Night descended over the borderlands with a suffocating quiet, heavy and full of tension. The fires within the fortress burned low, casting flickering shadows across the worn stone walls and bloodstained banners. Though the battle was over for now, the scent of iron still lingered in the air, mixing with the dampness of the coming storm.
Achilles sat alone in the command tent, hunched over a table littered with maps, intelligence reports, and troop rosters. His cloak was draped across a nearby chair, and the soft glow of his system interface hovered faintly in the air before him, visible only to his eyes.
>>> Aura Integration: 69%
>>> Mana Recovery: 37%
>>> Body Condition: Strained
He winced slightly as he rotated his left shoulder. The backlash from his last aura overload hadn't fully healed, despite the healer's best efforts. It was another reminder of the razor-thin line he walked—balancing body and mind, aura and mana, logic and instinct.
The tent flap shifted, and Kael entered, a thick envelope in hand and a grave expression on his face.
"You need to rest," Kael said without preamble.
"I will," Achilles replied, not looking up. "After this."
Kael sighed. He crossed the room, setting the envelope down on the table. "Another dispatch from the capital."
Achilles opened it, revealing a wax-sealed letter from his family—his mother's familiar handwriting, urgent but poised. He read it quickly, then again, slower the second time.
"They're worried," he muttered.
Kael pulled up a chair. "About you, or about the political vultures circling your name?"
"Both."
Silence passed between them, broken only by the soft tapping of rain against the canvas.
Kael reached into his satchel and produced a flask, pouring two shots of clear spirit into metal cups. He handed one to Achilles.
"You know," Kael began, swirling the liquid in his cup, "I've fought beside some of the most stubborn bastards this kingdom has ever produced. But you… you make them look agreeable."
Achilles took a sip, grimaced, and exhaled. "And yet, here you are."
"Someone has to keep you from burning out." Kael set the cup down and leaned in. "Listen, I meant what I said earlier. You can't do this all at once. You're trying to force mastery of two paths that most people can barely walk one of in their lifetime. Don't let this border become your pyre."
Achilles nodded slowly. "I won't. But I need to be ready. They'll test the border again soon—and harder."
As if on cue, a runner burst through the tent flap, breathless and pale.
"Sir! Ascendria has sent envoys—under truce. They request audience."
Kael scoffed. "Truce? After what they unleashed?"
Achilles stood, stretching his sore limbs. "They're buying time. Maybe stalling while they prepare something worse."
"You're not seriously going to meet them?"
"I am. But I'll be ready."
---
The parley ground was set in a clearing half a league from the forward ramparts. An open space ringed by dead trees and scorched earth, still blackened from the last skirmish.
Ascendria's envoys approached under a white banner, flanked by cloaked figures with shadowy eyes and unnerving smiles. Achilles approached alone, Kael nearby but out of immediate range.
The lead envoy was a tall man clad in silver-threaded robes, his hair bound neatly, his face unnervingly calm.
"Commander Achilles," he greeted, voice oily. "The Crimson Meteor himself."
Achilles kept his posture steady. "Say what you came to say."
The envoy inclined his head. "Ascendria proposes a temporary ceasefire. A chance to reassess. Perhaps open dialogue between our people. Surely, mutual destruction is not in either side's interest."
"You unleashed a Titan," Achilles said bluntly. "Summoned necromancers. Turned fallen soldiers into puppets. You poisoned the earth with cursed runes. This isn't diplomacy—it's desperation."
The envoy's smile faded slightly. "Then perhaps desperation is reason enough for compromise."
Achilles stepped closer, his voice low and controlled. "If you want mercy, send it to the gods. The border holds because I hold it. If you test it again—if you dare march another nightmare against these walls—there will be no truce. Only ruin."
The Ascendrian guards shifted uneasily. One reached for something beneath his cloak, but a glance from Achilles froze him in place. Aura crackled faintly around the commander, not enough to be dangerous, but enough to send a message.
The envoy swallowed and stepped back. "You speak with fire, Commander. We will carry your words back to our generals."
"Do that. And tell them—next time, I won't just burn their soldiers. I'll burn their history."
---
Back in camp, the mood was tense. Scouts reported strange movement near the western ridge—small bands moving silently, perhaps more Voidmarked, perhaps something worse.
Kael and Achilles walked side by side along the inner wall, overlooking the training grounds where new recruits sparred and mages practiced barrier spells.
"Didn't like the look in that envoy's eyes," Kael said.
"Neither did I."
"They're not retreating. They're planning something."
Achilles nodded. "Which means we prepare."
Kael glanced at him. "Still struggling with your aura?"
Achilles flexed his fingers. "Less than yesterday."
"You're healing. Slowly."
"I don't need perfection," Achilles said. "Just control. Enough to hold the line."
They paused at the edge of the courtyard, watching as a young soldier failed to form a stable aura shield.
"He's got potential," Kael noted.
"Most of them do. They just need time."
"You ever think about what happens after?"
Achilles didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the recruits.
"After this war?" Kael clarified.
"I'm not sure there is an after for me," Achilles replied quietly.
Kael turned sharply. "Don't talk like that."
Achilles looked at him, calm and resolute. "I'm a weapon right now, Kael. I've accepted that. Maybe when the kingdom is safe—maybe then I'll find a new purpose. Until then, I fight."
Kael sighed. "Then I'll keep standing beside you. Even if I think you're an idiot."
A faint smile touched Achilles' lips. "That's what friends are for."
As the wind picked up and the clouds deepened overhead, both men turned toward the western ridges—toward whatever storm Ascendria planned to unleash next.
The border held. For now.
But Achilles was ready to rewrite the outcome again.