Stepping into the command tent, Solas saw the others gathered around the war table, focused on the operation to come.
Vaelira turned at the sound of his footsteps, her eyes settling on him. She walked over. "You're finally here."
"I am," Solas said with a small nod.
"Go to my sister. She's with Caerelinne. They've been discussing the plan."
"Very well."
As he walked forward, Vaelira returned to her squad. He passed familiar faces—officers and knights, many watching him with subtle curiosity—until he stood beside Vargra and Caerelinne.
Vargra greeted him with a soft smile, clearly pleased by his arrival. Caerelinne, still leaning over the table, looked relieved as well—relieved to proceed.
Straightening her posture, Caerelinne cast her eyes over the room. Her voice rang clear, composed, and commanding:
"It seems we are all present. Now, to the matter at hand.
Tomorrow, we purge this land of those filth—creatures who've slaughtered innocents and made travelers fear the roads. Tomorrow, we reclaim peace—under the banner of Elara, and with the blood of those who defiled it.
We are the Serpents. And we strike down all who dare bring ruin to our name."
A roar answered her. Knights and officers raised their fists, voices rising in battle-ready unison.
Then, Vargra raised her hand. Silence fell like a curtain. All eyes turned.
Her voice was softer than Caerelinne's—but sharper.
"This is not a promise of victory," she said, cold and deliberate. "Be vigilant. Let none escape. Leave no survivors."
The final words hung in the air, chilling and resolute.
Caerelinne gave a sharp nod. "Yes. Even if one escapes, they will repopulate. Quickly." She leaned over the war table, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of the map. "Now, to the plan."
The map was now scattered with wooden markers—simple, carved, like chess pieces. She moved four toward the western cavern.
"The main force will strike here," she said. "You'll drive the goblins deeper into the cave—push them to retreat."
Then, she took a fifth piece and placed it behind the others. "This is the cleanup force. They'll sweep behind the main assault, ensuring no stragglers escape—no hiders, no runners."
Finally, she placed two more pieces at the mouth of a northern cave. "And this," she said, "is the ambush unit. While the main force advances, some goblins will flee north. You will let them run. Make them believe they've escaped—only to meet their end in the jaws of the Serpent."
There was a pause as she reached into a small satchel and pulled out colored flags—blue, silver, purple, and black. Each one was small, but symbolic.
She placed the blue and purple flags near the main formation. "I will lead the primary force. Vaelira and her squad will serve as my second."
Vaelira gave a faint smile—pleased, but focused.
Next, Caerelinne set the silver flag beside the northern cave. "Vargra, you'll handle the ambush. Use your ice wall if necessary. Let none slip past."
Vargra gave a single nod, her eyes sharp.
Then came the black flag. She placed it behind the main force, among the cleanup units. "Officer Keladry, you'll lead the rear unit."
"Understood," came a voice from the crowd. A woman stepped forward—jet black hair and piercing crimson eyes. She looked ready. Eager.
Caerelinne gave a brief nod. "Good."
Straightening, she addressed the room one final time.
"We've covered what matters. But before we break, some of you may wonder who this is."
She turned slightly, gesturing toward Solas.
"His name is Solas Caelum. Yes, he is Lowkin. That matters not." Her voice carried no doubt. "What matters is that he sees the field clearly. And in these times, clarity is worth more than blood."
All who didn't know him turned, some with curiosity, others with detest… and a few with fascination.
"Are you sure he's to be trusted?" a voice called out from the back.
"I am." Vargra's voice was frost itself. "He is under my protection. And his value extends beyond me—he belongs to all of us."
But the truth was simpler than her words—she owned him.
No one spoke again. Vaelira and her squad nodded, reaffirming her words. All except Mirell. Mirell's eyes stayed on him—sharp, unblinking, like a blade deciding whether to strike. He met her stare, calm and unwavering.
Caerelinne tapped the map. "One last note—these are the only cave entrances our scouts have found. But there may be more. If you find any hidden passages, block them. We can't afford any risks."
She clasped her hands behind her back.
"That's all for tonight. Your final positions will be delivered to your tents within the hour. Be awake. Be ready. Dismissed."
"Aye!" Boots struck the ground in unison before the crowd scattered—officers returning to tents or unfinished duties, the air charged with anticipation.
As the room dispersed, some still cast glances his way—not with contempt, but calculation. Solas said nothing. He didn't need to.
But soon—
A gentle hand touched Solas's shoulder. He turned to see Vargra offering a soft smile.
"There's food at one of the stations," she said. "Make use of it while you can."
"Oh, I will."
"Good." She lowered her hand and turned, vanishing into the flow of soldiers.
"Solas," a voice called from behind.
He turned.
Caerelinne stood with her hands behind her, blue eyes fixed on his.
"I have faith in you. You've proven your worth. I look forward to seeing you on the battlefield."
"You as well, Caerelinne."
With that, Solas stepped out of the command tent, drawn by the scent of food that hung thick in the air.
To be fair, he hadn't eaten in three days. And yet, strangely, he didn't feel starved. His body moved as if sustained by something else—discipline, perhaps. Or something deeper. He didn't dwell on it.
Before him stood a large cook tent, steam rising from within. Inside, uniformed cooks ladled stew from iron pots into tin cups. A long table stretched across the front, where soldiers passed by in a loose line, collecting bread and bowls before shuffling off into the night.
Solas moved forward, passing a pair of knights who turned at the sight of him—one elbowed the other, murmuring something under her breath. He didn't react, though their stares lingered.
Now at the front, he stood before the table. One of the chefs—a weathered woman with a stained apron and weariness in her eyes—handed him a loaf of bread and a cylindrical cup of stew with a wooden spoon.
"Here you go," she muttered, her voice raspy and indifferent.
Solas gave a polite nod, took the meal in hand, and turned to leave.
As he walked back through camp, a few officers from the command tent watched him again. Their expressions varied—some curious, others wary. None truly understood who he was, or why he stood among them.
But soon… they would.
He bit into the bread without ceremony, the crust cracking under his teeth. Behind him, the stares still lingered. Let them. Let them wonder.