Solas stepped forward, his lips parting—measured, precise.
"In name, I am Solas Caelum. But I have not come to command, nor to follow without question. I've come to see clearly—and act where others fear to tread."
The blonde commander slowly straightened, ocean-blue eyes locking with his pale, icy gaze. She searched him—not for words, but for cracks.
"Strong words. What makes you so certain?" She lifted her chin. "Doubt lingers in all men. Words can be faulty if forged from fear."
His expression did not waver.
"Doubt is not an enemy I fear. I pity those who cower behind it, using hesitation to excuse inaction."
Her gaze sharpened. "And what if I doubted you? If I called you lowborn, a man unfit to stand among soldiers?"
A soft, almost playful curl touched Solas's lips. He tilted his head slightly.
"Then I would say your words carry no weight, unless I choose to bear them. And my mind—like the sky—bears only what it wills."
There was a silence, taut and heavy, broken only by the quiet admiration settling in among those nearby. Even Vargra's glance held a subtle message: Now do you see?
The commander's lips twitched in subtle approval.
"Well then." She straightened fully, voice strong and clear. "I am Commander Caerelinne Valemaris of the Elara Kingdom. It will be… a pleasure to see what you do with such clarity."
She turned, leaned forward on the war table, and pointed at the map.
"Now—to the matter at hand. Our scouts last traced the goblins to this region—just past the western treeline, near a cavern."
"As you may know, these creatures catch onto things quickly and react immediately—evading almost every assault we've made on them. They form new ecosystems and repopulate rapidly after each encounter."
She moved her index finger across the map to another cavern entrance north of the western one.
"According to our reports, there's another entrance they can use to escape. We can use that to our advantage."
Vaelira lifted a hand, waiting for her question to be acknowledged.
Caerelinne looked over. "What is it?"
Vaelira lowered her hand. "Are we certain that's the only other entrance to the cavern?"
"A good question. Unfortunately, we don't know for sure."
She shifted her weight slightly, eyes still on the map.
"We've sent more scouts into the area to search for additional exits. But we must be cautious. If we send too many, the goblins will notice—we risk tipping them off. Right now, we're playing it off as a training exercise. In truth, we're preparing to close in on them."
She tapped the map again, fingers steady.
"They're smart. But not smart enough."
As Caerelinne finished her explanation, the room held a moment of silence—a space between strategy and uncertainty.
Solas stepped closer to the map, his eyes tracing the path between the two cavern entrances with slow, deliberate focus.
"They are clever," he said, voice soft yet crisp, "but their cleverness is born from survival, not foresight."
All eyes turned to him.
"If we strike too plainly, they'll scatter. But if we strike too cleverly, we risk outsmarting ourselves."
He raised a hand, brushing a fingertip across the map near the escape tunnel.
"This secondary entrance… it can be our vice grip. But only if they believe they're escaping, not being driven."
He looked up, meeting Caerelinne's gaze.
"What we need… is not brute force, nor over-caution. We need choreography. Let them think they've won. Let them flee. And when they do…" He tapped the escape route lightly.
"We close the door behind them."
There was no arrogance in his tone—only certainty, honed like a blade.
Even Vaelira, who had known him longer than most in this tent, found herself standing a little straighter.
For a moment, the war table fell silent—not from uncertainty this time, but from conviction.
Caerelinne's eyes lingered on Solas, weighing his words with that same cool, strategic intensity.
She let out a soft exhale, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Choreography," she echoed, almost to herself. "A dance of death, then."
She straightened, hands folding behind her back.
"Very well. We will launch our main force into the primary cave, while a secondary unit flanks to the exit route."
Her voice was calm, but crisp like drawn steel.
"Apply pressure. Force retreat. Crush."
A pause.
"Sharpen your blades and set your armor right. Tomorrow isn't battle." Her eyes swept across the tent. "It's a massacre."
The room echoed with nods, footsteps, shifting postures—everyone quietly preparing to depart and ready themselves.
But Caerelinne spoke once more.
"Your positions will be assigned tonight. Be prepared."
Then her gaze settled on Solas again.
"I trust you'll be there to crush these creatures, Solas Caelum."
Behind him, Vargra let out a soft hum of satisfaction. She could feel it—the gravity of the room had shifted. The center had shifted.
Even Nyra, who earlier had looked nearly dead from boredom, now leaned in over the map, her emerald eyes glinting with fresh excitement. Mirell remained silent, expression unreadable, but her gaze was fixed on Solas, watching… assessing.
The atmosphere had changed. And everyone within that tent knew:
Tomorrow, something would break.
"You are all dismissed."
Everyone nodded and began to return to their respective stations. Rowena looked like she wanted to approach Solas, but Vaelira's squad quickly swept her away.
"Come," said a soft voice behind him. Vargra. "Let me assign you your gear."
Solas turned slightly to glance back. "I would appreciate that."
"Good. Stay behind." She turned and exited the tent.
He lingered for a moment, casting one last glance at the war table. Caerelinne still stood there, gaze locked onto the map, deep in thought.
Then he followed Vargra out.
Outside, the camp buzzed with purpose. The knights who had been setting up were nearly finished—efficient, disciplined, swift.
They made their way through the camp, weaving through tents and rows of supplies, until they reached the armory. A large tent lined with racks of weapons and sets of armor. Blades gleamed in the fading light, each one ready to be drawn and wielded.
Solas stepped forward, his eyes scanning from left to right, studying the weapons carefully—until he saw it.
A saber.
He reached out and drew it from the rack. The gentle curve of its blade caught the light, its single edge gleaming with sharp precision. It was a weapon of elegance and speed. A noble's sword, refined and lethal. The hilt swept into a graceful arc, a silver-steel knuckle guard protecting the hand.
To Solas, it was more than a weapon—it was familiar. If there was one thing he loved in his former life, it was fencing.
"I'm surprised," Vargra said, watching him with mild amusement. "Most knights avoid the saber. Few know how to wield it properly. But it's a fine choice."
Solas studied the blade, the reflection of sunlight dancing along its edge. "Indeed it is." He lowered the weapon slightly, then glanced at her.
"Vargra…" His voice was calm, deliberate. "Would you care to take me to a duel?"