The night didn't scream.
It whispered.
A single trail of smoke curled from the farthest huts of Forward Command Post Ysera, faint against the black sky. At first glance, it might've looked like the leftovers of a cooking fire, left too long in the wind.
Then came the second plume. Then the third.
And all at once, those stationed on the walls realized: this wasn't accident. It was signal.
Inside the command tent, a scout burst through the flap, breath ragged, eyes wide. "Sir! Fire on the south slope. No movement in or out—just smoke. It's exactly like the intel we got from Wraithpine."
Sorell stiffened. Kael, already at the map table, didn't flinch.
Renard stood at the center, quiet, calm.
He nodded once. "Let it burn."
Around the tent, the air seemed to freeze. Even the scout hesitated. But Renard had already turned to the map, his fingers trailing over routes, ridgelines, windflow patterns. There was no panic in his tone, only inevitability.
Earlier that night, the fog had thickened unnaturally.
Not just heavy. Intelligent. Like it knew where not to go—leaving watch towers blind but cooking fires untouched. Movement flickered in its depths. Not fast enough to be Caerenhold's ghost skirmishers. Too clean to be animals.
And yet, too familiar to be unknown.
Kael narrowed his eyes from the rampart. "They're copying us."
He didn't see Renard's smirk from the shadows below.
Inside the war room, the squad leaders gathered.
"It's them," Kael said. "They've arrived. Testing the perimeter."
Sorell frowned. "Too soon. We're not even fully reinforced."
Branley scoffed. "We only have thirty effectives. That's after counting support staff with dull blades and C-Team with barely any combat hours."
Silva, arms crossed near the back, muttered, "We're not a wall. We're bait."
Someone turned to Renard. "What do we do?"
He didn't look up from the map.
"We do what they planned. Let them think we're folding. Let them see the burned huts. Let them believe the story we want them to believe."
A beat.
"In three days, we burn the rest. Right on schedule."
Kael blinked. "You want to let them think they've won?"
Renard smiled. "What's more arrogant than expecting a victory you didn't earn?"
Sorell frowned. "And if they bring two hundred fifty like the report said?"
"Then we let them in," Renard said. "And close the door behind them."
Branley stood, tense. "With twenty-five soldiers?"
"No."
Renard looked up, gaze cold.
"With ghosts."
A beat passed. Even Kael's smirk faltered.
Dawn saw the courtyard filled.
Alpha stood in line, armor gleaming, discipline firm. Omega lounged nearby, less polished but alert. C-Team lingered behind, awkward but trying to follow the rhythm.
Renard stepped forward with Phantom Squad at his back.
"You're not a garrison," he said. "You're a blade. And I intend to sharpen you."
The silence was thick, heavy with skepticism. Murmurs flitted between the squads.
"Thirty-two of us left," Silva muttered to Nyra. "We're barely ten percent of their force."
"They know that too," Nyra replied. "That's what makes this worse."
Chalk met stone as Renard outlined formations. Fog drills. Rotational ambushes. Kill pockets that moved. Each stroke was a memory from Wraithpine—their enemies had turned confusion into a weapon.
Now it was their turn.
"You've trained like men. I want phantoms. I want Caerenhold to believe they're fighting five where there is one."
Branley scoffed. "We don't use trick tactics. We're Alpha."
A few of his squadmates murmured in agreement.
Renard didn't raise his voice. He simply walked up to Branley, drew a chalk circle around his feet, and said, "Then die right here."
A beat.
"Or step out, and learn to kill in the dark."
Branley hesitated, jaw clenched. Then stepped out of the circle.
Kael barked a laugh. "There it is."
Training began.
At first, chaos.
Omega improvised too quickly. Alpha moved too rigid. C-Team's illusions backfired, blinding their own side more than the enemy. Sorell flinched as flame missed its mark. A dummy exploded under a misfired shock rune. Nyra tripped on her own illusion field.
But then:
Silva timed her flames with Branley's charge. Elric and Thorn moved in mirrored sync. Nyra cloaked movement behind a shimmer so smooth it looked like mist crawling over water. Rin, quiet until now, redirected enemy feints using sound distortion like a battlefield puppeteer.
Something shifted.
[Commander Skill: Drillmaster's Touch – Activated] [Progression: +17% | Temporary Unit Synergy – Achieved]
Kael watched from the wall.
"They're getting it."
Renard nodded, voice barely a breath. "They'll be ghosts when it counts."
Later that night, as embers smoldered on the southern hill, Renard knelt at the edge of the camp and whispered.
"Phantom Squad. Report."
Three shadows detached from the trees and knelt before him.
"Elric," one said. "Mission succeeded. Caerenhold scouts observed the burn. They believe we're collapsing. First reaction troop arrives in two days."
Renard's gaze didn't shift.
"And if they adapt?"
The second ghost, Tarn, grinned. "Then we do too."
The third, Maera, tilted her head. "But if they don't?"
Renard stood.
"The plan stays."
A long breath.
"And if it falls apart?" Maera asked.
His voice was quiet.
"Then I join the party."
From the shadows beyond the trees, Kael watched—silent.
He didn't step forward.
He didn't make a sound.
But the chill crawling up his spine was not from the fog.