The relay chamber hums. It's a low, resonant thrum that you feel in your teeth, the magic that holds the alliance together. Lysara's magic.
Eight crystalline projections flicker to life in the circular room, each one a window onto a tired, grim-faced leader. This chamber was her masterpiece. And standing here at the center podium, where she should be, I feel like an imposter. A kid wearing his father's armor.
Kaela stands beside me, her presence a silent, solid warmth. She's the only reason I can do this.
"Verdwood reporting," I begin, my voice coming out steady, professional. The Commander's voice. "The training complex is at full capacity. Twenty-three convergence-marked children are in residence, ages six to sixteen." I clear my throat. "Integration levels are stable across all residents. Except one. We're monitoring the situation closely."
Lie number one, I think. The "one" is me.
"Three new arrivals this week," I continue, pushing on. "Successful extractions. All under twelve, early-stage. Medical eval is complete, and psychological support is ongoing. They're... adjusting."
Elder Stoneheart, sitting to my right, nods gravely, his weathered hands folded. He's here to lend my fourteen-year-old authority some of his gray-haired weight. It's necessary political theater, and it's exhausting.
"Riverholt reporting." Councilor Aldrich's projection shimmers. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. "Four marked children in training. Stable. We've made contact with two more potential cases in the territories... families, this time. They're willing to cooperate. We'll need to coordinate extraction with your teams, Commander."
Commander. The title still lands like a punch. Three months ago, I was just... Ren. Now I'm the one making decisions that get people killed.
"Understood, Councilor," I say. "We'll coordinate schedules after the meeting. What's the security situation in your region?"
Aldrich scrubs a hand over his face. "It's… not good. Increasing cult activity. We've ID'd three new recruitment camps within fifty miles. They're getting bolder, Ren. More aggressive. It's like the eastern stronghold... it didn't slow them down. It just made them angry."
My jaw tightens. Our "victory." The assault that cost us Lysara. And Zara. And Cade. And forty-nine children I'd murdered by proxy. All that, and it just... made them angry.
"We're seeing the same pattern," I confirm, my voice flat. "Master Dren's analysis suggests they're accelerating their timeline. Whatever their endgame is, they're rushing it."
"Which brings us to the intelligence briefing," Kaela interjects, stepping forward smoothly. She always knows when I'm getting lost in the dark. She's my anchor. "Mira?"
Mira's projection flickers to life. She's based in Riverholt now, running our fractured spy network. Her scarred face is impassive, but her eyes are a different story—all coiled tension and restless shadows. "We've located another major stronghold," she says, her voice a low rasp. "Northern territories. Near the Stoneblooded mining settlements. Heavily fortified. We estimate three hundred operatives."
A low murmur runs through the other projections. Stoneheart's knuckles go white.
"And," Mira adds, "at least fifteen Void Knights."
A cold jolt goes through me. I fought one at the eastern stronghold. It took everything I had, plus Elara and Kaela, just to bring it down. Fifteen.
I force myself into the cold, safe, empty space of tactical analysis. Emotions can wait. "What's the target profile, Mira?"
"Void bridge construction," she says. "It's the same setup. They're trying to build a permanent portal. We estimate thirty to forty marked children are already being used as anchors."
The chamber goes dead silent. We all know what that means. We stopped one bridge. Now, three months later, another is already underway.
"How long?" Stoneheart's voice is heavy with dread.
"Six months. Maybe less. The longer we wait, the harder it gets."
"Then we plan another assault," Kaela says instantly, her voice all steel. "A strike team. Precision targeting. We destroy it before it activates."
"The last assault nearly destroyed us," Councilor Aldrich shoots back, his projection flickering. "We lost dozens. We lost... specialists." He doesn't say her name. No one ever says her name.
"We lost people we couldn't afford to lose," I finish for him, my voice colder than I intend. "I know that. But Mira is right. If they complete that bridge, the northern territories are gone. The corruption spreads. After that, we're not fighting a war anymore, we're just managing a retreat across the entire continent."
"Commander Ren makes a valid point," Elder Dawnstrider from Brookhaven chimes in. "But we must be strategic. We cannot afford another Pyrrhic victory. What would this... operation... require?"
I gesture, and a tactical map—Master Dren's work, based on Lysara's frameworks—materializes in the center of the room. The ghost of her work is everywhere. "Minimum thirty-person strike team," I outline, my voice all commander. "At least ten convergence-marked for the disruption work. Twenty regular fighters for security. A supply chain for three weeks. And... we'll need double the void-dampening equipment we used last time."
"That's... substantial," Aldrich says.
"That's what it takes to fight Void Knights," Kaela cuts in, blunt as always. "We learned that the hard way."
"Can Verdwood support this alone?" Dawnstrider asks.
"No," I admit. The word feels like a failure. "We provide the specialists. We provide the coordination. But we need fighters and supplies from at least three allied settlements."
The political horse-trading begins. It's the part I hate. The part Lysara was so good at.
"Brookhaven can commit fifteen fighters," Dawnstrider says after a long, tense pause. "And supplies. But we need assurances..."
"Riverholt can provide ten fighters," Aldrich adds. "And Mira's intelligence network."
One by one, they commit. Barely. Enough.
When the projections finally fade, I'm left alone in the humming, empty chamber. I just put the pieces in place for another assault. Another mission that will get people killed. All on my orders.
"You okay?" Kaela asks quietly, her hand on my shoulder.
"No," I admit. Lying to Kaela is pointless. "But I will be."
She squeezes my shoulder. "Council meeting in twenty. Then afternoon training. Then requisitions for the northern op."
"So, basically no time to have an existential crisis about sending more kids to their potential deaths?"
"Basically," she says, the corner of her mouth ticking up. "You can schedule that for... never. We don't have time for existential crises."
"What happened to 'it's okay to feel things'?"
"That was before you were commander of a continental resistance," she says. "Now your feelings have to be scheduled between tactical meetings."
I actually laugh. A short, bitter, genuine sound. "What would I do without you?"
"Probably make even worse jokes," she says, heading for the door. "Come on. Council's waiting."
I follow her out into the new Verdwood. The fortress-city. Walls forty feet high, laced with void-dampening metal that cost a fortune. Guard towers. Wards. This is what the Harvest did to us. It turned our home into a garrison.
The training complex takes up the entire northern quarter. Twenty-three kids. Each one my responsibility.
We pass the main courtyard. Torren is leading a drill. He's twelve, but he's not a kid anymore. His patience with the new, terrified arrivals is remarkable. I remember when he was that kid, shaking in the mining camp. Now he's at 79% integration, stable, and one of our best instructors.
These are the small victories. This is the why.
"Commander." Master Dren intercepts me, his limp more pronounced today. The Harvest broke his body, but his mind is as sharp as ever. "A moment. Before the council."
Kaela nods and heads on. I follow Dren to a quiet corner.
"Your integration level," he says, his voice low, no preamble. "Miren's morning readings. 89.3%."
My stomach tightens. "That's... higher than yesterday."
"Higher than last week," he corrects. "It's climbing. Steadily. Ren, you're approaching Stage 3 territory."
Stage 3. The 90% threshold. The line where 'Ren' stops and the monster takes over.
"I'm managing it," I say, my voice defensive.
"For now," Dren agrees. "But you're planning a major combat op. Stress spikes your integration. You hit 87% at the stronghold. You're starting at 89% now. If you spike during this operation..."
"I'll have the network pull me back," I interrupt. "Elara, Torren. We have protocols."
"Protocols that might not work if you cross the 90% threshold," Dren says, his voice gentle. "I'm not questioning your command. I'm worried about your survival."
I look away. "If I don't lead this, who does? Kaela isn't marked. Elara's integration is even higher than mine. We have no one else with the stability and experience to face fifteen Void Knights."
"Then perhaps," Dren says, his voice careful, "we need to start training a replacement."
"You mean preparing for when I die. Or transform."
"I mean acknowledging reality," he says, unflinching. "You're fourteen, Ren. You're carrying the world. You're allowed to admit it's too much."
But admitting it doesn't change anything. "I'll be careful," I say. "I'll monitor it. But I'm not stepping down."
Dren sighs, a long, weary sound. "Then... at least let me add new protocols. Mandatory stabilization every twelve hours. And if you hit 94%... 94, Ren... you are immediately extracted from combat. Regardless of the tactical situation. That's an order."
"Agreed," I say. It's reasonable.
"And... consider alternative training," he adds, his voice hesitant. "There are... rumors. Ancient techniques. The Crimson Court, in the southern territories. They... they supposedly have methods for managing..."
"The Crimson Court are vampires," I interrupt, the word feeling cold. "Stage 3s who've somehow stayed... human. That's... that's not a path I'm interested in."
"It's a path that might keep you alive," Dren counters. "Just... think about it. Don't close doors. Not yet."
I nod, just to end the conversation. The Crimson Court. I'd heard the stories. Immortals who'd found a balance with their curse, at a terrible cost. Admitting I needed them... that was admitting I'd already lost.
The council meeting is exactly as exhausting as I knew it would be. Two hours of Ironwood arguing we're overextending, Stoneheart arguing we can't afford not to, and everyone else trying to protect their own resources. By the time it's over, my head is pounding, and I can feel the burn in my arms. 89.5%. Politics. It's as stressful as combat.
"You need a break," Kaela says, finding me in my office. The small, stone room that's become my prison.
"I eat," I say, not looking up from the reports.
"That's not what I meant and you know it." She sits on the edge of my desk, blocking the map. "You're going to burn out, Ren. And commanders who burn out make mistakes. Mistakes get people killed."
"So do delays," I mutter.
"So do commanders who collapse," she says, her voice firm. "Two hours, Ren. Eat dinner. Like a person. Remember what you're fighting for."
She's right. She's always right. "Tonight. After these reports."
"I'll hold you to that," she says, sliding off the desk. "And if you're not in the mess hall by sunset, I am physically dragging you there."
"That's a threat."
"That's a promise." She grins. A real, brief, fierce Kaela-grin. "See you at sunset, Commander."
She leaves. I'm alone again. Just me, and the maps, and the weight of all of it.
My marks are pulsing. A faint, violet glow, visible in the dimming light of the office. It's getting brighter. Soon, I won't be able to hide it.
Marked. Cursed. Dangerous.
I pull the first report toward me. Thirty-something kids in the northern mountains. I push the Crimson Court, the 90% threshold, the exhaustion... I push it all down. Deal with it later.
Right now, someone has to save those kids. And that someone is me.
The sun sets outside, painting the high, stone walls of the fortress in crimson and gold. It's beautiful, and it feels like a mockery.
I finish the third report. I set down the pen. Kaela is waiting. For two hours, I can just be Ren.
Tomorrow, the planning begins. Tomorrow, the war continues. But tonight... tonight, I'll remember why it matters.