The war chamber was quieter than Keizeix expected.
Not peaceful.
Quiet.
There was a difference.
The room sat deep inside the castle, built around a massive stone table covered in maps, carved terrain pieces, colored military markers and weighted strips of parchment.
Keizeix recognized the northeastern front almost immediately.
He had spent too long fighting there not to.
Several of the markers had changed.
Not dramatically.
The defensive line hadn't collapsed.
No territory had suddenly disappeared overnight.
But the pieces representing stronger combatants had multiplied.
Commander Vaelcor stood on the opposite side of the table.
The King and Queen were already present.
Several military officers Keizeix recognized only by sight stood around them.
Shirespoke entered first.
Keizeix followed.
The Queen's eyes briefly traveled across Keizeix's evolved body.
Humanoid torso.
Training scars.
Callused palms.
Then she returned her attention to Vaelcor.
"Continue."
Vaelcor touched one section of the map.
"The beetlekin have reinforced the northeastern sectors."
Shirespoke stepped closer.
"Numbers?"
"Numbers are manageable."
Vaelcor moved several darker markers onto the battlefield.
"Quality is the problem."
Keizeix studied them.
Vaelcor continued.
"More Heroic fighters have entered the front."
Another marker moved.
"And we're seeing stronger Heroics mixed among them more frequently."
Then one final marker was placed farther back.
"At least two combatants approaching the upper edge of the Heroic stages have been confirmed in the last several days."
Keizeix's expression hardened.
That changed things.
The ordinary beetlekin soldiers had never been stupid.
They organized.
They communicated.
They fought in formations.
They used magical and physical castes together whenever appropriate.
That was simply warfare.
The problem now wasn't that they'd suddenly learned strategy.
It was that the same strategies became considerably more dangerous when the soldiers carrying them out were stronger.
A formation of Master beetlekin was one problem.
Put several Heroic fighters inside the same formation—
and the entire engagement changed.
Vaelcor pointed toward another sector.
"We've already lost soldiers who previously held these positions without difficulty."
The King asked, "How many stronger beetlekin do you expect?"
"Far More is the best answer i can give my lord which is a poor answer i know but it is the best answer i can give. They could not have done this if it hadn't been part of an earlier plan. Fend weaker militia and lull into thinking victory is possible then send in stronger troops to push back but restrain full strength just incase and see the response then full out attack."
Vaelcor's answer was immediate.
"They are reinforcing the sector deliberately. I see no reason to assume the current arrivals are the last."
Shirespoke studied the map.
"What support do you need?"
Vaelcor looked at him.
"You."
Keizeix glanced toward his mentor.
Shirespoke didn't look surprised.
Vaelcor continued.
"Your poison work gives us options against opponents our lower-ranked soldiers cannot reliably injure."
He pointed to several spiderkin markers.
"Some of the weapons currently being used simply aren't effective enough against the tougher shells we're encountering."
Shirespoke nodded slowly.
"You want treated blades."
"Large quantities."
"Paralytic?"
"Some."
Vaelcor tapped another position.
"Shell-softening compounds. Joint-targeting mixtures. Anything that makes the difference between a soldier's weapon bouncing and actually entering."
Shirespoke's expression changed.
Not worried.
Interested.
Keizeix had seen that look before.
Shirespoke liked problems that could be poisoned.
The Queen spoke.
"You will prepare what you can here, then accompany Vaelcor's forces back to the front."
Keizeix looked toward Shirespoke.
Not just poison preparation, then.
Combat too.
Shirespoke asked, "You'll have soldiers assigned to help coat weapons?"
Vaelcor nodded.
"You'll oversee it."
"And once they're armed?"
"You're fighting."
Shirespoke smiled faintly.
"Better."
Keizeix wasn't sure he agreed.
The last time Shirespoke had fought something above his own progression level, he'd nearly died.
Vaelcor seemed to read the concern without looking at him.
"He's not being sent alone against an Epic Lord Tier Breaker."
Keizeix said nothing.
Good.
Vaelcor continued.
"He will be part of an organized front under my command."
Shirespoke gave Keizeix a sideways glance.
"Stop worrying."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Keizeix looked back toward the map.
"You're imagining things."
"Terribly convincing."
The King interrupted before the conversation went further.
"Shirespoke leaves tomorrow."
Keizeix looked toward him.
Then toward Vaelcor.
"So I return too?"
"No."
Vaelcor said it immediately.
Keizeix frowned.
"I've been training."
"We know."
"I can control this body now."
"Far better than when you arrived."
"Then—"
"You're still not ready."
Keizeix's jaw tightened.
Shirespoke folded his arms.
"He's right."
Keizeix looked betrayed.
"You're supposed to argue for me."
"I'm supposed to keep you alive."
"Similar concept."
"No."
The Queen regarded Keizeix calmly.
"Your improvement has been rapid."
That sounded promising.
Then:
"Which makes wasting that progress through impatience even more foolish."
Less promising.
Keizeix said nothing.
Vaelcor finally moved away from the map.
"Your training will continue."
Keizeix looked toward Shirespoke.
"With who?"
Vaelcor gestured toward the doors.
"Bring him in."
The doors opened.
A spiderkin soldier walked into the chamber.
Keizeix's first thought was unavoidable.
He's missing a lot.
The soldier had a humanoid torso broader than Shirespoke's.
Only one arm remained and it was in a sling and it looked like his pinky was missing.
His spider body had five legs.
Three were completely gone.
Fresh scar tissue surrounded the missing joints.
One remaining leg moved slightly stiffly.
Another carried a deep gouge along the outer shell.
A long scar crossed from his jaw toward his collarbone.
He didn't use a crutch.
Didn't lean against anyone.
Didn't limp enough to ask for sympathy.
He simply walked in.
Stopped.
And bowed.
"Your Majesties."
Then toward Vaelcor.
"Commander."
Vaelcor nodded.
"Tzairek."
The soldier's eyes shifted toward Keizeix.
Copper-colored.
Calm.
Evaluating.
Vaelcor gestured between them.
"Tzairek served under me on the northeastern front."
Keizeix looked at the missing legs again.
"Recently?"
Tzairek answered himself.
"Very."
Vaelcor continued.
"He is a Master Heroic."
That caught Keizeix's attention.
The same progression level as Shirespoke.
Much farther along the path than Keizeix's current Heroic Tier Breaker stage.
Vaelcor continued.
"Under normal circumstances, he'd still be fighting."
Tzairek's expression didn't change.
"But with one arm and three missing legs, returning him to the front before recovery would be a waste."
Keizeix understood.
A duel was one thing.
A battlefield was another.
Tzairek might still be individually dangerous.
But surrounded by dozens of enemies?
Unable to guard every direction?
One missed movement could kill him.
Vaelcor's visible eye settled on Keizeix.
"His injuries would likely cost him his life in a full battlefield engagement."
Then:
"They will not prevent him from beating you."
Keizeix looked at Tzairek.
One arm.
Five legs.
Fresh injuries.
Keizeix had two arms.
Eight legs.
Several weeks of sword training.
A body he finally understood.
The doubt came before he could stop it.
Tzairek watched him.
"You think the missing pieces make this easier."
Keizeix kept his expression neutral.
"I didn't say anything."
"No."
Tzairek's mouth moved slightly.
"You didn't need to."
Shirespoke looked away.
Keizeix saw his shoulders move.
"Are you laughing?"
"No."
"You are."
"Absolutely not."
Traitor.
The King spoke.
"Tzairek will take responsibility for your combat training."
Keizeix looked back toward him.
"Until Shirespoke returns?"
The Queen answered.
"Until you defeat him."
Keizeix paused.
Then looked at Tzairek again.
"Defeat him?"
Vaelcor nodded.
"Cleanly."
Tzairek stared back.
Keizeix examined him one more time.
One arm.
Five legs.
Master Heroic.
Severely wounded.
He smiled.
"That shouldn't take too long."
Shirespoke closed his eyes.
Vaelcor's expression remained unreadable.
Tzairek smiled for the first time.
It wasn't reassuring.
"Good."
Shirespoke left the following morning.
There was no ceremony.
Keizeix met him near the outer gate while several soldiers loaded crates containing bottles, wrapped bundles and sealed poison containers onto a reinforced transport.
Shirespoke personally inspected every case.
Some would coat swords.
Others spearheads.
A few were apparently intended for arrows.
Keizeix looked at the amount.
"That's a lot."
"Not enough."
Shirespoke closed another case.
Keizeix watched soldiers carry it away.
"You really think it'll make that much difference?"
"Against stronger opponents?"
Shirespoke nodded.
"A weapon that cannot pierce armor is useless."
He tapped one of the cases.
"A weapon that only needs to make a shallow cut to deliver something unpleasant is considerably less useless."
Keizeix smiled.
"Something unpleasant."
"Technical terminology."
"Of course."
Shirespoke checked the sword at his side.
Keizeix's amusement faded slightly.
"Try not to get killed."
Shirespoke looked at him.
"That's my line."
"I'm borrowing it."
"Return it when I come back."
Keizeix nodded.
Then glanced toward the castle.
"Tzairek really thinks he can train me like that?"
Shirespoke stopped.
"Like what?"
Keizeix hesitated.
"He's missing an arm."
Shirespoke stared.
"And three legs."
Longer stare.
Keizeix sighed.
"I know how that sounds."
"Do you?"
"He is injured."
"Yes."
"Badly."
"Yes."
Keizeix waited.
Shirespoke smiled.
"Oh, this is going to be wonderful."
Keizeix frowned.
"Why does everyone keep saying things like that?"
Shirespoke started toward the gate.
Then stopped.
"Keizeix."
"What?"
"Don't confuse injured with weak."
Then he left.
Keizeix watched him go.
That sentence followed him all the way back to the training courtyard.
Tzairek was already there.
No armor.
No sword.
One arm.
Five legs.
Keizeix entered carrying his wooden training blade.
Tzairek looked at it.
Then him.
"Ready?"
Keizeix glanced around.
"Where's your weapon?"
"Don't need one."
Keizeix stared.
"You're supposed to train me in swordsmanship."
"Eventually."
"What are we doing now?"
Tzairek raised his remaining hand.
"Hit me."
Keizeix waited.
"That's the lesson?"
"That's the first problem."
Keizeix's grip tightened.
"Fine."
He attacked.
Fast.
The practice blade swept toward Tzairek's shoulder.
Tzairek moved one leg.
One.
Keizeix's sword passed through empty air.
Tzairek's hand seized his wrist.
Keizeix barely registered the grip.
Then the courtyard rotated.
He hit the ground.
Hard.
His sword flew several feet away.
Tzairek looked down at him.
"Dead."
Keizeix stared upward.
That word was beginning to follow him everywhere.
He rolled upright.
"Again."
Tzairek nodded.
Keizeix retrieved his sword.
This time he didn't swing wide.
Direct thrust.
Center line.
Minimal movement.
Tzairek twisted his torso.
Slapped the blade aside with his remaining hand.
One of his front legs hooked Keizeix's leg.
Balance vanished.
Tzairek's shoulder struck his chest.
Keizeix hit the ground again.
"Dead."
Keizeix pushed himself upright.
"Again."
Third attempt.
This time he used the rotational movement Shirespoke had helped him build.
Four legs anchored.
His torso turned.
The blade changed direction halfway through.
Tzairek had to move farther.
Good.
Then one of his legs struck Keizeix's wrist.
The sword fell.
Tzairek closed distance.
His remaining hand stopped against Keizeix's throat.
"Dead."
Keizeix went still.
Tzairek released him.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Keizeix looked at the missing arm.
Then the missing legs.
Then at Tzairek.
His doubt had disappeared.
Completely.
Tzairek nodded toward the fallen sword.
"Shirespoke taught you well."
Keizeix retrieved it.
"Apparently not well enough."
"No."
Tzairek's eyes hardened.
"He taught you the beginnings of swordsmanship."
Keizeix waited.
"I'll teach you how to stop separating your abilities from your sword."
Keizeix frowned.
"I don't."
"You do."
"I use silk."
"Separately."
Keizeix's expression tightened.
"My legs?"
"Separately."
Tzairek stepped closer.
"Your sword is one weapon."
"Your body is another."
"Your silk is another."
Then:
"And your shadow is another."
Keizeix paused.
Shadow Mist.
He had relied on it throughout the battlefield.
Concealment.
Confusion.
Ambush.
Repositioning.
It had saved his life more than once.
"What about it?"
"Show me."
Keizeix activated Shadow Mist.
Dark vapor spread across the courtyard.
Tzairek disappeared inside it.
Keizeix moved.
Quietly.
Circled.
Changed direction.
Came from Tzairek's blind side.
He attacked.
Tzairek ducked.
The sword cut through mist.
A spider leg struck Keizeix's lower body.
Another hooked beneath him.
Then Tzairek's remaining hand drove into his chest.
Keizeix flew backward through his own Shadow Mist.
He hit the ground.
The mist drifted apart.
Tzairek remained standing.
Keizeix sat up.
"How?"
"You created the mist."
Keizeix frowned.
"Yes."
"Then waited."
"I was repositioning."
"You were wasting time."
Tzairek walked toward him.
"First the shadow."
He raised one finger.
"Then the movement."
A second.
"Then the attack."
A third.
"Three separate actions."
Keizeix stared at him.
Tzairek lowered his hand.
"Too slow."
"What should I do?"
"Stop treating your shadow like somewhere you go."
Keizeix glanced toward the dark mist.
Tzairek continued.
"Make it part of the attack."
That sounded simple.
Which usually meant it wasn't.
"Again."
Keizeix stood.
Mist formed.
He moved.
Tzairek struck him before the cloud finished spreading.
Keizeix hit the ground.
"Dead."
Again.
Mist.
Move.
Attack.
Tzairek caught him.
Again.
Keizeix formed the mist while rotating.
Better.
Still too slow.
A leg swept him down.
"Dead."
Again.
By midday Keizeix's ribs hurt.
His shoulders ached.
His pride had been murdered repeatedly.
Tzairek barely seemed winded.
Keizeix wiped sweat from his forehead.
"You're enjoying this."
"No."
"You look like you are."
"This is my face."
Keizeix stared.
He was beginning to miss Shirespoke.
Almost.
That afternoon, Tzairek changed the lesson.
Keizeix spread Shadow Mist.
"Stop."
Keizeix froze.
Tzairek pointed toward the cloud.
"Too much."
"It's Shadow Mist."
"I know."
"It creates mist."
"I noticed."
Keizeix frowned.
Tzairek continued.
"Why do you need enough darkness to hide the courtyard when you're trying to hide one movement?"
Keizeix looked toward the cloud.
He'd never really questioned it.
More coverage meant more concealment.
More concealment meant more options.
At least that was how he'd always used it.
Tzairek tapped one leg against the stone.
"Again."
Keizeix dismissed the excess mist.
This time he produced less.
A compact burst near Tzairek's right side.
Then moved left.
Tzairek followed immediately.
Keizeix produced another burst.
Directly between them.
For half a heartbeat—
Tzairek couldn't see him.
Keizeix shifted.
Sword cut inward.
Tzairek blocked with his forearm.
The wooden blade struck.
Not a victory.
Not even close.
But Keizeix had touched him.
Tzairek looked at the mark on his arm.
Then at Keizeix.
"Again."
Keizeix smiled.
Smaller mist.
Faster.
Three days passed.
And Keizeix discovered just how wastefully he'd been using Shadow Mist.
Tzairek refused to let him cover entire spaces unless there was an actual reason.
Instead, Keizeix learned to create moments.
A dark burst across someone's eyes.
A patch of mist hiding the position of his sword hand.
A thin veil concealing which legs were anchoring.
A false burst to one side before moving to the other.
A small cloud hiding the angle of a thrust.
Shadow Mist stopped being something he stood inside.
It started becoming something woven through his movements.
Tzairek punished every mistake.
Mist too early?
Hit.
Mist too late?
Hit.
Look toward where he planned to move?
Hit.
Shoulders tense before the attack?
Hit.
Keizeix accumulated bruises faster than victories.
But he improved.
On the fourth morning, Tzairek attacked first.
Keizeix raised his sword.
Tzairek closed distance.
A small burst of Shadow Mist appeared between them.
Keizeix shifted right.
Tzairek followed.
Another burst.
But this time Keizeix rotated left.
His sword thrust forward.
Tzairek twisted away.
The blade grazed his clothing.
Keizeix recovered immediately.
Shadow flickered low around his legs.
Tzairek attacked where Keizeix's footing appeared to be.
Keizeix had already shifted.
For three full breaths—
Tzairek didn't touch him.
Keizeix attacked twice.
Both attacks missed.
But Tzairek had been forced to move.
Actually move.
Keizeix smiled.
A dark burst appeared beside Tzairek's face.
Keizeix attacked from the opposite side.
Tzairek's remaining hand shot forward.
Caught the sword by the guard.
Pulled.
Keizeix stumbled.
Tzairek drove his forehead into Keizeix's.
Keizeix dropped.
Stars filled his vision.
"Dead."
Keizeix lay on the stone.
"That was unnecessary."
"You smiled."
"That's forbidden?"
"Usually means you're about to become stupid."
Keizeix groaned.
He finally understood why Vaelcor had chosen this man.
Shirespoke built foundations.
Tzairek hunted weaknesses.
One arm.
Five legs.
And Keizeix still couldn't beat him.
Not remotely.
Keizeix slowly sat up.
"How long am I stuck with you?"
Tzairek turned away.
"Until you defeat me."
Keizeix picked up his sword.
He looked at Tzairek's damaged body differently now.
Not as an injured soldier he had been assigned because nobody else was available.
As a Master Heroic veteran who happened to be injured.
There was a very large difference.
Keizeix raised his sword.
Shadow Mist curled around the edge of the wooden blade.
Small.
Controlled.
Fast.
Tzairek turned back toward him.
"Again."
This time Keizeix didn't complain.
He attacked.