In the Volantene command tent, Warlord Marcus Varos Velerion pointed at the map and slid a wooden war-elephant marker one step forward.
"Where are the Myrish now?" he asked calmly. "Are they still following the route we anticipated — heading toward the Bitter Weep River?"
A staff officer in a long civilian robe answered immediately. "They've reached the north bank of the Bitter Weep, my lord. They haven't destroyed the pontoon bridge, nor have they left sufficient reserves to guard it."
"Our scouts report that although the Myrish currently appear invincible, their vanguard and rearguard are stretched far too thin. Supplies are clearly insufficient for the distance they've covered. Morale is dropping noticeably due to the long march and poor logistics, and discipline is beginning to slip."
Low murmurs spread among the officers in the tent.
Some believed this was the perfect moment. Without question, the Myrish were at their weakest right now. If they struck now, they could crush the strongest military power among the Three Daughters first.
"Not yet. We wait a little longer," Marcus said thoughtfully, sliding a warrior marker and a war-chariot marker down to the estuary at the lower reaches of the Disputed River.
"Let them enjoy their moment of triumph a little longer."
He continued, voice steady. "So where are our proud, fearless noble riders and chariot drivers now? And their slave-warrior legions? And correspondingly, where exactly are the Lysene forces at this moment?"
"The Lyseni are even stupider than the Myrish!" another intelligence officer reported with open contempt. "Their supplies depend entirely on the grain stores left behind in the outposts and forts we abandoned. Although they do receive some shipments, local merchants report that Lysene logistics officers and their mercenaries are brazenly selling portions of the arriving supplies on the black market for personal profit!"
The officer couldn't completely hide his shock and disdain for the enemy's behavior.
"Keep your personal feelings out of it, staff officer of the High Tower Guard," Marcus said, moving a Myrish spearman marker north of the Bitter Weep River, his eyes calm as he looked at his subordinate.
"Insulting the enemy's intelligence will not help us win this war. We need accurate intelligence and cold analysis, not pointless emotion. Continue watching them. I need the next set of reports on their movements, because…"
He lifted his head, gaze sweeping across the walls covered with Volantene legion banners and insignias.
"I abandoned so many outposts and let them rampage unchecked across the eastern bank of the Disputed River precisely to lure them in. If we fail to achieve our goal, then everything up to now would have been for nothing. Our own soldiers would think their warlord is nothing but a coward and a fool."
He pushed a marker carved in the shape of a typical mercenary banner from Swordbreak Fort, following the flow of the Disputed River all the way down to the estuary.
"So the Lyseni are rushing south along the river toward the sea. They call this… what was it? The 'Race to the Sea' plan? Such a poetic name."
Then he placed a flag-shaped marker at Stridar.
"The arrogant Tyroshi, the flamboyant Tyroshi, the wealthy Tyroshi… what are they doing right now? They're 'holding' the cities we abandoned. In reality, they simply don't want to contribute any real effort."
"After all, their colonies are ten thousand miles away. If anything goes wrong, the Myr and Lys colonies in the Disputed Lands will take the first blow!"
Finally, his eyes returned to the lone Myrish spearman marker that had already crossed the Bitter Weep. His gaze held the quiet certainty of a hunter who already knew exactly where his prey would step next.
"The Myrish are too impatient. They are desperate to become the true dominant power among the Three Daughters, to turn this loose confederation into a great and mighty kingdom. So they dream day and night of an undeniable victory on the battlefield… but they are too impatient. Their general seems completely unaware of what he is doing."
Marcus gave Mitridas a cold, final judgment. "A man drunk on the illusion of victory, yet marching on an empty stomach with his neck stretched out like a fool. Although… such reckless advancement is probably the consensus of the entire Myr leadership, demanding quick results."
Facing an opponent like this, he had no need to swing a heavy fist right away. Better to exploit the enemy's own mistakes.
His strategy was clear and ruthless: guide the enemy's momentum and wait for their weakness to reveal itself.
He ordered the frontline units to continue their planned, seemingly "weak" withdrawals. Under no circumstances were they to engage the Myrish in a decisive field battle. They were only to abandon unimportant outposts, scattering bait like handfuls of grain.
He wanted Mitridas to believe victory was within easy reach, to march deeper and deeper down this seemingly open road until he was completely trapped. He wanted the Myr battle line stretched to the breaking point, their supply lines as thin as threads, their soldiers exhausted and careless to the extreme.
He didn't even need to build a complicated trap. The enemy's own chosen route and their fatally flawed deployment were already the perfect trap.
All Marcus had to do was act like a patient fisherman, holding the rod steady, feeling the fish greedily swallow the bait and struggle until it exhausted itself, then calmly reel it in.
"So let him come. I'd be disappointed if he didn't," Marcus said, lightly tapping a spot farther north on the Bitter Weep River — an inland river-port city called Perfume Bay.
The city lay in the upper reaches of the Bitter Weep, in broken terrain full of gentle hills, streams, and folds. The whole area narrowed like a natural pocket.
"Let him bring his hungry, exhausted army straight into the bag. And when that happens…" Marcus surrounded the Myrish spearman with three Volantene markers: super-heavy cavalry, war elephants, and Tiger Cloak legionaries.
They represented Volantis's three greatest weapons: war elephants, cataphracts, and the disciplined professional Tiger Cloak legions.
"If the Myrish truly walk into the ambush circle as planned, we will achieve a victory beyond imagination!"
"Gentlemen, imagine it. A supply-starved, overextended army led by an incompetent general will be forced to face Volantis's most elite legions! Once we crush them, every bit of victory joy and overconfident optimism will turn into pure despair and panic!"
"So let them celebrate a little longer… consider it Volantis's special brand of last rites!" Marcus ended the briefing with a cold, bloodless joke.
He didn't need a grand, earth-shaking bloodbath. He wanted a precise, efficient annihilation that would snap the spine of the Three Daughters' alliance.
Marcus turned away from the map and gave his final order in a flat voice. "Maintain surveillance. Continue 'guiding' the Myrish deeper. All legions will move slowly toward their designated positions according to the plan. No one is to engage the enemy without my direct command. Violators will be executed on the spot."
He sat back down in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to rest. The tent fell into complete silence. On the map, the Volantene markers moved like silent jaws closing in the darkness, slowly tightening around the still-clueless prey.
Victory was not about winning every little skirmish. It was about who could better understand the true nature of war, who could endure longer, until the enemy willingly handed victory over with both hands.
Patience was the essential quality of every first-rate commander.
After all, those who could see clearly and endure would always win in the end.
In Marcus's eyes, Mitridas was doing exactly that — turning himself and his army into a reckless wild boar. All Marcus had to do was wait for the boar to greedily swallow the bait and walk step by step into the carefully prepared trap.
Then it would be time to strike it down.
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