The sun had not yet completely set behind the peaks of Biakind, but inside the Great Hall of the mountain fortress, time seemed to stand still, replaced by a frantic rhythm of urgency.

  The giant map table in the center of the room was no longer just a piece of carved wood; it was a war altar. Stacks of parchment scrolls, wooden pawns, and cups of cold coffee were scattered across the topographical representation of Asnaven.

  Mira stood at the end of the table. She was no longer wearing her torn party dress. She wore a simple dark blue combat tunic borrowed from the Biakind militia's warehouse, paired with a light leather chest protector. Her brown hair was tied up high, revealing her slender neck, which was now tense.

  Around her, the engines of revolution began to turn.

  “Logistics is blood,” Dalt Ashart's baritone voice cut through the noise of the hall.

  Mira's stepfather was not holding a sword. He was holding a quill pen and a large accounting book. Behind him, three clerks worked at a frenzied pace, recording every sack of wheat and crate of gunpowder available.

  “We have two thousand mouths to feed, plus reinforcements that may arrive,” Dalt pointed to the pile of crates in the corner of the room with the tip of his pen. “I've diverted Bludara's trade route from the south. The wheat convoy that was supposed to go to the capital is now being diverted to this mountain pass. But that will take two days. Until then...”

  Dalt looked at Governor Biakind. “...we'll drain your granaries, Governor. And I'll pay you back threefold after we win.”

  Governor Biakind, an old man with a snow-white beard, nodded grimly. “Take what you need, Lord Bludara. Wheat can be replanted. Severed heads cannot grow back.”

  On the other side of the table, Ulric was arguing—or rather, discussing intensely—with Arlene. Ulric no longer looked like an awkward student. His cracked glasses reflected the light of the oil lamp as he drew a red line on the map.

  “We can't hold them on open ground,” said Ulric, his finger tracing the contours of the valley on the border between Biakind and Kifea. “Arlen's forces are heavy cavalry and Battle-Mages. On flat ground, they'll crush us in an hour.”

  “Then we won't give them flat ground,” Arlene cut in. She placed a black pawn in the narrow gap between two rocky hills. “The Whisperina Gorge. It's only wide enough for five horses side by side. If we lure them in there...”

  “That's a classic trap,” Mira interjected, stepping closer. “Arlen knows basic military tactics. He won't put his entire army into a narrow bottle without reconnaissance.”

  “That's why we need convincing bait,” Ulric looked at Mira. “And we need eyes in the sky that are sharper than their eagles.”

  The sound of mechanical whirring came from the outside balcony. Jax stepped inside, his flight helmet tucked under his arm. The smell of oil and cold wind wafted from him.

  “The Glider Squadron is ready,” Jax reported, his voice heavy and without preamble. "Twenty units. I've modified the wing frames so they can carry extra weight—Fasheart-made Molotov cocktails or Cold Iron nets."

  Jax looked at Ulric. “You point out the targets on the map, Bookworm. We'll drop the ‘rain’ on their heads.”

  “Not just a rain of fire, Jax,” said Mira. “I need you to destroy their morale. Attack the food trains. Attack the medical tents. Make them hungry and afraid before they even see our infantry.”

  “Understood,” Jax nodded, then turned back to the balcony, where technicians were performing final checks on the steel wings.

  Suddenly, the hall doors opened. They were not forced open, but opened with polite yet cold precision. A messenger entered. He was not wearing an Asnaven uniform, nor was he wearing any rebel insignia. He wore pale silver plate armor without any insignia. His face was covered by an iron mask that revealed only cold eyes.

  The entire room tensed. Hands reached for sword hilts.

  “Who are you?” asked Agnis Eriallve, Lysandra's uncle who led the Eriallve family army. His hand had already conjured a small ball of fire.

  The messenger was undaunted. He reached into his armor pocket and pulled out a scroll sealed with blue wax. He threw it onto the map table, right in front of Mira.

  “From Princess Elodie,” said the messenger. His voice was flat, emotionless. “She sends her regards. And she sends a ‘loan’.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Mira broke the seal. The letter was short, written in elegant, sharp handwriting:

  The enemy of my enemy is my tool. Five hundred ‘Nameless’ soldiers await in the northern valley. They have no country, no faces, and will not be recorded in history. Use them as flesh shields or swords, I don't care. Just make sure that Foolish Prince falls. - E.

  Mira stared at the messenger. “Shadow troops?”

  “Elite mercenaries from the frozen border of Vsnava,” replied the envoy. “They are silent. They are obedient. And they do not wear Vsnava insignia. If they are captured, Vsnava will deny their existence.”

  “Elodie is playing both sides,” muttered Henesa from the corner of the room, where she was sorting through diplomatic letters. "Clever. If Arlen wins, she remains a loyal fiancée. If we win, she is a military contributor."

  “We accept,” Mira decided. She turned to Agnis Eriallve. “Lord Agnis, these Vsnava troops... integrate them into the front lines. They are heavy infantry. Let them bear the first impact of Arlen's cavalry.”

  Agnis, a muscular man with fiery red hair that was starting to turn gray, grinned. “A meat shield from the north? Gladly. The Eriallve family will be behind them, burning anything that slips through the shield line.”

  Agnis stuck his dagger into the map. "I'll lead the ground assault with you, Miss Ashart. My men need to see their leader bleeding in the same mud. Do you have the guts to stand on the front lines?"

  “I've already nearly died at Arlen's hands,” Mira replied calmly, staring into Agnis's eyes. “Standing on the front lines is the safest place for me compared to being in his arms.”

  Agnis laughed heartily, slapping Mira on the shoulder hard enough to break an ordinary person's bones. “That's the spirit I like! Fire and imagination on the battlefield. We'll make them regret being born into this world.”

  In a darker corner, far from the hustle and bustle of the map table, Anna sat cross-legged on an ammunition crate. She was dismantling a long-barreled rifle—a custom weapon assembled from hunting rifle components and an Intian conductor. She wiped the lens of her scope with a silk cloth with terrifying gentleness.

  Mira walked over to her. “You're not taking a position on the map, Anna.”

  “I don't like maps,” Anna didn't look up. Click. She reassembled the trigger mechanism. “Maps are for generals. I'm not a general. I'm a hunter.”

  Anna raised her rifle, aiming at the candle at the far end of the room. "My job is simple, Miss. When the battle breaks out, when the Arlen commanders are busy shouting... I’ll make their heads explode from a kilometer away."

  Anna lowered her rifle, staring at Mira. “Including that Prince. If I get a clean shot... I’ll take him.”

  “Not Arlen,” Mira said softly.

  “Still sentimental?”

  “No,” Mira's eyes hardened. “He's mine. But the generals and commanders of the Shadow Soldiers... they're yours.”

  Anna smirked, slipping a crystal bullet into her vest pocket. “Understood. The snake's head is yours. The snake's body is mine.”

  Meanwhile, at the writing table near the fireplace, Henesa, Governor Biakind, and Arlene formed a small circle. They weren't holding weapons. They were holding pens and wax seals.

  “Kifea is still hesitant,” Arlene read the coded report. “The governor is afraid her palace will be burned by dragons.”

  “I will write her a personal letter,” said Henesa, dipping her pen in ink. Her motherly face disappeared, replaced by that of a skilled politician. “I will remind her of her son's gambling debts to the Bludara Bank. And I will promise to waive the interest if she opens her borders to our troops.”

  “And Oakaven?” asked the Governor of Biakind. “They have a port. We need access to the sea if this war drags on.”

  “Let me handle Oakaven,” Arlene smiled thinly. “The port labor union there has long-standing ties with Fasheart. We don't need the Governor. We just need the workers to go on strike and block Arlen's supplies from the sea.”

  “Diplomacy, blackmail, and economic sabotage,” muttered Governor Biakind, shaking his head in admiration. “You really have everything prepared.”

  “Wars are not only won with blood, Governor,” said Henesa, affixing the Seal of the Golden Scales to her letter. “Wars are won by bankrupting and isolating the enemy.”

  Mira returned to the map table. All the pieces were in motion.

  Dalt ensured they didn't starve. Jax controlled the skies. Anna controlled the shadows. Agnis and the Vsnava forces became the wall and spear on land. Ulric and Arlene became the brains directing the muscles. Henesa cut the enemy's legs out from under the negotiating table.

  And in the midst of it all... Local General Biakind—a mountain man named Torin—accompanied by Lord Ignis Eriallve, was explaining guerrilla tactics to the squad captains.

  “Don't fight them openly,” Torin's voice was hoarse like clashing rocks. “Strike and run. Rock slides. Broken bridges. Make them fear every tree and every hill shadow. This is our land. We are the ghosts here, and they are the lost tourists.”

  Mira placed both hands on the edge of the map table. She looked at the formation they had arranged. This was no longer a group of panicked rebels. This was a functional coalition army.

  “One week,” Mira muttered to herself. “Arlen gave us one week to surrender. We'll give him one week to regret it.”

  She looked at Ulric. “What about Laich? Any news from the capital?”

  Ulric shook his head slowly, his face anxious. “Contact has been lost since last night. Either he's hiding deep, or...”

  “He's still alive,” Mira cut in confidently. “Laich won't die that easily. He's painting something for us. I'm sure of it.”

  Mira straightened up, looking at everyone in the room. “Rest tonight. Eat well. Sleep if you can. Because tomorrow, when the sun rises... we will start burning our way to Fasheart.”

  Murmurs of agreement filled the room. There were no heroic cheers. Only silent nods from people who knew they might not see the end of the week.

  Mira walked out onto the balcony, leaving the hubbub of planning behind. The Biakind night wind blew against her face. Cold, but clean. In the distance, to the northeast, the sky glowed slightly orange. It wasn't the sunrise. It was the light from the Capital and Ugudan, still burning.

  Mira touched her chest. The Intian of her binary star pulsed slowly, warm and stable thanks to Arlene's potion. “Wait for me, Arlen,” she whispered into the wind. “I'm coming. And this time, I won't be bringing love.”