The morning bell echoed through the garrison barracks, rousing Alph from sleep that had been deeper and more restful than any night spent at the forward camp. The simple comfort of a proper mattress rather than bedroll on hard ground made a surprising difference to his recovery, though he'd never admit such softness mattered to a soldier's discipline.

  He joined the flow of conscripts heading toward the mess hall, immediately noticing the stark contrast to their field rations. The building itself radiated warmth from multiple cooking fires, and the aroma of fresh bread mingled with the savory scent of porridge cooked with actual herbs and vegetables rather than the thin, flavorless gruel they'd endured in the forest. The atmosphere carried an almost festive quality—soldiers laughing at shared jokes, the clatter of wooden bowls and spoons creating a symphony of communal dining that the tense silence of the forward camp had never allowed.

  Alph collected his portion from the serving line, noting the generous helping of porridge topped with a pat of butter and accompanied by a thick slice of bread that was still warm from the ovens. The difference between garrison comfort and field conditions couldn't have been more apparent. He found a seat at the conscripts' table and ate methodically, savoring the simple pleasure of hot, well-prepared food while his mind remained focused on more pressing concerns.

  After finishing his meal, Alph made his way to the archery range—a dedicated section of the training grounds where straw targets stood at varying distances. The morning sun cast long shadows across the packed earth as a handful of early risers already practiced their marksmanship. He claimed an open position, retrieved his bow from the equipment rack, and began the familiar ritual of checking the string tension and inspecting the weapon for any damage from the previous day's march.

  As his hands moved through the practiced motions of nocking an arrow and drawing the bowstring, his thoughts drifted to the previous night's visit to the Mind Garden. The conversation with The Shaper had been brief but definitive—his experiment with grappling training had failed to produce any observable results. Neither the Tier 1 Grappler node nor the Fighter node showed any response to his evening spent learning throws and holds with Sergeant Sal.

  The revelation had been disappointing but instructive. Two possibilities presented themselves: either his constellation could only respond to training that aligned with his established Tier 0 foundations—meaning variant skills and adjacent professions couldn't trigger node migration without first establishing the proper base profession—or the intensity and direction of yesterday's training had simply been insufficient to produce observable movement. A single evening of basic instruction might not generate enough energy to stimulate a response, especially if the Grappler path was too distant from his existing Fighter foundation.

  One failed experiment doesn't prove anything conclusively, he reminded himself as he released his first arrow. The shaft flew true, striking the target's outer ring with a satisfying thud. But I can't afford to waste time on approaches that might not work. Focus on what's already showing results.

  He retrieved another arrow from his quiver, settled into his stance, and continued his practice with methodical precision. Each shot was an opportunity to refine his technique while simultaneously feeding energy into the drifting Hunter node that represented his next potential advancement. The question of what would happen when it finally reached his constellation remained unanswered, and right now, pushing that progression seemed the most efficient use of his limited training time.

  The forward camp at Borov Woods bore little resemblance to the crowded, anxious staging ground it had been just two days prior. Where once hundreds of conscripts and regular soldiers had filled the space with nervous energy and barely controlled chaos, now only a skeleton crew remained—perhaps forty men in total.

  Yet the transformation went beyond mere numbers. These soldiers moved with crisp efficiency, their formations precise, their equipment immaculate. Each man radiated the disciplined bearing of professionals who understood their role in a larger operation. The nervous chatter and speculation that had characterized the conscript presence had been replaced by focused silence punctuated only by necessary communication.

  Inside what had been the commander's tent, the transformation was even more dramatic. Canvas walls had been expanded outward to triple the original space, creating a makeshift war room that could accommodate serious tactical planning. Multiple tables had been arranged in a U-shape configuration, their surfaces covered with detailed maps of Borov Woods and the surrounding territories.

  Documents bearing official seals lay scattered among the cartography—scout reports, divination results, witness testimonies from those who had encountered the corruption firsthand.

  The seats encircling these tables accommodated a gathering of authority that would have seemed impossible during routine military endeavors. The six Paladins filled one section—Captain Draven positioned centrally with his unit deployed along both sides, their gleaming armor appearing somewhat incongruous within the improvised command pavilion.

  Across from them sat Stoneford's senior command: Commander Seth at the head, his authoritative presence befitting the garrison's highest-ranking officer, with Master Abel positioned at his right as second-in-command. The Shadow Hunter Willis occupied a chair nearby, his presence seeming to dim the lamplight around him. Beramund sat between the two groups, his ancient eyes moving between the assembled professionals with the patient assessment of someone who had witnessed countless such councils over his long life.

  The atmosphere carried the weight of impending action as they contemplated the maps before them, each mind working through the tactical challenges of confronting an enemy who controlled corrupted territory and the unknown amount of undead forces.

  Captain Draven lifted his head from the maps spread before him, his steel-gray eyes fixing on Beramund with tactical precision. "Elder, how much of the forest have you surveyed? Do you have any indication as to where the enemy might be holed up?"

  All attention in the war room shifted to the ancient druid, the various professionals awaiting his assessment with the respect due to someone who had confronted the threat firsthand.

  Beramund cleared his throat, his weathered hands reaching toward the map with deliberate movements. "I have surveyed approximately three-quarters of the forest and identified several chokepoints where the corruption converges most intensely." As he spoke, he moved several wooden markers across the map's surface, positioning them at strategic locations that formed a rough arc through the woodland's interior.

  "However," he continued, his tone carrying a note of caution, "I did not locate the core area—the suspected altar or ritual site that would be required to propagate this sort of blight across such an extensive territory. The Necromancer is either exceptionally skilled at concealment, or the corruption's source lies in a section I have not yet reached."

  Priest Ivan leaned forward, his scholarly demeanor shifting toward practical problem-solving. "Since you've directly faced the suspected individual from the Dark Tower, did he leave behind any items that retain a causal connection? If so, Sheryl could use them to divine their hiding location."

  As he posed the question, Ivan turned toward his squad mate. Sheryl immediately puffed up with obvious pride, patting her nonexistent chest in an exaggerated gesture that drew barely suppressed smiles from her fellow Paladins despite the serious nature of the discussion.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Beramund shook his head slowly at Ivan's question, his expression grave. "What I fought was merely a shadow apparition. The only physical remains from that battle are the bones from the skeletons the enemy summoned." As he spoke, he turned his gaze toward Master Abel with meaningful intent.

  Abel caught the implication immediately, straightening in his chair. He gestured sharply toward an aide standing near the tent's entrance. "Bring forth the skeletal remains we collected from the battle site."

  The aide snapped to attention and departed swiftly to fulfill the order.

  Beramund's ancient eyes swept across the assembled Paladins, his voice taking on a more cautionary tone. "I must stress that the opponent, even in the form of a clone, could summon Tier 1 and Tier 2 undead to fight on his behalf with disturbing ease. My best estimate places the enemy as a Tier 4 Necromancer at minimum." He paused, letting the weight of that assessment settle before continuing. "Add to that consideration whoever—or whatever—serves as the source of this blight itself, and you face formidable enemies if you enter unprepared."

  Sergio, the Vindicator, released a confident chuckle that seemed to lighten the tent's oppressive atmosphere. "Don't worry about that, Elder. We can handle two Tier 4s without much hassle." His grin widened with the easy confidence of someone who had faced such threats before. "Even a Tier 5 wouldn't survive against us if it came to that, especially when they're restrained by their attribute alignment working against the Light."

  Captain Draven cast an annoyed sidelong glance at Sergio, his jaw tightening with visible displeasure at his subordinate's cavalier attitude. He turned back to Beramund with professional courtesy.

  "I apologize for my companion's manner, though his words do hold merit—they aren't false. However, we appreciate your caution, Elder. I assure you we won't charge in unprepared. Proper reconnaissance and tactical planning will precede any engagement."

  Beramund's lips curved into a barely perceptible smile as he nodded at the apology, the expression suggesting he'd dealt with confident young warriors before and took no offense at their bravado.

  The tent flap rustled as the aide returned, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle with careful reverence. Master Abel gestured toward a clear section of the table, and the aide moved forward to comply.

  He carefully unwrapped the bundle, spreading the collection of skeletal remains across the wooden surface—femurs, ribs, fragments of skulls, all bearing the telltale signs of necromantic animation. Once his task was complete, the aide withdrew silently from the war room.

  Draven's attention shifted to his squad's diviner.

  "Sheryl, if you would perform your divination."

  Sheryl rose from her seat with exaggerated dignity, pulling her leather-bound tome from where it had rested at her side. She stepped toward the table with theatrical flair, extending her free hand toward the pile of bones while keeping a noticeable distance. Her face contorted briefly in undisguised disgust at the proximity to such tainted remains, but she recovered her composure with visible effort.

  Her voice dropped to a hushed chant as she began the incantation, the words flowing in the archaic tongue used for divination rituals. The syllables carried a melodic quality that seemed to resonate with something beyond the physical realm.

  As the final words of the spell left her lips, Sheryl's eyes suddenly clouded over with swirling gray mist, obscuring her natural eye color completely. The tome in her hand began to hover of its own accord, pages turning with supernatural speed as if searching for specific passages. Her other hand, still extended over the pile of bones, began to emit a soft silvery starlight that cascaded down to illuminate the skeletal remains with an ethereal glow.

  The silvery light intensified around Sheryl's hovering hand, the glow pulsing in rhythm with her steady breathing. The tome's pages stopped their frantic turning, settling on a spread covered in glowing script that seemed to write itself across the ancient parchment. When she spoke, her voice carried an otherworldly quality—layered with echoes that suggested multiple voices speaking in harmony.

  "Beneath the giant's shoulder stone,

  Where pale moon's light has never shone,

  A wound in earth exhales its breath,

  And drinks the forest into death.

  Past nature's reach the darkness grows,

  Where sickly flame in sconces glows,

  The altar black with crawling blight,

  Feeds corruption through the night."

  The silvery radiance faded as abruptly as it had appeared, Sheryl's eyes clearing from their clouded state as she swayed slightly on her feet. The tome dropped back into her waiting hand with a soft thud, its pages falling still. She blinked several times, reorienting herself to the present moment with visible effort.

  Priest Ivan rose from his seat with practiced grace, moving to Sheryl's side as she swayed unsteadily. He placed a steadying hand against her back, then channeled his divine magic through the point of contact.

  "Absolution."

  Golden light cascaded from where his palm made contact, bathing Sheryl in soothing radiance that seemed to seep into her very being. The restorative magic worked quickly, easing the strain of depleted Willpower and bringing color back to her pale cheeks. Ivan gently guided her back to her seat, his supporting hand steady as she settled into the chair with a grateful nod.

  Master Abel leaned forward, his bardic training allowing him to parse the cryptic oracle with analytical precision.

  "The first line indicates a hill or elevated place. The second suggests this location is underground. The third through sixth lines describe the blight itself and its manifestation." His finger traced invisible patterns in the air as he organized the clues. "The final two lines point to the source we need to destroy to eliminate the corruption."

  Draven nodded approvingly at this interpretation, then turned his attention to Beramund.

  "Does any location in your surveyed area match these descriptions?"

  Beramund shook his head slowly, his weathered features thoughtful as he reviewed his mental map of the territory.

  "Nothing I encountered fits this pattern. The areas I covered contained corruption, but no elevated formations with cave systems that would match the oracle's description."

  Sierra straightened in her seat, her tactical mind already formulating next steps.

  "Then it must be in the unsurveyed quarter of the forest. I propose a reconnaissance mission—myself and the Shadow Hunter," she turned to acknowledge the dark-clad figure with a respectful nod, "to locate and confirm the enemy's lair before we commit to a full assault."

  Draven gave a sharp nod of approval, his tactical assessment aligning with Sierra's proposal.

  "Agreed. Reconnaissance before engagement."

  Commander Seth leaned forward, adding his authority to the decision.

  "Willis knows these woods better than most. You'll have the support you need from our end."

  Beramund's ancient eyes moved between Sierra and the dark-clad figure, his expression carrying the weight of experience.

  "Move carefully. If the oracle speaks true, you'll be entering the heart of their operation."

  Rhoghar, who had maintained stoic silence throughout the tactical discussion, suddenly spoke. His deep voice carried the blunt pragmatism of a Justiciar who had faced darkness in many forms.

  "We need to move quickly. The enemy's inactivity since our arrival suggests they're either preparing something worse, or they're confident enough in their position that our presence doesn't concern them." He paused, letting the implications settle across the assembled professionals. "Neither possibility bodes well for delay."

  The war room fell into contemplative silence as his words hung in the air. Eyes moved between the maps, the marked corruption zones, and each other. The unspoken question pressed down on everyone present: what was the Necromancer planning while they prepared their assault? And would they reach the source of corruption before whatever dark work was underway reached completion?

  The weight of uncertainty settled over the council like a shroud, each professional calculating risks and contingencies for an enemy they had yet to truly face.