The torchlight flickered along the stone walls of the palace as Simon sat in his study, the bloodied cloak of General Aedric draped over the edge of a chair. His eyes, cold and unyielding, scanned the reports and maps spread across the table. The horror Lucen had described burned in his mind, but Simon's face betrayed nothing.
He tapped a finger against the table, precise and deliberate. The western border had been decimated, and the witch who had orchestrated it remained a threat. There was no time for grief or hesitation.
He summoned his scribe and issued orders for a meeting the following day. The notice was terse:
> "All generals and senior commanders to assemble at first light in the council hall. Attendance is mandatory. The western border situation requires immediate action."
There was no flourish, no explanation. Only efficiency and authority—the kind that left no room for argument.
---
By dawn, the council hall was filled with the kingdom's top military minds. Among them stood Theron, straight-backed and attentive, ready to offer counsel and coordinate troops under Simon's direction. Varen was absent, attending to Morvet's contributions and financial logistics—his role acknowledged but indirect.
Simon's gaze swept the room. "The western border has been compromised. General Aedric is dead. Men are missing. Our enemy is precise and deliberate. This cannot stand."
A murmur ran through the room. One of the older generals, gray-haired and wary, spoke first. "Your Majesty… what are we dealing with, exactly? Scouts report nothing but silence. Could this be an ambush?"
Simon's voice was sharp, cutting the air. "It is no mere ambush. We will treat it as a calculated strike. And we will respond accordingly."
Theron stepped forward. "Your Majesty, I can coordinate the remaining troops and assess the border defenses immediately. Orders will be executed without delay."
Another commander frowned, leaning on his staff. "And the missing men? Should we send search parties? Or risk further losses?"
Simon's eyes swept the room like a blade. "Search parties will go out, but only under my command. No unnecessary risks. Discipline above all. Report directly to me. Fail me, and you will answer for it."
A younger officer hesitated. "Sire… what about reinforcements? Should we request additional soldiers from nearby garrisons?"
Simon's voice was icy. "No. For now, we act with what we have. Wasteful panic is more dangerous than any enemy."
The council fell silent, absorbing his words. Fear and respect hung in the air—the hall was quiet except for the careful scratching of notes and the shuffle of boots.
Simon did not yet announce any appointments. He would decide the new chain of command only when he fully understood the scope of the threat. For now, everyone's focus was on action, not rank.
When the meeting concluded, Simon excused everyone except Philip. The advisor remained, standing at attention.
Simon's eyes met Philip's. "I am considering bringing someone in… someone capable of confronting powers beyond mere men. A sage, Philip. Someone who understands forces like the one at the border."
Philip's brow furrowed. "A sage, sire? You mean… magic?"
Simon's lips pressed into a thin line. "Perhaps. I do not know what the witch wants, what her endgame is. We cannot leave this to chance. If there is a way to counter her, I will find it—and if necessary, I will use it."
Philip nodded slowly, understanding the weight behind Simon's cold, measured words. "And you would not announce this to the council yet?"
"No," Simon said sharply. "Not until I am certain of the path. Discretion is necessary. The moment we reveal too much, fear spreads faster than the threat itself."
Philip inclined his head. "Understood, Your Majesty. I will prepare quietly."
Simon turned back to the map, gaze piercing the distance beyond the palace walls. The western border awaited, silent and treacherous. And somewhere in those shadows, the witch lingered—her motives unknown, her power undeniable.
Simon's mind worked relentlessly, cold and ruthless, calculating every possible move. He would meet this threat head-on, and no one—not witch, not soldier, not circumstance—would find him unprepared.
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The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, turning the stone floor golden. Ariel walked calmly toward the training yard, where Theron and his closest friend, Coren, were discussing the reorganized patrols. Unlike the nervous whispers she sometimes overheard at court, her stride was confident—she was here to learn, to understand, not to fidget.
Yet beneath her composure, a quiet sadness lingered. General Aedric was dead. He had been the first to believe in her when she began training, never treating her differently because of her gender. He had been a mentor, a supporter, a rare presence who had seen her potential. The loss still weighed on her heart.
"Theron," she called, her voice steady, "I heard about your first day in command. How did it go?"
Theron straightened, fatigue in his posture but pride in his eyes. "It was… demanding. The men followed orders, though there was hesitation at first. I had to make quick decisions to keep the patrols safe. It's a responsibility I won't take lightly."
Coren nodded beside him. "The scouts are still unaccounted for, but the remaining troops are in good hands. Theron handled the situation well—better than most would have at their first day."
Ariel listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions: "How did you reorganize the patrols? Were there any moments that worried you?"
Theron answered honestly, detailing the tactical choices he made, how he communicated orders, and the challenges of leading men who were still mourning Aedric's death. Ariel's questions were measured, showing curiosity and admiration rather than childish excitement.
"I'm proud of you," she said quietly. "Not because of what you've done, but because of how you carried yourself. You stayed calm, decisive… and fair."
Theron gave a small, appreciative smile. "That means more than you know, Ariel. It's not easy stepping into a role like this, but knowing home is behind me… it helps."
Coren glanced at her, approving. "She's right. Your leadership shows. Just don't let the praise make you careless."
Ariel nodded, glancing toward the yard where the soldiers adjusted to their new assignments. Her thoughts briefly drifted to Aedric again. He would have guided them through this… he would have known what to do. The pang of grief was sharp, but it strengthened her resolve. She would honor his memory by doing her part.
"You handled everything well," she said to Theron, "and the men are organized, morale seems steadier than I expected. I just wish…" Her voice softened, "I wish Aedric could see this. He believed in me when no one else did."
Theron's expression softened, recognizing the weight of her words. "He would be proud, Ariel. And he would trust that you'll carry yourself with the same courage he saw in you."
Ariel's gaze followed Theron's, serious now. "Then we'll do what we can here at home. Keeping the palace organized, ensuring supplies are ready for the men, and assisting wherever needed. Every small effort counts."
Theron placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. "I appreciate that, Ariel. Your support matters. Every careful preparation counts."
The three of them stood in quiet understanding for a moment. Outside, the courtyard was alive with activity—the servants moving quickly, soldiers adjusting patrol routes, the wind rustling banners overhead. And beneath it all, an uneasy tension lingered, a reminder that the threat at the western border had not passed.
But here, in this small moment, Ariel and Theron could plan, prepare, and take pride in their roles—calm, composed, and determined, carrying both grief and resolve forward.