But there was no answer.
He kept walking.
And disappeared from the wall.
The sound of battle remained.
But now—
no one there saw it the same way.