The tent's fabric rustled softly as Solas stepped out, fastening his belt with the saber hanging at his side. The morning air was cold and crisp. A thick fog sprawled across the horizon as far as the eye could see.
Around him, the camp stirred with quiet urgency—footsteps muffled by the fog-thickened air, hushed voices exchanging final words, and the soft clatter of armor being secured.
The day of battle had arrived.
Solas moved through the camp with measured strides, passing knights as they strapped on plates and adjusted their gear. Some ran past with hands resting on hilts, faces grim with focus.
As he crossed the sleeping grounds, he caught sight of Vaelira assigning positions—her voice firm, her presence unwavering. She directed soldiers toward the front, middle, or rear lines with swift precision.
Passing it all, Solas approached the command tent just as Vargra exited. She walked by him in silence—no words, no nod. Only a glance. Cold and unreadable.
He watched her go, then stepped inside.
Within, Caerelinne stood over the war table, her eyes scanning the map one last time. Every marker, every route double-checked to ensure nothing had been overlooked.
She looked up as Solas entered, offering a soft, approving smile when she saw he was ready. But then her gaze lowered to his chest.
Straightening, she stepped away from the table. "Solas, you can't go into combat like that. You need some form of protection."
She moved to an armor stand nearby—mostly stripped bare, save for a single silver chestplate. Smooth, simple, elegant.
Lifting it carefully, she returned to him and held it out. "It's not much, but it should keep you relatively safe from a direct hit."
As he took it, she returned to the table, casting him another glance.
"I believe someone of your caliber will do just fine," she said, her voice carrying quiet confidence. Her gaze locked with his. "I look forward to seeing you out there."
"You as well," Solas replied, his voice soft.
He took the silver chest plate and fastened it from the back. With a muted click, it locked into place across his torso. He adjusted his saber to hang more cleanly at his side—ready for easy, efficient draw.
Caerelinne gave him a faint smile. "You look good."
"You as well," he repeated, voice gentle.
Then he turned, the mist catching faintly in the soft curls of his white hair as he stepped out into the fog once more.
Mist blanketed the camp in a hushed veil. Figures blurred in steel and silver passed him—some cloaked, denoting rank; others still fastening their belts or whispering final words. A few stood silent with heads bowed, praying or preparing. No one needed to speak the truth aloud: today would mark history. Some would thrive. Others would be forgotten.
As he approached the sleeping grounds, he saw Vaelira finishing up final orders. Knights were in position. Her squad stood close, Rowena among them—visibly trembling, whether from fear or adrenaline, it was hard to tell.
Solas felt no fear. Only clarity.
The kind that comes before a storm. The kind that strips a man down to the blade in his hand—and the will to use it.
Soon, the battle would come.
And with it, new ideas—and new souls—would be born.
He closed the distance.
Vaelira turned, smiling at the sight of him. "You look good. Like a real knight."
"You as well, Vaelira."
His voice was smooth, elegant.
She smiled at his words, a flicker of pride in her eyes.
"Commander Caerelinne will be out shortly," she said. "We'll receive final orders before moving."
Solas nodded. "Sounds good."
Her squad seemed visibly heartened to see him, especially Rowena. Though they'd spoken the night before, something about seeing him now—with saber and steel, ready for battle—deepened what she felt between them.
"Nya~ I hope I can rest after this," Lyssa purred playfully. "Maybe earn more head pats from Solas~" Her voice was coy, her cat-like tail swaying gently, ears perked.
Solas gave her a sidelong look. "Then you'll have to earn my touch."
His voice was soft, yet enticing.
"Enough, Lyssa," Elira said flatly, reaching over to stop the girl's tail with a firm grip.
"Nya?!" Lyssa yelped, whirling around. "You can't just touch me openly like that!"
"We have more important things to focus on," Elira replied. "You can chase affection later."
Lyssa's ears drooped. "Whatever you say…"
Vaelira shook her head at their antics, though a small smile tugged at her lips. For all their chaos, they were her family.
Nyra buzzed with barely contained energy, her excitement palpable. Selin stood silently behind Vaelira, ever-loyal, her presence steady. Rowena fidgeted with unease, her eyes flitting from knight to knight. And Mirell—quiet, sharp-eyed—watched them all. But mostly, she watched Solas.
But the reunion would be short-lived.
A voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the growing noise.
"Knights!"
All heads turned.
Behind Solas and Vaelira's squad stood Commander Caerelinne, her presence arresting.
She held a long, polished spear in one hand—its silver shaft engraved with a serpent coiling upward. The spearhead gleamed: wide-bladed, wickedly sharp, its flared wings curving like outstretched wings—beautiful, and deadly.
She swept her gaze across the camp, meeting the eyes of her soldiers one by one.
"Today," she began, voice firm and unwavering, "I stand before you not just as your commander—but as your comrade."
Her voice carried clearly in the fog-choked air.
"For the past four years, our people have been hunted, burned, and terrorized by vermin. But today—today, we strike back. And we strike with that same passion!"
With a resounding thud, she slammed the butt of her spear into the ground.
A cheer erupted from the knights, raw and rising.
As it subsided, she continued, "Our scouts report no patrols. No movement. That means one thing."
She flipped the spear, resting it across her shoulder.
"They're vulnerable. And we will not waste this moment."
She turned, voice sharper now.
"Move. While the path remains open—move!"
With that, she began to march.
Knights surged forward behind her.
Vaelira placed a hand on Solas's shoulder. "Come on," she said, already stepping into stride.
Solas followed, and with him, her entire squad.
They marched through the heart of the camp, past tents and fading fires, out into the mist-drenched fields.
The main force had formed into disciplined columns—seventy knights in total, ten rows of seven. The formation was tight, defensive, honed by training and purpose.
Vaelira's squad, with Solas among them, took the lead.
They split into two rows of four. The front row: Vaelira, Solas, Lyssa, and Selin. The back: Nyra, Mirell, Elira, and Rowena.
Selin marched to Vaelira's right. Solas to her left. Directly behind him—Rowena.
Caerelinne led the charge, her spear steady as they crossed the treeline—into the fog-shrouded abyss of the forest, where silence swallowed the light.
The fog curled around their boots like ghosts refusing to be left behind. Solas's eyes moved ahead—but his mind drifted. Not to fear. Not to death. But to what might be born in this crucible. Battles did not just end lives—they shaped them. Hardened resolve. Revealed weakness. Created new souls.
And in the hush of the field, broken only by the shuffle of metal and boots, Solas felt the weight of his future sharpening—like the blade at his side.
The deeper they marched, the tighter the forest grew. Trees loomed—thick as bodies, tall as dread. Their canopies blotting out the morning light. Grass blanketed the earth, broken by roots that clawed from the soil, thorny bushes crowding between trunks, and stones that sat in still silence—humming faintly as the wind slipped past.
The formation fractured softly beneath the trees, no longer in neat rows, but still close. Still alert.
Yet the deeper they ventured, the more wrong it felt.
Too quiet.
No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just breath, metal, and footfalls.
The kind of silence that didn't feel empty—but watched.
Everyone felt it. Shoulders tensed. Fingers hovered near hilts. Eyes scanned every shadow.
Whatever lay hidden in the abyss of this forest… waited with a patience born of hunger. A void, ready to swallow whole.
Solas felt it most. Not just the weight of unseen eyes… but eyes that lingered on him. A gaze that did not scan the group—but focused, as if recognizing something in him. Marking him.
And then—
A sound. A shift.
Something moved.
Now awaiting to take them right into their jaws.