The morning fog clung low to the camp, the ground damp with dew and the quiet dread of soldiers who knew they would bleed by nightfall. Kaelen Virell stood in full armor beside his warhorse, black plate catching the dim light, his gauntlet tightening on the reins. Around him, the Obsidian Legion prepared with quiet efficiency—his men, his command, trained by his hand and hardened by his losses.

He had spent the last three nights without sleep, redrawing the map, refining every formation, weighing every possible failure. They were ready.

Then, a sound shattered the rhythm. Hooves. Two sets. No—one horse, one animal. Fast, sharp, purposeful.

The camp stirred. Heads turned.

From the northern tree line emerged a pale blur—an ivory warhorse galloping through the mist like some cursed specter. Atop it rode a woman dressed in ornate black-and-silver armor, her long white hair braided back like a crown of snow. At her side padded a massive white wolf, quiet and regal. Eyes—wolf and woman—fixed on the camp like it already belonged to them.

Kaelen's jaw tightened.

The horse halted before him in a practiced, elegant stop. She dismounted without a word, her chin high, posture perfect. She didn’t acknowledge him—didn’t ask, didn’t pause.

“Archers to the southern ridge!” she called out suddenly, her voice sharp, commanding. “Shields move east—keep your formation tight. Cavalry hold formation behind the center ranks until I give the signal.”

Kaelen blinked.

She wasn’t speaking to him. She was speaking over him.

“Your Highness,” he said, his voice low, clipped, carefully laced with restraint. “I was not informed of your arrival. Nor of your... involvement.”

Princess Elowen of Vaerenthal turned toward him, but her expression remained calm, unreadable. “And yet I’m here, General Virell. There’s no time for formalities. The men need clear leadership.”

“They have leadership,” he replied evenly, though it tasted like iron in his mouth. “Every unit in this camp answers to my command. You have not been briefed, nor consulted.”

She ignored him.

“Form into double-line formations! Maintain distance—if the enemy presses the left flank, we break their pace at the ridge and strike from above!”

Soldiers moved. His soldiers. Trained to listen, trained to obey—and now, confused, hesitating between loyalty and title. Kaelen stepped forward.

“Your Highness,” he said again, sharper this time, but still controlled. “This is not your court. These men are not servants to be ordered at whim. They are soldiers—mine—and we are not toys for your first taste of command.”

Elowen’s eyes met his with chilling stillness. “And yet they follow. Perhaps because they recognize that doing the same thing and expecting different results has only led to corpses. I intend to win, not repeat your losses.”

The wolf at her side growled, low and quiet.

Kaelen felt heat burn under his collar. But still—he bowed his head slightly. Respect, always. Especially when he wanted to curse her name.

“I was not told you would lead this assault. I was not asked. As field commander, I am obligated to inform you—this plan is reckless. You haven’t seen the terrain firsthand. You haven’t fought these enemies.”

“I’ve studied every report. Every map. Every mistake,” she said. “And what I see is a pattern of failure. Caution has made us prey. That ends today.”

Then, just like that, she turned her back to him.

The insult was not in her words—it was in her dismissal.

She strode toward the formation without hesitation, calling for the signalers, barking new orders with unwavering clarity. Her wolf followed her like judgment itself, gaze flicking back at Kaelen once, unreadable.

Kaelen remained still, a statue of black iron, jaw set like stone. His second-in-command stepped beside him, uncertain.

“Sir... what do we do?”

Kaelen’s voice was low, cold. “We watch. We let her play commander. And when the plan falls apart, when the field is soaked with her arrogance, we hold the line.”

“But—”

“She wears a crown. I wear the blood of every man who dies.” He mounted his horse.