The tent stood deep among the trunks of ancient trees, where light barely reached the ground even at midday. The Black Forest lived up to its name: the bark was dark, almost charred, and the air inside felt heavier, as if it resisted movement itself. Smoke from the fires crawled low, clung to exposed roots, and slowly dissolved between the tents.

  Inside the headquarters sat two figures.

  The first was a middle-aged man, a warrior from the Cast Aside. His posture was calm, almost indifferent, yet that calm carried the weight of long familiarity with violence and constant tension. Two fingers were missing from his left hand—the loss looked old, long healed, without signs of haste or care. Wounds like that aren’t accidents.

  Two matching scars marked his forehead. They were too even, too precise to be the result of chaotic combat. More likely a ritual. Or a punishment.

  His skin was almost entirely black, with a faint dark-blue sheen that became more visible in the flickering torchlight. This was an advanced stage of Luga infection. One that reshaped a person not only from within, but outward as well, remaking the body until little remained of who they once were. Such cases were rare, and their carriers usually looked drained, brittle, half-alive.

  But not him.

  This warrior looked strong and healthy—too healthy for a bearer of the sickness. His muscles were dense, his movements precise, his breathing steady. Lugu had not broken him.

  At least, not the way it broke others.

  Opposite him sat an old man.

  His face was cracked with deep wrinkles, like earth left too long without rain. Dark, metallic eyes studied his counterpart without fear or impatience—only calculation. Unlike the warriors from the same camp—men hardened by field life and smoke—his skin remained pale, almost unnaturally clean against the dimness of the tent.

  He was not one of the Cast Aside.

  Beside him lay a mace—transparent, almost glasslike. That alone marked him as a Suggestor.

  In the torchlight, his features looked carved rather than aged. The skin is too thin. The cheekbones are too sharp. The hands resting near the weapon were dry, veins standing out beneath the surface.

  He had been using suggestion for too long.

  And too often.

  The tent remained dim. A few torches flickered, pushing the shadows back only to let them return. The canvas shifted with the wind, and the light moved across the old man’s face in uneven lines.

  He did not adjust his seat.

  If he noticed the darkness, he gave no sign.

  A Vishap entered the tent—one of the two who had first spotted Feren during the reconnaissance. He moved carefully, as if the very space might bite. He paused near the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, then took a few steps forward and bowed his head.

  The warrior of the Cast Aside slowly raised his gaze to him.

  “Tell me who you saw,” he said calmly, without pressure, yet in a way that allowed no refusal.

  The Vishap swallowed.

  “We were patrolling a new route,” he began. “Deep in the forest, we noticed horses tied to a tree. No guard.”

  He fell silent for a moment, as if reliving it.

  “We looked around. Checked for riders nearby. After that, we started searching the bags on the horses, trying to figure out who they belonged to.”

  The torches crackled softly. Shadows slid along the walls of the tent.

  “And then…” The Vishap exhaled. “One soldier jumped at us. Not like the guards in the city beyond the mountains.”

  His voice dropped lower.

  “Different. He moved differently. Looked differently.”

  The old man slowly tilted his head.

  “And what?” the Suggestor rasped. “Did you attack him?”

  The Vishap shook his head sharply.

  “No. He attacked first. We didn’t even draw our weapons. It was clear he was some kind of mercenary. We weren’t planning to touch him.”

  The Suggestor spoke slowly, stretching each word as if savoring it. His voice was dry, rasping, as though every sound cost him effort. Pride and self-assurance always bled through his intonation. He clearly considered himself above everyone else in the tent.

  And for reasons no one could quite explain, everyone tolerated it.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because Ranuver told us not to touch the mercenaries,” the Vishap replied almost immediately.

  The old man slowly turned his head.

  His gaze settled on the warrior who had been sitting with him from the very beginning.

  That was Ranuver.

  “Ranuver,” the Suggestor drawled. “Did you really say that?”

  Ranuver didn’t rush to answer. In the dim light, his black skin seemed even darker, and the two scars on his forehead looked as if they had drawn closer together.

  “Yes, Sivash,” he said evenly. “The mercenaries are not our enemies. And I don’t want them getting underfoot without reason.”

  A pause hung between them.

  Sivash’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

  “As you wish…” he said in a careless tone, though something cold flashed in his eyes.

  Ranuver shifted his gaze back to the Vishap.

  “Alright,” he said. “Call Hukan.”

  The Vishap nodded and turned quickly toward the exit, as if afraid that even one extra second in this tent might cost him too much.

  The canvas closed behind him almost at once, but the silence didn’t have time to settle. Only a few seconds passed before the entrance stirred again.

  Hukan stepped into the headquarters.

  It was the same hunter commander whose men had tried to run Feren down. Broad shoulders, a hard stride, a face long accustomed to staring death in the eyes without blinking. He neither bowed nor looked around. He simply walked in, as if this tent were just another temporary shelter, not a place where decisions were made.

  “What do you want?” he snapped. “I’ve already said everything.”

  Ranuver slowly straightened.

  “No,” he replied coldly. “Not everything.”

  His voice was calm, but there was no patience left in it.

  “You said the mercenaries attacked you. But you didn’t say that your people chased them… all the way to the city.”

  Hukan clenched his jaw.

  “We didn’t plan to kill them,” he cut back. “Just scare them. Make it clear they shouldn’t go where they don’t belong.”

  Ranuver tilted his head, and the torchlight slid across his scars.

  “Your officers attacked their commander,” he said. “Unarmed.”

  His voice hardened.

  “So perhaps you want to say that was acceptable?” A pause. “Or perhaps your officers would like to explain it themselves?”

  He took a step forward.

  “Oh, right…” Ranuver added quietly. “They can’t speak anymore.”

  The silence hit like a blow.

  “Because they’re dead.”

  Hukan sprang to his feet.

  “You have no right to tell me what to do with my fighters!” he roared. “No right!”

  His voice echoed off the walls of the tent, making the torches tremble.

  “Your task is to prepare the army and secure territory!” he went on. “Ours is to get home!”

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  He jabbed a finger toward Ranuver.

  “I’m not going to untangle your political games! If I see someone who killed my brothers, I act!”

  He was breathing hard.

  And he didn’t stop.

  Hukan began talking about the past—about how, years ago, mercenaries had broken through in the north of the kingdom. About blood. About shattered units. About names that were still never spoken aloud by the fire.

  His words weren’t a justification.

  They were a verdict.

  Sivash did not interfere.

  He sat motionless, as if Hukan’s words passed straight through him. His dark eyes were half-lidded, his face frozen like a mask. It seemed as though he wasn’t listening at all.

  Then, at some point, he slowly raised his hand.

  His fingers closed around the haft of the mace.

  The transparent surface caught the torchlight. Sivash didn’t stand. He merely tilted his wrist slightly and aimed the mace toward Hukan.

  That was enough.

  Hukan fell silent.

  His eyes widened, his hands instinctively flew to his throat. He choked, as if something invisible had clenched his neck from the inside. His gaze snapped to Sivash—full of rage, fear, and sudden understanding.

  He tried to draw his sword.

  His fingers only slid along the hilt.

  His legs buckled, and Hukan collapsed to the ground, slamming his shoulder hard. Air would not reach his lungs. His chest jerked in spasms, but every attempt to inhale ended in emptiness.

  Sivash spoke calmly and slowly, stretching his words as if each carried weight.

  “I don’t concern myself with political games either,” he said. “If I see a soldier who breaks discipline… I act.”

  Hukan writhed on the floor. He clawed at his throat, grasping at the air in chaos, as if trying to seize life itself. His body convulsed, boots scraping against the tent floor, leaving dark marks.

  The sounds were obscene. Wet. Inhuman.

  When Hukan almost stopped moving, when his motions became slow and sparse, Sivash finally lowered the mace.

  The pressure vanished instantly.

  Hukan jerked and dragged air into his lungs. Once. Again. And again. His breathing was deep, heavy, ragged, as if every breath might be his last. He coughed, rasped, unable to rise.

  Sivash rose from his seat with effort.

  His movements were slow, as though each step demanded strength. He walked past Hukan without even looking at him and pulled aside the tent canvas.

  Cold air from the Black Forest surged inside.

  At the last moment, Sivash stopped. He turned to Ranuver.

  “Go to The Oaken,” he rasped. “Maybe they’ll come up with what to do about the mercenaries.”

  Then he left.

  The canvas closed again.

  And Hukan lay on the ground for a long while, breathing hard, fully aware of just how close the end had come today.

  Headquarters

  The headquarters tent was packed with people.

  The meeting had been going on for nearly an hour and had reached its peak. Voices overlapped—some sharp, some restrained—but tension showed in every movement. Officers, unit commanders, and representatives of the local guard leaned over the map.

  Velm stood by it, reporting, pointing with short, precise motions.

  He explained how the defense was meant to be concentrated closer to the river, how natural lines and prepared traps would be used. Ruvan was there as well—he had entered with the local guard and Lenar and immediately joined the discussion.

  “If we concentrate the defense here,” Velm said, “we buy time and force the enemy to expose themselves.”

  That triggered an immediate storm.

  Some insisted it was better not to risk it and to fall back across the river at once, denying the enemy any chance to force a field engagement. Others objected: an early withdrawal meant losing ground and initiative.

  The argument grew louder by the second.

  And at that moment, Ruvan’s guards burst into the tent.

  “The Oaken!” one of them shouted. “The Oaken are coming! Alarm!”

  The tent went silent for a single, brief moment.

  The Oaken lived in isolation west of Kharin and was openly hostile toward humans. Their appearance near Korosten could not mean anything good.

  The meeting broke apart instantly.

  Everyone rushed outside.

  On the hill beyond the camp, the Oaken warband was indeed moving forward—riders on aurochs, heavy silhouettes, a tight formation. They were heading straight toward the Compact’s camp, making no effort to hide and offering no signals.

  The city guard almost instantly took up defensive positions in the camp.

  There was no shout, no command—more a reflex, honed over years. Hands reached for weapons on their own. Straps tightened, scabbards rang softly, shields snapped into place as if they had always been there.

  Along the camp’s perimeter, people began moving in short, sharp dashes. Some crouched behind wagons. Others took positions in the narrow gaps between tents. Someone covered a comrade’s back without even turning around.

  On the walls of Korosten, archers had already drawn their bows.

  Arrows slid onto bowstrings with a dry whisper. Some fighters moved in from neighboring sections of the wall, thickening the defense where a breakthrough was expected. No one shouted—only brief gestures, glances, nods. The crews at the ballistae took their places, turning mechanisms, checking locks, as if they’d done it a hundred times already today.

  Wood creaked. Metal tapped softly against metal.

  The air grew heavy.

  Even the wind seemed to slow, unwilling to pass between tensed bodies and drawn strings. There were no random movements left in the camp—every step mattered, every breath felt too loud.

  Everyone was preparing for an unexpected fight.

  And then one of the mercenaries who had stepped out with the others narrowed his eyes and said calmly,

  “Easy.”

  He looked closer.

  “That looks like Varek.”

  The words rippled through the crowd.

  The tension didn’t vanish—but it changed, sharpening into something wary and focused. All eyes were on the approaching force: the aurochs, the banners, the figure at the front.

  If it really was Varek,

  Then The Oaken hadn’t come by accident.

  “That’s definitely him,” Naelis said. “Relax.”

  Velm narrowed his eyes, studying the riders.

  “Syra, Naelis—look,” he added more quietly. “Your friend Lianda is there too.”

  Varek was a young leader of one of the Oaken clans. Despite the Oaken living in isolation, in a reservation, he had known Rianes since childhood. Their paths had crossed more than once—not on the battlefield, but along the edges of agreements, compromises, and silent mutual recognition.

  At Varek’s side was his Suggestor, Rongo. He, too, had long known both Rianes and Velm. They had met many times in Khariv, under very different circumstances—at tables, in corridors of power, during negotiations. But this did not look like a meeting of allies.

  There were twelve The Oaken in the detachment. They approached calmly, weapons sheathed, movements unhurried yet disciplined. Not a display of peace, but control of the situation. Velm and Rianes went out to meet them, unhurried, just as openly.

  The detachment stopped.

  Varek, Lianda, and Rongo dismounted and stepped forward.

  “Varek,” Rianes spoke first, giving him a quick once-over, “you’re dressed out of season.”

  Varek gave a crooked smile. He and his clansmen were dressed in fur—heavy, northern garb. It wasn’t hard to guess where they lived or what kind of climate they were used to.

  “Damn heat,” Varek said. “Winter’s coming, and it’s scorching like summer.”

  It was said as a joke, but the joke didn’t quite clear the air.

  They exchanged greetings—brief, no embraces, but sincere. Syra and Naelis joined the group. For a few seconds, they simply stood together, measuring one another, matching expectations against reality.

  Velm stepped aside and gestured to the others.

  “Introductions,” he said. “This is Ruvan, mayor of Korosten.”

  He nodded next.

  “And this is Lenar, commander of the city guard.”

  Korosten’s guards kept a bit of distance—wary, but not hostile. Still, alongside Ruvan and Lenar, they had to step closer to offer proper greetings.

  The meeting looked almost peaceful.

  But everyone present knew one thing:

  If The Oaken had come this far, and this openly,

  The conversation wouldn’t be about the weather.

  “Nice city you have,” Varek said, slowly taking in the walls. “And tall ones. I wouldn’t want to storm them.”

  Ruvan allowed himself a faint smile.

  “Yes. Defense is always our priority.”

  He looked at Varek closely.

  “I’m surprised to see you here. It’s not often one meets The Oaken representatives in this part of the kingdom.”

  Varek shrugged.

  “True. Usually, those who are about to become our representatives have to go much farther east.”

  Ruvan didn’t change his tone.

  “We welcome anyone who doesn’t interfere with order.”

  Varek chose not to press the point. Ruvan, in turn, understood the dialogue had reached the line beyond which words would become unnecessary.

  “Looks like it’s time for us to return to the city,” he said. “Lenar, let’s move.”

  “Wait,” Syra cut in. “Lenar, could you stay for a few minutes?”

  Ruvan glanced at Syra, then at Lenar.

  “Very well,” he said. “We’ll go.”

  He gave a brief nod.

  “Lenar, you can stay if you want. We’ll meet later.”

  Ruvan took his leave and headed toward the city with the guards.

  Syra turned to Lenar at once.

  “Lenar,” she said, “Naelis, Lianda, and I would like you to take us to the place with the best food in the city.”

  Lenar smiled.

  “Gladly. I know a few.”

  “Excellent,” Syra nodded. “Then let’s not waste time.”

  They said their goodbyes to the others in the camp and headed toward the city, disappearing between the tents and the lights.

  Only Velm, Rianes, Varek, and Rongo remained.

  For a few seconds, no one spoke.

  Then Varek exhaled and looked straight at Rianes.

  “Ri… Velm…” he said, without a smile now. “I didn’t come here for nothing.”

  A short pause.

  “We need to talk.”

  “And this time—without witnesses.”

  They were already approaching the tent where the meeting had taken place earlier.

  Rianes pulled back the flap—and froze. The map was still on the table, covered in markings, arrows, attack routes, and fallback options. Too much left behind. Too exposed.

  “Let’s use another one,” he said after a brief pause.

  Varek and Rongo didn’t understand the reason. They exchanged a glance, but didn’t ask. To them, it looked like a minor detail.

  They entered a neighboring tent.

  It was simpler inside. Less light. Less space. They sat in different places—not opposite each other, not side by side. Each of them instinctively kept a distance that couldn’t be measured in steps.

  Once, they had been childhood friends.

  They hadn’t been divided by origin or social status. They grew up together, learned how to survive together, and laughed at the same stupid things.

  Now they sat on opposite sides of an invisible line.

  Varek and Rongo had come to save their friends from an army they themselves were part of.

  Rianes and Velm, meanwhile, were planning how to stop that army.

  And if necessary—destroy it.

  No one had said it out loud yet.

  But everyone understood it.