The fog was denser than it had been in weeks.
Not just thick—but intelligent. Like it was watching them.
Renard stood at the edge of the training yard before first light, coat pulled tight, eyes on the way the mist curled unnaturally around the east ridge. It wasn't right. The air pressure had dropped. The moisture in the ground felt held, not settled.
Something was off.
Kael approached, slow and quiet. "Smells wrong," he muttered. "Like smoke that forgot how to burn."
Renard didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The air already said enough.
⸻
That morning, the squads formed up.
Alpha in straight lines. Perfect spacing. Silent stares.
Omega in clumps, grinning, elbowing each other, casual and cocky.
And behind them—C-Team.
Twenty men and women in mixed uniforms. Logistics recruits. Camp guards. Signal runners. Kitchen duty. They'd been the background until now.
But today, they were in the game.
Renard stepped forward and unfurled a rough tactical sketch across a map table.
"We'll run a simulation through the ridge and outpost ruins. Hostile encounter scenario. Alpha, Omega, you lead. C-Team supports."
Darek from Alpha stepped forward. "Captain, with respect, that fog isn't normal. We shouldn't run blind."
Renard's tone was steel. "Neither is war. That's why we run it."
Omega's Thorn gave a short laugh. "Finally. Real work."
Renard nodded. "You all think you're getting better. Today we test how much."
He looked over the map again, then to C-Team.
"You'll assist with uplinks, watch flanks, monitor the perimeter. I want movement reports every five minutes. You're eyes, not swords. But that may change."
There were no cheers. Just focused, nervous nods.
Perfect.
⸻
The march began in silence. No birdsong. No wind. Just the soft crush of boots on damp earth and the growing sense that something was watching.
The squads entered the lower ridge in formation. Alpha took point. Omega covered the flanks, their steps sharper than ever.
And for once—they moved like one.
Renard watched from a rise, flanked by C-Team support runners. He noted Alpha's tighter spacing, better timing. Darek gave hand signs mid-turn that Thorn mirrored with eerie ease. They weren't perfect.
But they weren't strangers anymore.
[Commander Skill: Strategic Mapping – Active]
[Pattern Recognition: Engagement Dynamics Calculated]
He watched the pace of their movement, marked the rhythm of their breathing, and smiled—just a flicker.
"They're learning," he murmured. "Finally."
The fog deepened ahead.
Then it hit.
Three shadows lunged from the mist.
Not a real enemy.
But close enough to fool most.
Ghosts.
The Phantom Squad.
Kael didn't wait.
"CONTACT!" he roared, and Alpha responded before the echo faded.
They clashed.
Omega swept wide. Alpha shield-locked. Renard's map in motion.
And Renard watched every move.
He wasn't in the fight—not yet.
He directed C-Team.
"Team Delta, redirect your relay to Zone Seven. Cut their line of escape."
"Team Echo, cover the southern brush. They'll rotate flanks."
[Command Aura Active – Phantom Tactician Perk: Allied Coordination +12%]
The fight was chaos to most.
To Renard, it was choreography.
Strike. Counter. Push. Fall back. The squads worked like a wheel now—rough but turning. Phantom Squad didn't hold back, but they didn't aim to kill.
Then something else moved.
Not toward the battle.
Away from it.
Renard's eyes narrowed.
Seven C-Team members split formation at once.
Too silent. Too fluid.
[Commander Trait: Behavioral Disruption Recognition – TRIGGERED]
"Delta, Echo, hold position," Renard ordered into the rune mic.
Then: "Thorn. Darek. On my mark, disengage and converge west sector. Flank the rear."
"Why?" Thorn barked.
"Because we've been breached."
He broke into a run.
⸻
The seven moles moved fast.
But Renard moved faster.
He cut through fog and brush, tracing their split. They weren't running—they were circling.
One turned back to strike—blade up.
Chalk met steel.
The chalk shattered—but so did their grip. Renard elbowed the attacker down, dislocated a shoulder, and threw a flash pouch into the air.
Light burst. The fog recoiled.
The rest of the squads saw.
Renard shouted, voice cold and clean:
"WE HAVE TRAITORS!"
Alpha and Omega turned as one.
Forget the Phantom Squad.
They charged the moles.
Darek took down one with a hook shield slam. Thorn went for the throat with a broken spear.
Maera leapt over a fallen tree to tackle another. Elric followed with a knife flick that disarmed the fourth.
The fifth tried to run—Tarn tackled him mid-step.
Six down.
Only one remained.
Renard was already on him.
His hand came down—chalk sharpened to a killing point.
And then—
"Commander!"
Three figures dropped from the canopy.
Elric.
Maera.
Tarn.
Phantom Squad.
They didn't stop his arm.
They threw themselves into it.
Renard twisted mid-motion, avoiding a kill shot—but the force slammed Maera sideways. Tarn caught the brunt, wincing.
Elric grabbed the last traitor and pinned him to the earth.
Breathing hard, blood on his lip, Elric turned back.
"Alive," he said. "We need them alive."
The fog opened.
And every soldier saw.
The three ghosts.
The same who'd attacked them.
Now kneeling.
Before Renard.
Maera spoke first, still kneeling, blood on her collar.
"Status: All targets neutralized. Two prisoners secured. Casualties—minimum."
She looked up, not flinching.
"Orders, Commander?"
The squads stared. Silent.
Renard turned, eyes unreadable.
Then he stepped toward the captured traitors, both groaning on the ground.
He crouched.
Drew a line across one's cheek with the shattered chalk.
"Traitors don't get mercy."
He stood.
"Only consequences."
And his voice—when it came next—was cold enough to quiet even the ghosts.
"Take them to the pit. Bind them. No food. No sound. No names. They're not prisoners. They're warnings."
The squads didn't cheer.
Didn't speak.
They watched.
And in that silence, they understood something terrifying:
Renard wasn't just dangerous.
He wasn't even just a commander.
He was something else.
Something built for this war.