The impact still echoed across the field.
Not as sound.
As pressure.
The shields no longer gave way in line — they gave way in points. One man pushed back.
Another dropping to his knees.
A brief opening, quickly filled, only to rupture again a little further ahead.
The sentinels did not stop.
They did not advance in haste.
They advanced with presence.
The viscount watched.
Not the whole.
Parts.
Where the line held. Where it failed.
Where it took one second longer than it should to reform.
That was enough.
On the wall, the glow began to emerge.
First one.
Then another.
Torches lit along the rampart, one after the other, as if answering a command that did not need to be given.
Night was coming.
And the field changed with it.
The viscount's gaze dropped again.
Found Éreon.
Still advancing.
But no longer with the same freedom.
Forms of mist circled him in short cycles — not to contain him, but to force response. Strike, adjustment, minimal retreat. Repetition.
Measuring.
Adapting.
The viscount did not smile.
But he recognized it.
Then he looked away.
Gaia had remained motionless from the start.
But the field around her was not the same.
The earth responded.
Sustained.
Fighting.
Not as an extension of force — but as the continuation of something older.
The sentinels that rose did not hesitate.
Did not retreat.
Did not break formation because there was no formation to break.
Only advance.
Constant.
The viscount breathed through his nose, slow.
Then spoke, without taking his eyes off the field:
"And the north?"
The knight beside him answered at once, but with a restrained tone.
"As ordered, my lord. They held position. No advance beyond the limit."
A brief pause.
"The line remains intact."
The viscount nodded, almost imperceptible.
Silence for an instant.
The battle continued below.
But there, it was no longer the same kind of noise.
He raised a hand.
"Horn."
The knight hesitated.
Slightly.
But enough.
"My lord…" he began, controlling the weight of his own voice, "with all due respect…"
The viscount did not move.
"This may be our best opening."
The knight's eyes returned to the field.
"He has already been hit. He is being pressured. If we pull back now…"
He stopped.
Choosing his words.
"we may lose the moment."
The viscount finally turned his face.
Not completely.
Just enough for the other to know he was being heard.
"Moment…" he repeated, low.
His gaze returned to the field.
To Éreon.
"You still see him as prey."
The knight did not answer.
But he did not deny it.
"Prey retreats," the viscount continued, "breaks pattern, seeks escape."
"He does not."
Below, one of the mist forms was pierced — and responded in the same motion.
"He absorbs."
"Adjusts."
"And answers."
The viscount narrowed his eyes slightly.
"And now we know he does not fight alone."
The knight followed his gaze.
The crows still circled.
Less organized.
But present.
"The shadows…" he said, almost to himself.
"Yes."
The viscount lifted his chin slightly.
"If we insist… we give him time."
"And reach."
Silence.
Short.
Decisive.
"Sound it."
This time, the knight did not hesitate.
He brought the horn to his lips.
The sound cut through the field.
Deep.
Sustained.
Not of panic.
Of order.
The response came immediately.
The archers withdrew first.
Without breaking rhythm.
Firing.
Falling back.
Readjusting position.
The shield line gave ground in coordinated blocks, opening and closing like living gears.
No man turned his back.
No step was wasted.
It was a retreat.
But not a rout.
The viscount remained still.
Watching.
The sentinels advanced over the space given — but found less than before.
Fewer targets.
Less direct resistance.
The mist forms held contact for a few more moments, delaying the advance, absorbing enough impact to maintain the rhythm of the withdrawal.
Then, they began to give way as well.
One by one.
Falling back into the fog.
The forest received them.
Without sound.
Without rupture.
The fog no longer advanced.
It waited.
And then it began to swallow.
First the feet.
Then the legs.
Then the silhouettes.
The last men disappeared without haste.
As if they had never stood there.
The field lay open.
But not empty.
Some crows still descended.
Crossed the boundary.
Vanished into the mist.
The viscount followed them with his eyes.
Without interfering.
Without order.
Just watching.
"Interesting…" he said, almost inaudible.
A pause.
"He learns quickly."
The knight remained silent beside him.
The viscount then added:
"That will make tomorrow more difficult."
"But not enough."
Silence.
Short.
Final.
"At dawn…" he said, with the same calm as before, "the barony will fall."
The last echoes of the horn had already faded.
That was when Éreon's eyes lifted.
Black.
Fixed.
Across the field, the viscount still watched him.
Without haste.
Without urgency.
For a brief instant, the field ceased to exist between them.
Only measure.
Recognition.
Then the viscount turned.
Without word.
Without gesture.
And was swallowed by the mist advancing through the forest.
The sentinels continued.
They passed the boundary left by the retreat.
Advanced a few steps beyond.
Began to give way.
The forms unraveled upon touching the mist, as if something in them were taken before they could even cross.
The weight gave first.
Then the form.
Éreon watched.
For a few more moments.
Then turned.
Walked to Gaia.
Stopped beside her.
Eyes on the wall.
"It's no use."
The voice came low.
Steady.
"Sending them beyond that is wasting them."
Gaia did not move.
But answered:
"You saw it too."
Not a question.
Éreon nodded once.
"When the crows crossed…" he said, "the link was lost."
A brief pause.
"They didn't come apart."
"They were cut."
The silence between them was not empty.
It was understanding.
Gaia then spoke:
"In that case… this war will not be decided outside the walls."
Feeling the vibrations ahead.
"We will only have the barony's men."
Éreon did not answer immediately.
His gaze remained fixed.
"Don't forget what you said," he spoke, at last.
Gaia breathed.
"I haven't forgotten."
"But there are things that have not yet reached their end."
The air around her seemed heavier now.
Less stable.
"You will have your answer."
"But not today."
A brief pause.
"I went beyond what his body can endure."
The wind passed lightly, dragging dust across the field.
"If I continue, I break him."
Now Éreon did look away.
Just for an instant.
"How long?"
Gaia answered without hesitation:
"Two… maybe three months."
"Until body and spirit find balance again."
Éreon exhaled slowly.
Almost imperceptible.
"Then this is the time he has left."
The voice carried no irony.
No compassion.
The wind passed over the field.
Weak.
Cold.
Éreon then moved.
Left Gaia behind.
Walked toward the wall.
Steps firm.
Unhurried.
After a few meters—
the sound.
Dry.
A body meeting the ground.
He did not turn.
But he felt it.
The right hand trembled.
Slight.
Contained.
For an instant.
His gaze dropped to his own fingers.
"I also…" he said, low, "cannot sustain this for long."
The hand closed.
Forcing steadiness.
Then he continued.
Without altering his pace.
Night had already taken the field.
Inside the castle—silence was not relief.
Time had passed.
Enough for everything to arrive there.
The war room remained lit.
Maps lay open over the central table, pinned by weights that no longer guaranteed anything.
No one moved beyond what was necessary.
Breath held.
The door opened.
A knight entered.
Steps firm.
Direct.
Stopped at the center.
Knelt.
"Lord Doros…" he said, without raising his gaze, "as ordered."
A brief pause.
"He has been brought."
The silence shifted.
It did not break.
It adjusted.
Doros did not respond immediately.
Fingers resting on the wood, near the map — but not truly touching it.
His gaze was not on the men.
Nor on the door.
It was on the point where everything crossed.
Thinking.
Or measuring.
Hard to say.
Then he spoke:
"Bring him."
Simple.
No rise.
The knight nodded.
Stood.
The door opened again.
And he entered.
Éreon did not hurry his step.
Nor did he hesitate.
He crossed the space as if he already knew where he would step before even seeing the ground.
Some of those present adjusted their posture.
Others did not look away.
No one spoke.
Doros raised his eyes.
For the first time.
And then he observed him.
Not as if assessing a man.
But as if trying to define what stood before him.
Éreon held.
Without challenge.
Without retreat.
Only presence.
The silence between them was not empty.
It was calculation.
Doros tilted his head slightly.
Almost imperceptible.
Dark hair fell in loose strands, misaligned by neglect — not by lack of control.
The face still young.
But without the softness of one who does not know war.
Brown eyes held something harder to define.
Warmth.
But not comfort.
Something alive.
Untamed.
And yet contained.
He did not smile.
But he did not harden either.
Doros took a step forward.
Then another.
Unhurried.
"Before you arrived…" he said, as he approached, "we had a line."
A short pause.
"Three, in fact."
His eyes passed briefly through the hall.
Not on the men.
On what was missing.
"One fell."
He continued advancing.
"Another can no longer fight."
Now he stopped.
A few meters away.
Gaze fixed.
"And now you are here."
Silence.
Short.
"So tell me…"
His head tilted slightly.
"who exactly are you—"
A pause.
Narrower.
"and how do you intend to answer for this?"
Fingers touched the hilts of the swords.
Light.
Without drawing.
Without open threat.
But not hiding it either.
Éreon did not answer immediately.
His gaze dropped.
Passed over the blades.
A brief smile appeared.
Small.
Contained.
"Curious…"
The voice came low.
Almost thoughtful.
His eyes returned to Doros.
"I've heard that before."
"A long time ago."
His gaze fixed.
"And said in the same way."
There was no provocation in the tone.
Only statement.
Doros frowned slightly.
"And what hell are you talking about?"
Éreon held his gaze for one more instant.
Then looked away, as if discarding the thought itself.
"Nothing that matters."
A short pause.
"I mistook you for someone who should already be dead."
The silence closed again in the room.
But not in the same way.
Doros did not retreat.
"You came here..."
The voice firm.
"broke what held this line."
A step forward.
"And now you say it doesn't matter?"
Éreon looked back.
"It was not my intention to be in this war."
Simple.
Direct.
"Not for you."
"Not against you."
A pause.
"I came to claim a debt."
The air seemed to grow heavier by a degree.
"If there is blame—"
his gaze shifted.
Brief.
"it is not in this room."
Doros did not move.
But the tone changed.
Stronger.
"The reason doesn't matter."
"What was done… remains."
A pause.
"And everything has consequence."
Silence.
Dense.
Éreon smiled.
This time, more visible.
Not open.
But present.
The air in the room changed.
The torch flames flickered.
Not from wind.
From intent.
The knights moved almost at the same instant.
Hands on swords.
Metal answering.
A blade touched Éreon's neck.
Cold.
Precise.
He did not react.
His eyes slid to the side.
Found—
blue eyes.
The scar crossing the face.
Without looking away, he said:
"Few survived… after pointing a blade at me."
Aldric laughed.
Low.
Without humor.
"Funny."
The knight did not retreat.
"Few survive…"
The blade pressed a degree.
"after I draw mine."
The silence did not break.
It deepened.
Éreon did not look away.
Neither from the blade.
Nor from the man.
"While you kept me within these walls…"
The voice came low.
But enough.
"I heard what you still do not see."
His gaze passed through Doros.
Without asking permission.
"The forest no longer responds."
"And those who stayed to watch… no longer return."
Silence.
Doros answered first.
Without moving.
"You think we don't know?"
The tone did not rise.
"We lost contact the moment the mist closed."
A minimal step.
"I don't need you to name what we have already lost."
Éreon tilted his head slightly.
Accepting.
But not yielding.
"No."
"You need me to cross it."
The air shifted a degree.
"I can open a path..."
"but not with a blade at my neck."
His eyes turned directly to Aldric.
Without haste.
Without open challenge.
Doros did not answer immediately.
Aldric did not move.
"If there is any intent—"
he began
"I end it."
Before he could finish—
Éreon spoke.
"This is the second."
The tone did not change.
But the air did.
Denser.
"There will not be a third."
Doros watched.
Measuring.
Made a minimal gesture.
Aldric hesitated for an instant.
Then withdrew.
One step.
The blade left the neck.
The space opened.
Not much.
But enough.
Éreon turned his gaze forward again.
Breathed once.
And then said:
"αποκαλύπτω." (reveal yourself)
Doros reacted.
Almost imperceptibly.
To the word.
His gaze narrowed for a single instant.
The shadow beneath Éreon's feet trembled.
Not as reflection.
As surface.
Something began to rise.
Slow.
Forced.
As if being pushed from within.
The knights moved.
Instinct.
Hands on weapons.
But did not advance.
The form broke through.
First the arm.
Then the shoulder.
A man was spat from the shadow.
Fell to his knees.
Hands dug into the ground.
Breath broken.
As if the air were still not enough.
The eyes moved too fast.
Searching.
Fleeing.
But there was nowhere to go.
A sound escaped.
Low.
Irregular.
Almost a lament held back by force.
Éreon watched him.
Without haste.
Without approach.
"So you still recognize the ground beneath your feet…"
The voice came calm.
But firm.
The man froze.
His gaze lifted slowly.
Shook when it met his.
Éreon tilted his head slightly.
As if confirming something he already knew.
"Alaric of Morvain..."
"commanded the detached forces under the viscount's banner."
The silence in the room shifted.
Now heavier.
Éreon took a step.
A tremor ran through the man's body.
Stronger.
Uncontrolled.
As if something still held him from within.
Éreon then turned.
To Doros.
Without urgency.
"Here is what you need to hear."
The silence did not come immediately.
It formed.
The entire room seemed to hold the same instant.
As if any movement—
wrong—
could break something that would not be rebuilt the same way.
And no one yielded.