The woman with the scar folded her arms. "You came alone?"
"You think that’s smart?"
"I didn’t come here to ask permission."
"And what did you come here to do?"
Lindarion looked over the table.
The scattered unit positions.
The marked loss zones.
The red circles drawn across half the valley.
"Take control," he said simply. "We need order. The moment these things attack again, we either act as one... or we fall one at a time."
The woman looked unconvinced.
"Bold talk," she said. "But I’ve seen bold elves die screaming this week. What makes you think you can lead soldiers who’ve never seen you fight?"
Lindarion stared at her.
He didn’t raise his voice.
Just reached for the gauntlet of his left glove and pulled it off, slow.
The back of his hand shimmered faintly in the candlelight, five runes etched into the skin like brand marks. Light crackled under the surface.
Divine. Fire. Ice. Lightning.
And something colder.
The woman said nothing.
"That explains why the dragons haven’t left you."
"I’m not here because of them," Lindarion said. "I’m here because I won’t let this place fall. Not like the capital. Not like the plains. Not like the cities we’ve already lost."
He slipped the glove back on.
Then said flatly, "Where’s the next strike going to fall?"
The table was crowded now.
More commanders had arrived, called in once Taldris confirmed who Lindarion was. Most came from the inner wards of the western provinces, some from mountain border outposts.
Their armor bore varying degrees of wear, some pristine, others caked in ash. The only common thread between them was suspicion.
They all looked at him like they weren’t sure if they were looking at a prince or a liability.
’They think I’m just another court piece. A blade without edge.’
Lindarion stood straight at the head of the table. Behind him, Ashwing coiled in lizard form on a high shelf near the rafters, unmoving but alert. Watching.
"...and with the second valley still overrun," said one of the newcomers, a tall elf with a black chestplate and rough-cut silver hair, "we’re down to three passable evacuation routes. That puts us in a bottleneck if the mutants push west again."
Lindarion nodded once. "We’ll reroute the rear camp two miles south, then deploy watchers to keep eyes on all crossings. We don’t move slower. We move earlier."
"You assume we’ll listen to your plans," the black-armored elf cut in sharply.
Lindarion met his eyes. "You should."
"And if we don’t?" He stepped forward from the group now. Taller than Lindarion, arms folded, a faint scorch across the edge of his jaw like a healed brand. "What exactly gives you the right to command field movements? You’ve been gone for years. No rank. No campaign record."
"I’m the prince of Solrendel."
"And I’m a blade veteran of eighty-four campaigns. I don’t follow blood. I follow strength."
A murmur ran through the others.
Taldris didn’t speak.
Neither did the woman with the scar.
The tall elf, this challenger, took a step closer, boots scraping stone.
"My name’s Valen Drevaris. Third High Captain of the Verdant Line. I’ve fought in more border wars than you’ve drawn breath. If you want my loyalty—or theirs—then prove you deserve it."
Then Lindarion said simply, "So you’re challenging me."
"Not to the death," Valen said. "Just until we see if there’s a blade behind the words. That’s fair."
Lindarion looked over the table once.
’Of course. This is how elves work when things fall apart. The strongest voice leads, or no one listens.’
Valen raised an eyebrow.
Lindarion turned without another word and walked for the exit of the pavilion.
The flap fluttered once behind him as he stepped into the cold outside air.
Ashwing stirred from the shadows behind him, hopping down from the shelf to land at his heel in a flicker of flame-lit eyes.
"You gonna go easy on him?" the dragon asked, voice quiet in his mind.
They kept walking, toward the training clearing on the camp’s south side.
The onlookers started gathering already, quiet voices trailing behind him.
And more than a few waiting to see him fail.
The makeshift sparring ring wasn’t designed for ceremony. It was just scorched dirt, a few torches stabbed into the mud, and a wide circle worn into the earth by boot heels and dragged bodies.
But tonight, it might as well have been a coliseum.
Soldiers. Scouts. Young apprentices pretending not to be scared. Grizzled elders pretending not to hope.
Civilians leaned against broken carts. Kids climbed shoulders. No one smiled. No one cheered.
"He’s gonna get flattened," someone muttered near the back.
"Drevaris is good. Been on the border wall five years."
"He’s fighting a Sunblade."
"Titles don’t win fights."
"Neither does underestimating the prince."
Lindarion stepped into the circle, coat off, boots caked in ash and dried blood. His hair was tied back lazily, a few silver strands falling loose. He didn’t warm up. Didn’t even stretch.
Valen Drevaris walked in opposite him, rolling his shoulders, thick arms flexing beneath the sleeveless leather vest. A streak of soot still marred the side of his face. His stance was squared, professional.
The crowd grew quieter as the match began.
One of the camp captains, an older elf with one eye and a voice like snapped bark, raised his arm and barked, "Fight clean. Fight fast. First to yield or fall."
Valen moved like a soldier trained in real war, low and fast, fists alight with a thin ripple of fire. He went for the gut, a fast jab feinting toward the ribs, then swept low to break balance.
Lindarion watched him come.
Then stepped aside like he was bored.
Valen’s fist met air.
His foot met nothing.
Lindarion tapped him lightly on the back of the head with two fingers as he passed.
Valen snarled and spun, striking up with a fist like a hammer. His fire affinity crackled, short, close-range, focused into his knuckles.