The air in the command chamber is stifling; it’s thick with sweat, blood, and the lingering burn of incense. Survivors file in, some limping, others helping the injured. The screeches of Raróg still echo faintly through the walls, sharp reminders that the battle isn’t over.

  Warden Lord Edran Vale stands at the head of the war table, his armour is streaked with grime and dried blood. He immerses himself in his thoughts, with his gaze affixed on the map laid in front of the table.

  Opposite him, Knight Lieutenant Theodore Brooks stands upright, his sword still unsheathed, the tip resting against the floor, gauntleted hands gripping the pommel.

  "Report," Edran commands, his voice steady despite the turmoil outside.

  Theodore wastes no time. "The frontline held until the Raróg descended. We were pressing forward, reclaiming ground—until they struck. The barrier collapsed shortly after, and we lost too many in the retreat."

  High Mage Darius murmurs, his weathered fingers forming a thoughtful arch beneath his chin, "Mistwood has never known threats from the sky. The Raróg vanished from these woods after the Dark Time."

  "And now they return in force," Edran mutters, jaw tightening. His gaze sweeps the room, pausing briefly on the fighters. "What we need now is not speculation, but a decisive counterattack. What are our options?"

  Theodore steps forward, his stance precise, controlled. "We split the battle into two fronts: ground suppression and aerial defence. We cannot afford another retreat. If they overrun the Sanctuary, there’s no fallback left."

  He gestures to the map before them, outlining Mistwood and its surroundings. "The earth-bound predators—we funnel them into choke points, force them into an attrition battle. Traps, bottlenecks, controlled skirmishes. If we slow their advance, we buy time for the second phase of our assault."

  Edran nods, eyes narrowing. "And the Raróg?"

  Theodore turns to Darius. "We need an answer, Mage. Swords and arrows won’t be enough to bring down that many."

  Darius exhales slowly. "The Raróg are fast and intelligent, but not invincible. Their wings are vulnerable. Water and wind magic could slow them, high-speed projectiles could tear through their bodies. More importantly, they do not fight well in storms."

  Edran’s fingers drum against the table. "Storms…" His gaze sharpens. "We have weather mages, do we not?"

  Darius inclines his head. "We do. Summoning a storm is possible, but maintaining it will drain them quickly."

  "It doesn’t need to last long," Theodore says, already calculating. "A sudden windstorm to destabilise their flight, then we strike while they’re grounded. If we coordinate archers and siege weapons—ballistae, harpoons, enchanted nets—we can bring them down before they regain altitude."

  One of the squad leaders steps up, voice clear. “My Lord. What about the barrier? We barely made it back. If it falls, we’ll be surrounded again.”

  Darius nods. “We can patch it, but only if we assign mages to anchor it manually. That means fewer on the frontlines.”

  And every mage pulled from the fight leaves their battered ranks even more exposed.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Edran straightens. His voice leaves no room for doubt. “Then here’s what we’ll do. Knight Lieutenant Theodore, you lead the ground suppression teams, control the earth-bound predators, force them into our kill zones. Traps, barricades, anything to slow them down."

  "Understood." Theodore’s grip tightens on his sword hilt.

  "Darius, deploy the storm mages. The moment the Raróg begin their next assault, unleash the winds and ground them. Archers, siege units, and mages will strike before they have the chance to recover."

  Darius bows his head. "It will be done. My Lord."

  Edran turns to Finn and the other squad leaders. "Your mission is twofold: protect the barrier mages at all costs. If the barrier fails completely, our forces will collapse. Secondly, you will act as the strike team, moving between ground and air combat where needed."

  Edran sweeps his gaze over the room, his voice unwavering. "Tonight, we do not retreat. Tonight, we take back our land. Ready your forces. We move before dawn."

  A chorus of assent follows. The plan is set.

  After the meeting is dismissed, Finn catches up with Frank and Audrey outside the command chamber. Both are leading their own squads, and while their crews have survived, some have sustained injuries too severe to take part in the counter-strike.

  Finn mentions that Risa and Clementine are safe with him, and Audrey exhales in relief. “That’s good to hear,” she says, though exhaustion is clear on her face. “Let me know if they need anything, alright?”

  Finn studies the fatigue etched into her features, the shadows beneath her eyes, the redness creeping into them, and the invisible load she carries. He nods gently. “Of course,” though he has no intention of adding to her burdens. “I’ll let you know.”

  She offers a tired smile, and with that, they part ways, each returning to their duties.

  Finn makes his way to the healing chamber, where Lucille, Risa, and Clementine gather around Esta. She sits vigil at her husband’s bedside, clutching Alan’s hand as if anchoring him to life. Her eyes are rimmed with red, her face drained of colour, and the fresh bandage on her shoulder is a stark reminder of the beast’s talons that wounded her.

  Finn lowers his voice. "How’s Alan?" he whispers to Lucille.

  Lucille glances at Esta before whispering back. "They treated his head, put his shoulder back, but..." She purses her lips. "They’re not sure when he’ll wake up."

  Risa and Clementine shake their heads. Finn’s stomach twists at the news. Words fail him.

  After a long silence, Esta’s lips tremble. Her tears well up. "Wh—why does it have to be Alan?" Her voice breaks. "That time in the labyrinth, and now this... It’s always Alan who suffers because of me..."

  "Esta, you know that’s not true." Lucille kneels beside her, taking her hand gently.

  Finn places a hand on Esta’s unwounded shoulder in silent support.

  They give her space by stepping out of the healing chamber. They then head to the ration hall to collect food and water.

  As Finn passes by, he spots Steve hunched in a shadowy corner. His broadsword abandoned at his feet, one leg swaddled in heavy bandages. Steve clutches a shattered shield, head drooped, his usual cheerfulness absent.

  "You go ahead," Finn tells the others. He steps towards Steve.

  "Steve… you alright?"

  Steve remains silent. When he finally looks up, he only stares at Finn with his hollow and soulless eyes. After a long, stifling pause, he murmurs, "All… gone…"

  Finn exhales sharply. "I’m sorry, Steve."

  Finn settles down next to him in silence, letting his quiet companionship speak where words cannot.

  After a long, heavy silence, Finn stands and returns with bread and water, pressing some into Steve’s hands. Steve remains motionless, unresponsive.

  "We’re launching a counter-strike at dawn," Finn says quietly. "We’re fighting back. We’re taking back what’s ours. We need every warrior standing."

  He hesitates before adding, "One of us is badly wounded, so we need someone to protect our comrades." He lets the words hang. "If you’re ready, find me. Second floor, right corner. My squad will welcome you."

  Steve remains silent.

  Finn lets out a weary sigh. He pats Steve lightly on the shoulder and walks away.