"You heard correctly?" Darian asked, his tone sharp, betraying a hint of disbelief.
"I did, High Magister," the bald man with the thin gray mustache replied calmly, though his eyes held a trace of unease. "A survivor. Against all odds."
Darian ran a hand over his face, tugging at the edge of his cloak. He was usually composed, unflappable, but this news shook him. "After the devastation… It is hard to believe"
Tharion—the commander of the Argent Circle Division—shook his head. "We moved our pawns too early. We were wrong to assume Magnar's first strikes would rely mainly on illusion and enchantment, since that's their strength. Clearly, we underestimated them."
Darian sighed, pacing once along the edge of the table. "At the same time, we could not have expected an easy victory. Magnar defends its own soil. Anyone would fight like this for their home."
He stopped, leaning over the war map spread across the table. His finger pressed against the enemy's wall. "Where are the Crimson Flame with the destruction of this barrier our enemy raised after the annihilation of the artillery?"
Tharion glanced at the reports stacked beside him. "According to the last message, the wall still holds."
Darian's jaw tightened. "That gives them time to prepare thier next strike. We need to act quickly to counter them. But if we rush and make another mistake, the chance of victory could slip away fast." He shifted a row of pawns across the map, each marked with the Argent Circle's crest. "If your division enters now, the wall will fall quickly… but at the cost of too much mana wasted too early in the battle. And maybe that's their goal."
Approaching The Table, Tharion gave a small nod, as if pushing aside his own doubts. "My division can recover quickly. We're trained to strike again and again. Still," his voice was firm but edged with concern, "however, this could be their way of testing us, measuring the full extent of our striking strength before adjusting their tactics." He paused, then added with more certainty, "And if they took out our artillery in one blow, they must have burned through a lot of mana."
"Not so sure," Darian muttered, eyes narrowing on the map. "Their strike was powerful, yes, but not precise. I think it may have been less about destruction, and more about silencing the artillery before it could bring back information. Crucial information." He tapped the table, then straightened. "But for now, that is only a hypothesis."
He turned sharply to Tharion, his voice hard. "Tell me… the survivor. Name and rank."
Tharion's fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table. "According to the reports I received, he's a low-ranking mage. Barely more than rank-and-file. When found, he was in shock. Could barely stand or speak. He is now with the healing units, receiving care."
Darian's gaze hardened. "Good. But I want his report as soon as he is able. I cannot wait. Our next move depends on it."
"High Magister, I hope you don't think about it." Tharion said cautiously, his voice measured, "it may be too soon for you to approach the front line. Even near the healing tents, the battlefield remains unstable. If anything happens to you..."
Darian's lips curved into a faint, confident smile, his usual mask slipping back into place. "At worst, it will show my men that even the High Magisters walk among them. That we care. It will only strengthen their resolve.
Tharion's brow furrowed, but he did not press further. Instead, he gave a short nod. "Very well, High Magister. The battlefield is yours to command."
Darian swung his cloak over his shoulder and stepped out of the tent. His close guard fell in around him as he mounted his horse with ease. Raising his voice over the low hum of the battlefield, he commanded, "We ride to the Healing Tents. Stay sharp."
The guards tightened their formation, ready to follow. Darian's eyes scanned the horizon, calm and focused. There was no fear in him, only the steady certainty of a leader who knew his strength and purpose.
··•·•·•··
Finn sat on the cot, still staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent, murmur accessing softly in the distance. He looked around, trying to piece things together, but the answers slipped away like mist.
"I'll let you rest a bit," the lady said gently after he called her Narbis. "Maybe your memory will return after some sleep. I… I hope so." With that, she turned and left.
Finn lay back, disappointed and confused. Was that really all she could say? And yet, aside from the silver hair, it was her. His chest tightened. Why had she called him Lioren? Why had she called herself Sylvara?
Could it be that he'd fallen into another world? A world where Narbis lived, but under different names? If so… how, and why?
Before he could chase the thought any further, the air shifted. A faint ripple of magic, the quiet ring of armored boots against the ground. He lifted his gaze.
A woman stood there, her presence commanding without a word, wearing a rune-carved armor catching the dim light, her expression calm but calculating.
Then her voice came, strong and steady, carrying undeniable authority.
"I see you've regained your full strength," the woman said evenly. " only hope your mind has kept pace."
Finn blinked, still bewildered. She carried herself like a high-ranking commander, maybe even a mage, yet the calm light in her eyes made her seem almost angelic beneath the weight of her armor.
Her gaze lingered on him, focused and searching, before she gave a small shake of her head.
"Not yet, it seems. But it will come soon... with a little care on my part of course."
At her side stood a young woman with a slate and quill in hand, poised to capture every word.
The armored lady took a step closer. "I am Marielle Saphira, commander of the Emerald Dawn—the Healing and Support Corps of our army." Her tone was calm, even warm, but carried the weight of authority.
she stepped closer and the runes on her armor flared on their own, glowing silver-blue. The light shimmered strangely and Finn's eyes widened at the sight.
The young aide at her side stiffened, her quill trembling above the page. "That's… not possible…" she whispered under her breath, eyes fixed on Finn. Marielle silenced her with the faintest raise of her hand, her expression never breaking.
For Finn it felt at first mysterious and unsettling. But then, as it wrapped around him, it became something else—gentle, protective. He let out a slow breath and closed his eyes.
She refocused, lifting her palm above Finn's head.
At that very moment, the tent's flap stirred and Darian entered finding Marielle's voice dropping into the old cadence of the healing rite, steady and resonant:
"By light of dawn and breath of life, let flesh be knit, let pain be stilled. May the flow of blood be bound, and the spark within be mended."
The spell should have wrapped softly around Finn, a controlled stream of light. Instead, the glow surged brighter than Marielle intended, rushing outward in waves. The light spilled over the tent like a tide, washing across the other patients.
Groans turned into gasps as burns sealed, cuts knit together, and pain faded from their faces.
Marielle felt the shift instantly. Her magic was being amplified but not by her own will.
The tent filled with stunned silence. Darian froze just inside, his eyes widening as he witnessed the scene. He knew Marielle's strength well. At her level of mastery, such a feat was effortless, yet this surge was more than her alone.
Only when the glow dimmed did the others notice his presence. Healers and aides straightened at once, snapping into military posture. Marielle, too, turned sharply, her hand against her chest in salute.
Darian didn't return the gesture. He was too captivated, stepping closer to the cot where Finn lay. His voice was low but carried through the quiet tent.
"It's you," he said slowly, studying Finn's face. "The only infantry survivor. Isn't it?"