The rebel camp was a living thing—sparks of laughter and warmth flickered through the cold morning haze, but shadows lingered just beyond the firelight.
Davis had taken to the training yard early, as he often did, swinging his newly reforged greatsword with quiet concentration. Few realized how much pressure the young man bore: heir to a fallen village, squire to a myth reborn, and one of the rebellion's rallying figures. But in the silent hours of dawn, Davis trained not for titles but to protect those he cared for.
He executed a flowing kata with the massive blade, his footwork light despite the weapon's weight. The greatsword hissed through the air in clean arcs, the edge catching the morning light with every precise motion. His control was masterful—each strike a disciplined release of power, each stance measured and grounded. He was not the same wide-eyed recruit from a year ago. Now, he moved like a storm forged in iron.
He was alone. Or so he thought.
Two figures emerged from the treeline dressed in the garb of messengers. Their stride was purposeful, and they carried the aura of urgency. Davis, wiping sweat from his brow, approached them cautiously, greatsword still in hand.
"We bring word from the southern front," one said. His accent was off—too polished.
Before Davis could respond, both lunged.
He pivoted cleanly, swinging his blade in a horizontal sweep that forced them to separate. One attacker ducked under, the other leapt back, narrowly avoiding decapitation. A dagger came flashing toward his chest, but Davis deflected it with the flat of his sword, twisting his body and countering with a heavy backhanded strike. The clang of metal rang through the courtyard.
He stepped forward, dominating the engagement with feral precision. Sparks danced from the blade as it clashed against hidden steel. With a roar, Davis spun into a cleaving overhead strike, shattering the short sword of his nearest foe. The man crumpled under the force.
The second attacker tried to flee.
Elsewhere in the camp, Alexandra's head snapped up. Her Servant Crest pulsed faintly against her tongue. Something was wrong.
She was a blur of scarlet silk and silver light as she arrived, eyes burning with power. Her voice rose—commanding, divine.
"Voix de Commandement!"
The words did not just echo—they reverberated through the air like a war drum, shaking the very marrow of those who heard it. Her tongue shimmered with runic energy, casting a silver glyph into the air.
Alexandra's voice sharpened to a single, commanding word.
"Stop!"
The fleeing infiltrator froze mid-stride, convulsing violently as the command rooted him to the ground. The power of her Voix de Commandement surged through the clearing like a crashing tide, overwhelming the senses. The air trembled with its might.
He collapsed, writhing, his face distorting like melting wax. The glamour peeled away like burnt paper.
The disguise fell, revealing a Falzath loyalist branded with the mark of House Thorne. His eyes rolled back as the seal's magic burned across his skin.
Shin and the rest of the party arrived just as the magic subsided. Without hesitation, Zera and Maika secured the spy, binding his arms with enchanted rope.
Shin looked at Alexandra, crimson eyes gleaming with admiration. "That was perfectly executed, Alexandra. The timing, the control—flawless."
The praise struck deeper than she expected. A sudden tingling sensation bloomed in her chest, then down her spine—a rush of heat and tension that seized her breath. It was as if Shin's words had pierced her heart like a divine arrow, awakening something buried beneath her calm exterior. Her cheeks flushed a deeper crimson, and her thighs instinctively pressed together as a wave of desire rippled through her.
Her breath caught, a soft gasp barely audible. A slow, almost bashful smile curled her lips—touched not just by pride, but longing.
"Thank you, Master Regent," she said softly, the title spoken with reverence—yet behind it, a promise unsaid. A hunger she would wait to fulfill.
An emergency council was called immediately.
In the war tent, tension hung heavy.
The captured spy knelt in chains, bloodied but defiant. His illusion had shattered, his mission failed. Yet he smiled.
"You've won nothing," he spat, eyes locking with Shin.
Alexandra stood behind him, hand glowing faintly with her seal-magic. "Speak. Or I'll loosen your tongue with truthfire."
The man laughed. "Duskford. Tristan's legion is already on the move. He knows about your precious sixth. He knows more than you think."
Zera clenched her fist. "How?"
"Because one of you told him."
Silence fell.
Shin narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."
"No. I'm simply telling you what you're too afraid to consider."
Laverna's gaze swept the room, protective instinct already flaring. "We would know if someone among us—"
"Would you?" the spy cut in. "You think loyalty is unshakable? That a single vow keeps someone from despair?"
He spat blood to the floor. "Tristan offers peace. Safety. Control. You offer chaos. A kingdom of ruins and foxfire fantasies."
Before Shin could respond, Alexandra stepped forward. Her tongue glowed brighter, pulsing with arcane fire. Her voice echoed, layered and resonant.
"Voix de Commandement: Confess."
The spy's body tensed violently. His eyes rolled back, and his limbs shook as Alexandra's spell forced the truth to the surface.
"Massing at Duskford... sixty thousand men... necrokinetic support from Eastern Ridge... new Falzath dragons bred for siege... target: you..."
His words grew ragged, strained. Then his body convulsed. Black veins spidered along his neck and chest, pulsing with malevolent energy.
"What's happening to him?" Maika whispered, stepping back.
From the spy's mouth and eyes oozed inky tendrils, twisting and writhing like smoke possessed. He screamed—a hollow, agonized wail—before his chest caved inward. The sound of wet tearing echoed through the tent.
"Something's devouring him from the inside," Alexandra gasped.
The darkness writhed one final time and then imploded. The spy's body collapsed into dust, leaving only scorched chains and a lingering stench of corruption.
Shin stared at the ashes. "They're using parasitic wards. Built to silence even the dead."
Alexandra turned to Shin, her breath shallow. "We have to move the timetable up."
He nodded slowly, mind already racing. "Then we strike first. Before the shadow swallows the hearth."
And so, the illusion of safety shattered.
Homefront was no longer safe.
Only the war remained.