A distant familiar roar rolled across the battlefield.
Ruok looked up as he stands on the tent's edge, chewing tough bread.
The silver dragon answered.
Another roar followed—different, rougher, like the land itself pushing back.
Then—
Movement.
The allied lines began to pull away.
Ruok blinked.
"…At last," he whispered, almost careful not to jinx it. "…peace."
No one answered him. A few nearby soldiers just stared at the horizon, unsure if they were allowed to relax yet.
Ruok sat back down anyway.
"…Yeah," he muttered, biting his bread again. "Quite at last."
Still the taste was terrible.
—
Inside a large command tent, the air felt heavier than the battlefield.
A round table stood at the center. Six figures seated. Six more standing behind them like shadows with weapons.
Torchlight flickered along canvas walls, painting faces in parts—an eye here, a jaw there. No one looked fully human in that light. Not even the humans.
At the head sat Aeltharion Thal'Vaeris.
Calm. Straight-backed. Fingers loosely resting on the table.
"The Trods have retreated," he began, voice smooth but firm. "For the first time in over three years."
A pause.
"I called this meeting so we may examine why."
Jawhead, the orc chieftain, leaned forward slightly. His skull helm cast a long shadow over his face.
"Maybe they tired," he said simply. "Even beasts need rest."
Olga snorted, arms crossed tight against her chest.
"I doubt it," she said flatly. "Those things don't even know what rest is."
A low chuckle came from across the table.
Mephyst leaned back in his chair, one leg over the other despite the tight fit of it.
"I agree with Miss Olga," he said, voice smooth, almost pleased. "There is no exhaustion in their ranks. I sense no weakening of mana."
He smiled wider.
"If my assessment is correct—which, I assure you, it usually is—this is not a retreat."
A pause.
"It is preparation."
Olga rolled her eyes.
"Of course it is. And let me guess—you already have the perfect answer?"
Mephyst spread his hands slightly.
"I always do."
A guttural voice cut in.
The Goblin King, massive and hunched, spoke in a sharp, snarling tongue. His copper crown tilted slightly as he leaned forward, teeth flashing.
Aeltharion listened, then nodded once.
"He suggests we attack now," Aeltharion translated. "Strike before they regroup."
Olga tapped her fingers on the table.
"Finally, something that makes sense," she muttered.
Minerva sat composed, one hand resting lightly near her sword, and finally spoke.
"A blind assault would be reckless," she said calmly. "We risk losing more than we gain."
Olga leaned forward sharply.
"And sitting here does what? Gives them time to build whatever comes next?"
Ozbull, standing behind Jawhead, spoke without raising his voice.
"Patience wins long wars," he said. "Not anger, young dwarf."
Olga clicked her tongue but didn't reply.
Mephyst lifted a hand.
"Allow me to enlighten everyone here."
Shadows pooled across the table, spreading like ink. Slowly, they formed a map—the battlefield, the mountains, the distant valley.
"The Deathsow Valley," he said, tapping a dark hollow in the illusion. "If we push them back to their gate… we can seal them."
Aeltharion's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A seal is not a solution," he said. "It delays the problem."
Mephyst smiled.
"Delay is often the difference between survival and extinction."
He gestured to the mountains surrounding the valley.
"The Dragonsky Range. Impassable. Even for them."
He leaned back again.
"I have fought those creatures for years. Their flight is inferior to my mighty army. Their endurance is limited. They will not cross those peaks with their pathetic wings."
Minerva's gaze remained steady. "We still require a permanent one."
Jawhead grunted.
"Temporary better than dead."
Silence settled.
Then Aeltharion spoke again, quieter this time.
"With our current strength… annihilation is unlikely."
A pause.
"But pushing them back… is possible."
Ozbull nodded slowly.
"I can build a barrier," he said. "Strong one. Not forever… but long enough."
Olga narrowed her eyes.
"How long?"
Ozbull didn't hesitate.
"A hundred years. Maybe."
That lingered.
Mephyst let out a soft laugh.
"I rarely give praise… but the old orc is correct. He is the only one capable of building a barrier last for a century."
Aeltharion exhaled slowly.
"A century…" he murmured. "Not long. Not short."
Minerva's eyes sharpened.
"…but enough. To train, to build, and to strategize."
She looked around the table.
"We take the chance."
Her gaze landed on Mephyst briefly.
"We follow your plan."
Aeltharion tilted his head slightly.
"And we trust a demon?"
A demon behind Mephyst growled, stepping forward.
"How dare—"
Mephyst raised a hand without looking back.
The demon fell silent instantly.
"You do not need to trust me," Mephyst said, almost amused. "You simply lack better options."
Aeltharion studied him for a moment.
Then nodded once.
"…Tomorrow, then."
Minerva stood.
"Tomorrow morning," she said. "We attack with everything."
Chairs scraped softly. One by one, they rose.