Minerva slowed her steps as they moved into the human camp.
Her eyes moved, not her head. Left. Right.
"Tell me, Mr. Shuward," she said, her voice calm, almost casual, "do you feel something… off?"
Shuward did not answer at once. He observed the camp as she did, slower, more deliberate.
"…Yes, Your Highness," he said finally. "The trods' retreat. The timing. And that soldier's warning…" He hesitated. "It feels… arranged."
He glanced at her.
"Or perhaps," he added carefully, "his words have simply made us suspicious."
Minerva exhaled softly.
"Logically, his claim holds no merit," she said. "The Trods lack structured communication. Strategy at that level would require intelligence they have never demonstrated."
She stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the mud.
"…And yet," she continued, quieter now, "I find myself questioning Lord Mephyst."
That alone irritated her.
She did not like doubts she could not dissect.
Shuward straightened. "Then what is your course of action, Your Highness?"
"I need to verify," she said.
Without another word, she turned and walked away.
Shuward watched her go for a moment, then released a quiet sigh.
"The princess," he muttered under his breath, turning toward the canteen, "should at least remember to eat."
**
Inside her tent, the air was still.
Minerva moved straight to her desk, opening reports with quick, precise motions. Pages shifted, stacked, spread across the surface—orc records, elven logs, human accounts.
All consistent.
Her teeth found her thumbnail.
Bite.
Her thoughts accelerated.
"All of you… saying the same thing," she whispered.
Bite.
Trods communicate differently.
Trods cannot be reasoned with.
Trods do not negotiate.
Bite.
The faint taste of iron bloomed on her tongue, but she did not stop. Her brows furrowed, her breathing shallow, uneven. The edges of the reports blurred—not from lack of clarity, but from too much of it.
"Too consistent…" she murmured. "Far too consistent."
A drop of blood slipped from her thumb, landing on the paper.
Then another.
Only when it spread into the ink did she pause.
Her gaze lowered slowly.
For a brief moment, she simply stared at it—expression blank, as if the sight needed time to register.
Then, with a small, almost irritated click of her tongue, she reached for a cloth.
She wiped her thumb. Then her lips.
She threw the clothes aimlessly and continued reading.
**
The tent flap opened.
Shuward entered, carrying a tray.
"Your Highness, you skipped—" he began, then stopped when he saw the scattered reports.
"…again."
Minerva did not look up.
"Was our supply line restored?"
Shuward set the tray down carefully.
"Your Highness," he said, "the envoy dispatched to oversee the supply chain reports that the administrators have… declined any resupply for this month."
Her eyes sharpened.
"On what grounds?"
"They claim the kingdom is currently experiencing widespread food shortages."
She leaned back slightly, studying him.
"And weapons? Medical provisions?"
Shuward hesitated, just briefly.
"Lord Vaemore has authorized the Golden Vault to transfer the majority of its reserves to the Golden Basket," he said. "The funds are being used to procure food imports from the Free States."
Silence settled between them.
Then—
A quiet grind of teeth.
"Those senile imbeciles," Minerva said softly.
Her voice did not rise. It did not need to.
"They sit behind their towering walls and convince themselves of safety," she continued. "Yet fail to grasp that should this army collapse… those very walls will follow in swift succession."
She leaned forward, fingers pressing lightly against the desk.
"For what is a fortress without the force that stands before it?"
Her lips curved faintly—though there was no humor in it.
"Lord Mephyst, it seems… right."
She lifted her gaze to Shuward.
"We are left with little recourse but to entertain his design."
A pause.
Then, with a gentler tone, she said, "You may retire now, Mr. Shuward. I will require your presence early tomorrow."
Then added
"Thank you."
Shuward bowed, precise and respectful, before stepping out of the tent.
**
Alone again, Minerva picked up the bread.
She took a bite.
Her jaw worked slowly.
"…This could double as a paving stone," she muttered.
Another bite. A longer chew.
She reached for the soup and drank.
A pause.
"…And this," she added flatly, "appears to have been seasoned by regret."
She set the bowl down, exhaling.
Her gaze drifted back to the blood-stained reports.
Her thumb throbbed faintly.
Her thoughts, however, had not slowed.
"Once this is concluded…" she murmured, leaning back in her chair, "I shall dine as a king."
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Fatigue hit her all at once, heavy and dull, like a blunt weapon to the skull.
Minerva stared at the pile of papers in front of her.
"…It is no longer a matter of proof," she said quietly. "Preparation must suffice where certainty fails."
Her fingers twitched once against the desk, as if resisting the urge to tear the pages apart.
Instead, she stood.
The movement was smooth, controlled, and practiced. She reached for her armor, the familiar weight settling against her body piece by piece. There was comfort in it. Not warmth, not safety—just something predictable.
Then, without ceremony, she lay down on her bed.
Sleep took her quickly.
**
In the darkness of the tent.
A voice echoed—faint at first.
Then louder.
"Mother… no… please…"
Minerva's body trembled against the sheets. Sweat clung to her skin, her fingers gripping the fabric as though it might anchor her.
"I'm sorry… I failed you… please… stop…"
The words came out broken, uneven. Not composed. Not controlled. Almost not her.
She jerked awake.
A sharp breath tore from her chest.
For a moment, she did not move.
Then she grabbed the pillow beside her and pulled it close, holding it tightly.
Silence filled the tent.
Her breathing slowly steadied.
"…Pathetic me," she muttered under her breath, though her grip did not loosen.
After a while, she let go.
She stood up and went to see outside.
The sky outside was pale, caught between night and dawn.
"It's about time," she went back inside.
Minerva splashed water on her face. The cold stung, grounding her. She welcomed it.
By the time she stepped out of her tent, her expression had returned to its usual calm, composed, distant, untouched.
As if nothing had happened.
The camp was already alive.
Even at dawn, soldiers moved with purpose. Some sharpened weapons, the steady scrape of metal against stone filling the air. Others knelt in quiet prayer, heads bowed, lips moving silently. A few simply sat still, staring into nothing, gathering whatever strength they had left.
No laughter nor ease. Only readiness.
Minerva walked past them, her presence subtle but felt. Conversations quieted. Backs straightened. Eyes followed her, some filled with respect, others with quiet desperation.
She reached the open field.
The leaders were already there.
Mephyst stood at the center, relaxed as ever, hands clasped behind his back. A faint smile rested on his lips—too knowing, too comfortable. As if the entire war was merely an amusing diversion.
Jawhead stood nearby like a fortress given form. Arms crossed, massive frame unmoving. His axe hung loosely in one hand, but the way his fingers rested on the grip suggested it could rise in an instant.
The Goblin King crouched slightly, weight forward, eyes darting across the surroundings. Every movement, every sound—nothing escaped him.
Olga rolled her shoulders with a small crack, her expression tight with impatience.
"Finally," she muttered, not loudly, but not quietly either. "Thought we start without you."
Aeltharion stood tall, his lance planted lightly against the ground. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, calculating every detail.
Minerva approached them without haste.
"I offer my apologies for the delay," she said, her tone smooth, unbothered.
"You arrive precisely when needed," Aeltharion replied, his voice measured, almost courteous. Then, without looking away from the field, he gestured slightly to a nearby soldier. "Sound the horn."
The soldier nodded quickly.
A moment later—
The horn echoed across the camp.
Low. Powerful. Commanding.
It rolled through the tents, through the soldiers, through the air itself.
Men and women began to gather, pouring into the field like a tide. Armor clinked, boots pressed into dirt, voices hushed as they formed ranks.
Aeltharion turned slightly toward Minerva.
"You will address them," he said.
She gave a small nod. "Very well."
As the army settled, her gaze moved across the crowd.
Familiar faces. Tired faces.
At the front line—Ruok.
He stood still, too still. His posture rigid and uneasy.
Minerva noticed.
Of course she did.
But she said nothing.
At Aeltharion's slight nod, she stepped forward.
Her voice carried clearly across the field.
"Warriors of the unified army… for years, we have endured what should have broken us."
She paused, letting the weight settle.
"We have bled on this soil, buried our comrades beneath it, and stood again where others would have fallen."
Her eyes moved across the crowd.
"Today, for the first time in years, the enemy has retreated."
A ripple moved through the soldiers.
"Not because they are merciful," she continued calmly, "but because they are preparing."
Her tone sharpened.
"And so must we."
She placed a hand lightly on her sword.
"This war will not end by waiting. It will end because we choose to end it."
A faint fire lit in her eyes.
"We push forward. We take back what was lost. Expel those otherworldly beings called Trods. And we do not stop—until there is nothing left to threaten this world."
Her voice rose, strong and clear.
"Stand with me. Fight with me. With us. And we will see the end of this war—together."
For a moment—
Silence.
Then—
A SHRIEK.
High. Sharp. Violent.
It tore through the air like something alive.
Minerva's head turned towards Ruok.
Ruok already on the move. His arm snapped forward, a dagger already leaving his hand.
The blade spun through the air—straight toward her.
Minerva did not flinch.
Her eyes locked onto him. Calm and emotionless…with the faintest trace of disappointment.