[A/N_ From this chapter onward, the main character will be referred to as Theron instead of Ryan, to avoid any confusion.]
**
"And the tonic?" she asked, voice calm but carrying a quiet suspicion.
She knew he hated tonics. Even when he had a fever so bad he couldn't speak, he still fought for hours before swallowing even a single drop. So there was no way she believed Theron just took the tonic during the short time she left the room.
Theron barely blinked. "Downed it in one go. Bitter as hell, but I figured I should stop whining for once and focus on healing. I need to be back on my feet as soon as possible."
A breath passed. Then another.
Finally, Elira's posture softened. She looked away, muttering something about him finally growing up, then turned toward the door.
"Alright then. I'll leave the men to talk," she said over her shoulder. "I'll check your bandages later. Try not to rip your stitches while you're at it."
Theron gave her a small smile in reply.
And with that, she stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her.
The moment the door clicked closed, Theron's smile vanished. His eyes turned to Garlan and Brude, and all warmth drained from his face—like a curtain pulled back to reveal cold steel beneath.
"We need to talk."
His voice dropped, heavy like a stone, and the tension in the room thickened.
The air grew heavier. Silence pressed in from all sides. The mood turned grim—like the quiet before a storm.
Theron leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. "Tell me the situation."
There was a short pause. Garlan looked at Brude, then stepped forward and began.
"It's the same as two days ago. After the last raid by Vanilia's forces… many of our people are dead. Others are injured—some too badly to return to the line. The enemy hasn't pushed forward again, but our scout reported their camp is still set up about half a mile east of the old orchard."
He let out a heavy sigh and continued. "They haven't attacked yet, but there's constant movement in their camp. I believe they're preparing for a full assault. And it'll be soon."
Theron nodded slowly. "I figured as much," he muttered. "They've already worn our forces thin. Now they're giving themselves time to regroup before launching the final blow."
Brude, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. "It's bad, Lord Theron. Their numbers are bigger. They're better armed, better mounted, and their morale is high. If they attack head-on… the village won't hold."
Theron's jaw tightened. He felt the weight of those words settle on his shoulders like a yoke of iron.
"How many fighters do we have right now?" he asked grimly. "And what about their numbers?"
Brude answered without delay. "Thirty-three able-bodied men. Maybe a dozen of them are mages. If we count the wounded who can still stand and hold a blade, we might stretch it to forty."
He shook his head. "But they've got over a hundred men. At least thirty mages. All better equipped. At least double our strength."
Theron's frown deepened. That was even worse than he expected.
It kept getting worse the more he heard.
He turned to Garlan next. "What about supplies? Food, weapons, herbs—anything useful?"
Garlan sighed. "Food's low, but not hopeless. This is the time we'd normally be harvesting. But with the enemy burning the fields… there's nothing left. We're surviving off what we stored last season."
He looked down briefly, then went on. "We can stretch it for a week. Two, if we ration carefully. So food isn't the biggest issue. Weapons—we've salvaged what we could from the fallen. Not great, but usable."
He hesitated before speaking again.
"But the herbs… that's the real problem. Since the fighting started, we haven't been able to send anyone to the Myrrwood Vale. You know how dangerous that place is even without a war—beasts all over. But it's also where we get most of our healing herbs. And Vanilia's men are probably watching the entrance. Anyone we send will be ambushed before they get close."
"Elira's almost out," Garlan added. "She's been rationing what she has left, but it won't last. And if more people get sick or more of our men get injured… we won't be able to treat them."
Theron exhaled through his nose, his hands curling into fists. Without medicine, more would die. With more dead, morale would fall even lower. And if morale broke...
With that thought, he asked the next question. "How's the morale?"
Garlan's face darkened. "Low. Very low."
He glanced toward the door, lowering his voice a little.
"The villagers think you're dead. There are rumors spreading that we're hiding your death to keep morale from crashing. They're scared, tired… mourning."
He hesitated. "Some are whispering about surrender. Others are thinking of running into the forest. Just leaving everything behind."
A heavy silence fell over the room like a shadow. No one moved.
Then Theron finally spoke, his voice steady and sharp like a drawn blade.
"Then I need to show them I'm alive."
The people needed hope. That was what a leader was for—not just to give orders, but to guide, unite, and stand strong when others couldn't. Leadership wasn't about status. It was action.
A real leader knows the way, shows the way, and walks the path himself.
Garlan and Brude both looked up.
"I'll make an appearance. Just a short one. Enough to remind them that their chief still breathes. It won't fix everything, but it might lift their spirits—maybe just enough to stop them from giving up."
The two men exchanged looks, then nodded.
"That could work," Brude said.
"But what about your injury?" Garlan asked with concern. "You can't even stand without help. You'll collapse before you get through a single sentence."
Theron gave a faint, dry smile. "I'll manage. Even if I have to lean on a stick and shout from a chair—I'll do it. I just need to show them I'm not dead."
He looked Garlan in the eye. "Prepare a gathering. This evening. Nothing big. Just enough to bring the people together and let them hear me speak."
His voice turned firm with resolve. "I'll give them something to believe in."
The two men nodded again, a faint glimmer of hope in their eyes.
Brude cleared his throat. "And what about after that? Do you have a plan?"
Theron didn't answer right away. Instead, a small, tired smile pulled at the corner of his lips—calm, but sly.
"I've been thinking," he said. "Nothing solid yet. But I've got a few ideas."
He nodded toward the door. "Let's focus on the speech first. After that… we'll talk about the rest."
Garlan and Brude bowed before leaving the room to prepare for the speech.
Theron sighed and leaned back, his thoughts spinning as time slowly passed.
---
Moments later
Not long after Garlan and Brude left, the door flew open with a loud bang.
Elira stormed in, eyes burning with anger. She'd clearly heard about the gathering—and about Theron's plan to give a speech.
"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped, marching straight to his bedside.
Theron looked up at her calmly. "I'm doing my duty. As chief."
"You shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone giving a speech! You need to rest, to heal—"
"And then what?" he cut in, voice sharp. "Lie here pretending I'm healing when we both know I'm just waiting to die?"
She froze. He didn't give her time to speak.
"I'd rather do something. Even if it kills me, I'd rather die trying—than rot in this bed while everything around me collapses."
Elira opened her mouth to argue again, but he silenced her with a cold stare.
"I'm the chief now," he said firmly. "That means I'm your leader. This isn't up for discussion."
A flash of something—grief, frustration, maybe betrayal—passed through her expression. But she said nothing.
She gave him a stiff, mocking bow. "Of course, Lord Theron. As you command."
He didn't flinch. Her attitude didn't matter right now.
His priority was saving the village. He didn't have time for emotions—not hers or anyone else's.
"Go get ready," he said flatly. "You'll need to patch me up before the gathering. I don't want to look like I crawled out of a grave."
Elira's jaw clenched. "Sure. Whatever you say, Lord Theron."
Without another word, she turned and stormed out of the room.
Theron let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples.
Note to self, he thought. Avoid emotional entanglements. For now.
Maybe the bond between the old Theron and Elira used to be strong—strong enough to keep her from raising a hand against him—but the curse didn't follow normal rules. It twisted things.
If he pushed her too far…
His death might not come from the Vanilia forces.
It might come from her.