It was well past the witching hour, yet the silence of the night brought no peace to the soldiers of the Roric Kingdom. Sleep was a luxury none could afford; the order was absolute—stand ready to attack upon the signal. Yet, not a single soul knew what that signal would be.
Not even Mat, the Strategy Lead and acting Second-in-Command, had been told.
"Just wait for my orders. The signal will come when it comes," Thane had said, dismissing Mat from his office earlier that evening with a wave of his hand.
Mat stared at the map before him, his jaw tightening. Thane Caldron was not a man who shared his goals or methods. He was a vault of secrets, an arrogant enigma wrapped in a black coat.
Mat had long ago given up on prying into the Captain's mind. 'He is a void,' Mat thought bitterly. 'Trying to understand him is as futile as trying to speak to the dead.'
Inside the command tent, the air was thick with the smell of lamp oil and nervous sweat. Mat and the Chief sat at the center, surrounded by senior knights clad in full plate armour, their shoulders draped in the heavy capes of the Broken Crown. Upon their breastplates gleamed the sigil of their order: a giant white serpent coiled suffocatingly around a massive obsidian tower—the mark of the Serpent's Maw.
A heavy silence hung over the table until one of the older knights cleared his throat.
"Lord Chief, Lord Mat," the knight began, bowing his head slightly. "It is a privilege to sit at this table and offer my counsel to you. However... I must speak plainly. I do not believe this is the time to lay siege to Ruxwax."
He pointed a gauntleted finger at the map, tracing the dark expanse of green between them and the enemy city.
"It is nearly autumn. The Marsh Forest has already begun its Metamorphosis. To march now is suicide. The roots don't just shift; they hunt. The topography changes by the hour—paths that exist at dawn are gone by dusk. It will create insurmountable obstacles for our heavy infantry."
Another knight nodded vigorously. "He speaks the truth. The enemy has the upper hand here. They know the forest's rhythm. Even if we survive the enemy blades, the forest itself will swallow us whole. We cannot fight a war on two fronts—against Ruxwax and against nature itself."
"At least not when the enemy commanders' brother controls the rhythm of the Marsh forest." Another added.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent. These men were not cowards; they were seasoned veterans of the Serpent's Maw. They harboured doubts not out of fear, but out of intelligence. They knew the Marsh Forest was alive—a labyrinthine beast where trees moved with the sluggish malice of waking giants, twisting directions and separating squads until they were lost forever in the gloom.
Mat remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ink-stained map.
The Chief sighed, a heavy, rattling sound. "Our Captain has decided to strike now. We must assume he has thought this through."
"But Lord Chief," the first knight interjected, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Lord Thane has decided he will not participate in this battle."
The tension in the room spiked.
"Yes, Lord Mat," another knight added, his voice laced with bitterness. "The men's morale was high when the order came down, but to hear that the strongest among us—the Prime Nexus himself—will stay behind in the camp? It has shattered their spirit. You know how our Captain is. His decisions are... irrational. He would sacrifice a thousand men just to secure victory in a way that amuses him, rather than simply doing what is necessary."
The scene was deeply unsettling. In any other unit of the Roric Army, speaking of a Captain with such distrust would be treason. Knights were bred to revere their superiors. But the Serpent's Maw was different. None of them loved their Captain. They feared him. They hated him.
Thane spent his days locked in his office, detached and cold, only emerging to relay impossible orders or to shame a failure. The resentment in the camp was a physical weight. Yet, they could do nothing. Thane was a Prime Nexus—a physical god whose strength rivaled the natural disasters they feared in the forest. To challenge him was to choose death.
His name bestowed upon him by his enemies was – The Rustle of the Demonic Axe.
It was a title that did not only spread fear amongst rival armies, but had spread like wildfire through the households of the common folk of the Roric Kingdom. It painted an image of a Captain more terrifying than any monster. But no commoner, and certainly no knight, dared to speak against a noble-born monster to his face.
So, they spoke in low voices, sharing their collective hatred in the safety of the shadows, knowing that Thane likely knew of their disdain and simply didn't care. To a lion, the opinions of sheep—even armoured ones—meant nothing.
"Don't worry," Mat replied, his voice cutting through the murmurs. He finally looked up, his eyes cold and pragmatic. "It does not matter what twisted reasons Lord Thane has for securing this battlefield. Tell our men to be on their guard. We need casualties as low as possible. But as for our victory?"
Mat stood up, casting a long shadow over the map. "It was confirmed the moment our Captain set foot in this camp. No matter what his aspirations are, Thane Caldaron, The Rustle of the Demonic Axe, does not lose."
"Chief," Mat asked, breaking the dark reverie. "Are our men in position?"
"Yes, Lord Mat. They are stationed at the designated perimeter, waiting for the signal."
Just then, the tent flap was open, letting in a gust of cold night air. A soldier of the Serpent's Maw stepped inside, he stopped a few steps behind Mat.
"Lord Mat! Sir Remus demands to speak with you immediately."