Halric hesitated, then nodded slowly. "You heard him," he barked to his officers. "Pair up. Do it!"
The next hours were awkward, even painful, but something began to shift.
Human soldiers learned to move with silence, following the near-soundless steps of elven scouts. Elves learned to bark commands under pressure, to fight in the chaos of human skirmish tactics. Bows and blades began to sync. Mana flares and steel clashes found rhythm.
By afternoon, what had started as a cacophony became the faint outline of order.
Thalan's staff glowed softly as he watched from the side. "He's doing it," he murmured. "He's making them one."
Nysha folded her arms. "He's making them dangerous."
Ashwing yawned on a branch. "He's making them loud. But, yeah, dangerous too."
When the final horn blew at dusk, the field was littered with sweat and laughter, real, tired, genuine laughter. A human and elf leaned on each other for balance, bruised but smiling. Somewhere, someone was sharing a flask.
