The drums of war had quieted for a season.
But Achilles felt it. The unease. The slow churning of something dark, not on the battlefield—but in the silence that followed.
Two months.
That's how long it had been since the last shipment of supplies from the capital. No weapons. No armor. No grain. No word.
He had sent three letters. One carried by official seal, one by magic courier, and one personally handed to a royal messenger. None had returned. The silence wasn't just unusual—it was damning.
It was betrayal.
And it wasn't the fault of Ascendria. Their last skirmish had ended in a complete rout, their remaining outposts too broken to muster even a raid. Achilles had expected retaliation, sabotage, infiltration—anything except complete silence from the capital.
This failure came from within.
---
Inside his war tent, the air was heavy with the scent of burning oil and parchment. Maps sprawled across the oak table like battle scars, marked in red and blue ink, pins stabbed deep into locations now meaningless without supplies to back them.
Kael stood nearby, his brow furrowed. A cold wind hissed through the seams of the tent.
"We've got enough rations for another five weeks," Kael began, voice clipped. "Maybe six if we dilute the grain and stretch the dried meat. But morale's cracking. They notice the cutbacks. They whisper."
Achilles stood at the center of the tent, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on nothing. "Any word from the capital?"
Kael shook his head. "Nothing. Not even from our allies."
Silence followed. The kind that pressed against the chest like weight.
Then Achilles spoke. Quiet, sharp.
"We're not being ignored. We're being silenced."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "You think it's sabotage? That someone's deliberately withholding the shipments?"
"Or diverting them. Or blocking them. Either way, it's not an accident."
"We've kept the border stable for five years," Kael said, frustration boiling beneath his words. "We've pushed Ascendria back and held our ground. What reason would they have to betray us now?"
"That's what I want to know."
Achilles turned and walked to a locked trunk near the tent's rear. The soldiers outside, standing guard, tensed when they saw it open. He retrieved a scroll sealed with a dark crimson rune—a mark known only to one man.
He handed it to Kael.
"Take this to him. Our eyes in the shadows. He's to go to the capital. Quietly. No insignias, no trace back to us. Not even to the nobility."
Kael hesitated. "You're sending Corvin."
"Yes. If anyone can slip through the cracks, it's him. I want names. I want motives. And I want them fast."
"And if it's worse than we think?"
Achilles's eyes were cold as steel. "Then we adjust. Like always."
---
That evening, Achilles walked the fortress walls, the wind biting through his coat, whispering of old storms.
Below, the training yard still clanged with steel. Even at night, his soldiers worked in shifts. Without supplies, without rest, they pushed on. Because they knew who led them.
But they were human.
He passed a group of veterans sharing a loaf of stale bread and watered ale. They looked up at him with respect—no longer the fearful awe of his early days, but the quiet reverence of men who had seen him bleed beside them.
"Commander," one of them said, bowing his head.
"Eat well," Achilles replied.
He continued along the wall.
The stars were few tonight, hidden behind cloud and smoke. Somewhere in the dark, Ascendria's scattered remnants waited. But they weren't the danger now.
It was what stirred behind the capital's walls that concerned him.
He reached the northern watchtower and gazed across the frozen plains.
"They think because I'm far, I'm blind," he muttered.
He activated his system interface.
>>> Supply Chain Integrity: Critical
>>> Last Royal Response: 61 days
>>> Authorized Couriers: 0 Active
>>> Mana Relay: Unstable — Capitol Node Disrupted
>>> Alert Level: Internal Breach Suspected
The red sigils blinked softly across his vision. He exhaled slowly.
---
Meanwhile, far from the border, Corvin rode under the pale moonlight.
A shadow among trees, he traveled through lesser roads, avoiding trade routes and noble convoys. He was no mere spy—he had once been a noble himself, exiled for dueling a royal cousin to death after uncovering a smuggling operation in the inner court. Achilles had taken him in, not because of pity, but because truth meant more than titles.
Corvin's face was obscured by a half-mask. His blades were hidden under his cloak, and he carried fake credentials, forged by Achilles himself through the system.
As he approached the outer villages of the capital, he saw signs of unrest.
Bandits roamed freely.
Merchant caravans were delayed or missing.
Post stations had been burned.
Something was very wrong.
By the time he entered the capital's outskirts, Corvin had a growing list of concerns. Black market goods were everywhere, and rumors swirled that the Council had splintered into factions, each accusing the other of sedition.
The Verentis family, Achilles' own bloodline, had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
And whispers spread of a new noble faction rising in the shadows, pushing to sever border authority and centralize power again—leaving the outposts to rot in silence.
If they succeeded, Achilles and his army would fall.
Not to an enemy.
But to betrayal.
---
Back at the border, Achilles entered the command chamber where Kael and the senior officers waited.
"Our stores will hold for forty days at best," Kael reported.
"Then we tighten discipline. I'll announce ration protocols at dawn. Until then, no one outside this tent knows the full situation."
The officers nodded.
Achilles turned to them one by one. "I will not let this wall fall. Not to cowardice. Not to greed. And not to traitors in velvet chairs."
The fire in his eyes returned.
"If they won't feed us, then we'll hunt. If they abandon us, then we'll remind them what the border means. We are not their pawns. We are their shield. And if they have forgotten that... then I'll carve the truth into stone."
Silence.
Then Kael stepped forward and placed a hand to his chest.
"To the last blade, Commander."
The rest echoed the vow.
"To the last blade."
And in the cold heart of winter, surrounded by enemies without and betrayal within, Achilles began preparing not just for defense...
But for reckoning.