“So Gerald means to sever our friendship with a stunt like that? Idiot.” Sais seethed first, then clarity settled like frost. Medith’s read was right—his cup wasn’t about the wine. He tossed a random pretext like smoke, shooing their people so they could slip away on the wind.
“But who can swear the Hexclaw Legion will hit Dawnlight?” Milia’s doubt was a cold stone in the gut. Dawnlight is a fortress like a cliff-face, its defenses no weaker than Sia City. It holds three thousand mercenaries and seven hundred riders, a forest of spears under iron walls. And a mercenary corps is an institution—without a proper cause, a rash attack is dust blown into blades. I don’t believe Paris has grown that foolish.” She thought of a man who’d swallowed his fire for twenty years, and couldn’t believe he’d lose his mind in mere months.
Medith’s gaze darkened, her eyes starlit with confusion, then she shook off stray thoughts like rain from feathers. “Did we loose the pigeons?”
“We did.” Iling’s worry was a thin tremor in her voice. “By distance, the earliest they reach Dawnlight is a month, even with Wind Magic bracing their wings like a gale. And what happens mid-route is another storm altogether.”
From assembly to readiness to march, time devours like a slow river. If the enemy’s intent is iron, these numbers may end up staring at the tide from shore.
“Gerald changed too fast.” Medith’s thoughts spun like oiled wheels. “It must tie to yesterday afternoon when he went out. Did Hexclaw make contact? Who has the reach to leave him with tied hands? That woman? No. You don’t send core personnel for a strike this size. Which means one of the kingmakers who lifted him up.”
Know yourself, know your foe—then fights fall like ripe fruit. Enemy information is the heart’s pulse of war. Think of my Lawbreaking Ability: the first time, when no one knows, its bite is a phantom blade. Every time after, weaker by degrees once the secret’s aired. When intel slips, the enemy shapes a counter. In war, unless there’s no road left, you don’t charge blind. That’s just suicide draped in banners.
“If the Northern Knights are as strong as the rumors, a head-on clash is the true cliff.” The whispers of the Northern Kingdom itched under her skin. Cunning can bridge a gap, can strike from the shadow and trim losses. But against power that crushes like a mountain, all schemes are paper lamps in rain. A mountain you might cross with a thousand tricks—until its height dwarfs your imagination, and then swagger is just a leaf in a storm.
All arts of war have counters for the strange. Pure, straight-on force stands unbroken.
“So what do we do now?” Fangge’s words carried a bite, the edge of blame like a cold blade. Medith sighed, a deep, tired breeze. She had thought Fangge had turned into a normal girl these past days. But with that ghost mask back on, she slipped into old shadows again.
“I won’t abandon them.” Medith’s voice steadied, a stake in hard ground. “Even if Hexclaw never moves, I won’t drop Gerald—public duty or private ties, no difference. I need him to bridge us to the Mercenary Grand Commander, Felica. And truth be told, I can’t stand watching Gerald walk into disaster.” Sais nodded in silence, and Nameless’s face was set like stone. The decision had been nailed.
Fangge loosed a long sigh and shook her head, like leaves in late wind. “Maybe I picked the wrong person.”
“Too late to jump ship.” Medith’s smile cut sly, fox-bright. She patted Fangge’s shoulder. “Got a plan then?” Fangge asked.
Medith’s smile thinned to calm. “Cast a long line, land a big fish.” She left the words like bait in still water, then curled up with Sais and let sleep take them.
“Medith’s gone?” Harrison’s urgency came like flint sparks. The scout’s nod was firm as a peg, and he laid out their line and distance—due north, straight as an arrow, five hundred kilometers in a single accelerated day.
“Five hundred?” Harrison did quick math, sand running through a fist. A normal horse, all-out, runs thirty to forty per hour. A mercenary warhorse is half again tougher. Factor in a mount’s stamina and their rest… How do you squeeze out over a hundred extra kilometers?” He found Medith’s speed punching past theory like a gust through a shutter.
Distances use modern standards.
Clive frowned, face odd as if tasting iron. “They’re Wind Sprites. That pace is normal. I think it’s slow. If they went all-in, they’d be a thousand miles away, easy.”
Harrison seemed not to hear, fingers in his beard, thoughts heavy as storm clouds. Ten minutes slid by. Then he spoke, slow and level. “Remember Medith’s travel pattern? Walk and stop, wander and sightsee. She never used her racial gifts for haste. They didn’t hurry. From their homeland to Dawnlight took over a month. The route’s just over a thousand kilometers. Add rough trails, wild hills, waiting on Robert and other delays… they did mere dozens per day. So why sprint now like their heels are on fire?”
“Maybe Gerald rattled her wits.” Clive’s contempt was a knife with a cheap shine. “You know Sprites—big chests, small brains, long hair, short sense. Flower vases, the lot. Anyway, everything’s in our plan. Gerald did just what you said—booted them out without waiting a day. They won’t turn back. Even if they could, we’ll have taken Dawnlight by then.”
Harrison shook his head hard, like a bell clearing fog. “No. If it were other Sprites, maybe. But this is Medith—the she-elf even the Emperor and the Southern Kingdom’s Emperor give three steps of the road. Her rush smells like a signal. ‘Hey! We’re gone. If you’re going to strike, strike now.’ Hold. Don’t rush half a day. Let the men rest. At first light, tighten gear and tack. Be ready to move.”
Clive froze, a cold sweat sliding like ice down his spine. Harrison’s words felt like eyes on his back in the dark. “Understood. I’ll take the watch myself.” He strapped on gear and worked faster under the night’s ink.
Morning of 9.9. Fish-belly white rose on the rim of the sky, and a new day cracked open like a shell. Medith looked over the boundless horizon, her smile a quiet net of plans. Behind her, everyone stood ready, and at her word they surged north like arrows in a gale.
They were so fast their path pulled bright, painted trails from the horses’ flight, streaks that dazzled and dreamed like rainbow silk.
On the near-hallucinatory line of the horizon, a few white-robed men lowered long, unknown spyglasses and let out a slow breath, like steam fading in the cold.
