The wind across the plains grew stronger, causing the banners flying above the camp to flap violently.
It was no longer the calm breeze of an open landscape. No, it had changed, becoming heavy and metallic, almost electric. Each gust seemed to announce the arrival of evil incarnate.
In front of the large command tent, soldiers were pouring in by the dozen, some still sleepy or drunk, others already nervous, but all drawn by the scouts who had returned in a panic.
Mireille emerged from her tent, tightening the straps of her breastplate, her captain's coat floating behind her like a shadow. Her dark brown hair, pulled back into a high ponytail, whipped in the gusts.
Her gaze, surprisingly calm but icy, immediately fell on the scouts kneeling in front of the main tent. Their horses were still panting from the effort, their saliva mixed with dust forming a hideous, dirty foam that slid down their exhausted flanks.
"Report." She ordered immediately, without raising her voice.
One of the scouts tried to stand up, but collapsed onto one knee, his arms trembling. His breathing was ragged—not to say choppy—as if he had been running at the same speed as the horses, without stopping since dawn.
"Captain... they're coming."
"Who?" replied Mireille, even though deep down she already knew the answer.
The soldier's eyes widened, filled with a kind of animal terror. The words came out in a whisper that sounded more like a groan than a clear, audible sentence.
"The Mistwalkers... and... um... him."
The entire camp froze.
The murmurs that had been circulating until then diminished until they disappeared completely. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before blowing again.
Mireille leaned slightly towards the soldier, her face perfectly impassive.
"Are you sure?"
The soldier nodded convulsively.
"I... I saw them. Their vanguard is already lingering at the foot of the hills, on the horizon. The mists are moving as if... as if they were alive. And in the centre... there was this... this... thing... A strange silhouette. I only saw it for a moment, but..."
His voice broke.
"...It wasn't human."
Mireille straightened up, her fingers tightening slightly around the hilt of the dagger at her belt.
"Very well. Go and rest. You'll speak to the general when your heart has stopped beating like an orc's drum."
She turned on her heel.
"Messenger!"
The young soldier, whom she had intimidated some ten minutes earlier, jumped to his feet at the sound of her call.
"Y-Yes, Captain?!"
"Go and fetch the General. It's time to rouse all the men."
"The whole... the whole camp, Captain?"
"Do you want to give him a summary or an order?"
"I... I'll go!"
The soldier immediately ran off, nearly tripping over a wooden bucket nearby.
Mireille sighed and rubbed her temple.
'Why is everyone always panicking, except me?'
***
In the minutes that followed, the clarions sounded with an urgency that chilled the recruits' blood. The sleepers woke with a jolt, the wounded hauled themselves out of their tents, and the veterans silently tightened their belts.
The entire camp sprang into action, like a metal giant awakening under the impact of a divine hammer.
Mireille crossed the camp, heading straight for the command platform. Each of her steps was precise, calculated, without hesitation.
The soldiers parted before her, much like water before the bow of a ship. Some bowed, others looked away, apprehensive of the icy calm that emanated from her and her gaze.
This calmness, which she could display in almost any circumstance, had long since spread through the ranks of the army — and, to her great misfortune, had fuelled a whole range of interpretations and theories, each more far-fetched than the last.
It was said, for example, that she was born in the midst of war, that her heart was the colour of ashes, that her smile often heralded death.
The rumours were not, of course, true. Not all of them, anyway.
But none of them were entirely false either.
Still, no one would have willingly tempted fate by asking her where imagination ended and reality began.
'Ah... My head hurts just thinking about it.'
On the platform, General Armond was already waiting for her. His grey beard fluttered in the wind, and his calloused hands rested on the table covered with maps.
When he saw her coming, he frowned.
'Captain Lorne. The scouts have reported an army... and a kind of living mist.'
"Hmph. It's not mist. And it's not an ordinary army either."
The other officers instantly stopped talking to listen to her.
"From what we know, the Mistwalkers know how to conceal their troops... or something like that. Their magic envelops everything they approach. And above all... You only see the enemy when it's already too late."
The general nodded slowly.
"And him? Is he really..."
"Yes. It's him." She interrupted.
A heavy silence followed.
The general took a deep breath, then exhaled like a man who had just aged by ten years.
"Then we have no choice." He muttered, a grim expression hanging on his face.
He turned towards the camp, where troops were already gathering.
"Soldiers, we will hold this line."
Mireille crossed her arms.
"I agree, General. But... tactically, we are at a disadvantage. The terrain is too open. A tight formation will be destroyed in minutes."
"So? What do you suggest?" asked Armond.
Mireille pointed a finger at the map, quickly drawing a line with charcoal.
"We deploy in an arc. The spearmen in the centre, the mages behind them. The archers on the flanks. And me..."
She placed her finger on the most exposed area: a slightly elevated point just before a gentle slope.
"I'll take care of him, the vanguard."
The general clenched his teeth.
"Mireille..."
"You have no one else capable of holding back their advance. This is no time for sentimentality."
She wasn't saying this out of arrogance. Of course not. But simply because it was true.
"If I fall, withdraw immediately to the second line. If I hold... then we'll have a chance."
Armond stared at her for a long moment. In his eyes burned a flame of concern that he never showed.
She looked away.
"You know me. I can take care of myself."
The knight took a step to descend from the platform.
"Captain." Armond called.
She turned around.
"Don't... don't do what you did last time."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Last time, you survived. So did our men." she replied with a hint of irony.
Then she walked away, her cloak flapping behind her in the wind, which had resumed its eternal dance.
***
The troops took up their positions.
The spearmen planted their long spikes in the ground, forming a deadly barrier. The mages were already murmuring incantations, making the air around them vibrate. The archers tested the tension of their bows, their fingers trembling.
The discipline was perfect, but fear hung in the air — palpable, ready to stifle any courage.
Mireille stood well ahead, a good twenty metres from the rest... Alone.
Her cloak fluttered in the wind, tracing violent curves in the icy air. She placed one hand on her short sword and slid the other towards the dagger hidden beneath her belt.
Her eyes were fixed on the horizon.
She did not have to wait long.
The mist arrived.
It rolled down the hills like a gaseous waterfall, filled with darkness, creeping across the ground with an unhealthy speed.
This mist was not natural vapour.
It undulated, contracted and expanded like a living creature.
With each pulse, silhouettes appeared briefly, blurred faces, distorted arms, muffled screams.
The Mistwalkers were coming.
Mireille took a deep breath. The icy air burned her lungs.
Perfect.
She wanted to be fully conscious of what was about to happen.
Suddenly, the mist fractured, as if something had torn it from within.
And then he appeared.
A man... or at least something that bore the form of a man. His silhouette was slender, covered in liquid black armour that twisted slowly, as if it were breathing. His eyes were nothing but two blood-red glows, piercing the distance.
Behind him, the mist rose in curved columns, like monstrous wings.
He walked towards Mireille.
She slowly drew her sword.
The wind stopped.
Even the mist seemed to hold its breath.
The being's voice echoed, deep, vibrant, distorted.
"Captain... Mireille Lorne."
She showed no visible reaction, but a cold shiver ran down her neck.
"It's been a long time." He continued.
Mireille's hand tightened slightly on the hilt of her sword.
"...Not long enough." she replied.
The black silhouette stood still.
Then, slowly, very slowly... a twisted smile stretched across his face.
"Shall we finish what we started?"
Mireille took a step forward.
"Well... I was counting on you to entertain me."
Only then did the mist explode into screams.
The Mistwalkers launched their attack.
And in a heartbeat, the battle began.