"Are you sure about this?"
The gruff voice of Commander Darion Voss, leader of the Vanilia force, echoed through the tent, heavy with suspicion. He leaned forward over the strategy table, his sharp eyes fixed on the man standing across from him—Yarik.
The flickering light from the oil lamp above cast a soft orange glow that lit up the room and its contents.
There wasn't much inside.
Just the hardened steel of Ravik's armor, hanging neatly on a rack in the corner beside his battle-worn halberd. A simple bedroll lay tucked away near the wall, and at the center stood the war table—cluttered with maps, markers, and battle plans aimed at the upcoming strike on Underwood Village.
Standing beside Commander Voss was his long-time strategist and advisor, Malrec Thorne—a narrow-faced man with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue.
Yarik's hands trembled slightly as he clasped them behind his back, hearing the commander's question.
"Yes, I'm sure," he said firmly, though a slight shake in his voice revealed the tension inside him. "Theron, the young lord of Underwood, has been bedridden since your last attack. He only appeared today. He gathered the villagers this evening and told them they won't survive another assault. He said fleeing is their only hope."
Commander Voss frowned, taking in the words.
"Flee?" he repeated, suspicion clear in his tone.
Yarik nodded. "They plan to abandon the village under the cover of night. In two days, they'll pass through Myrrwood Forest to the human city across the border. They're gathering everything of value—food, weapons, heirlooms."
For a brief moment, silence filled the tent.
Then Malrec leaned toward the map and muttered, "That's the same date we planned to attack, isn't it?"
The room stayed quiet.
Commander Voss's jaw tensed slightly. He ran his fingers along the map, tracing the path from Underwood Village to the thick trees of Myrrwood Forest, as if deciding his next move.
Then Yarik spoke again, breaking the silence.
"Commander… perhaps we should attack sooner?"
Voss slowly turned his gaze toward Yarik, who immediately felt the weight behind that stare. It was the look of a man who had led a hundred battles and buried even more soldiers. But then Voss shook his head.
"No," he said in a calm voice. "We strike as planned."
Yarik's face twisted in confusion.
Malrec, on the other hand, seemed pleased.
"This actually works in our favor," he said with a sly smile. "Instead of a direct attack, we ambush them during their escape—hit them in the forest when they least expect it. Panic, confusion, exhaustion… It'll be a slaughter."
Commander Voss's lips curled into a faint smile at the thought.
"A bloodless one—for us, at least," he murmured.
For all their strength and numbers, Voss wasn't foolish.
He knew a direct assault would cost lives. Even broken as they were, Underwood's defenders could still strike a few fatal blows. That was always the price of conquest.
But now? Now the enemy would walk straight into death's arms, thinking they were clever, hoping to survive. A poorly guarded caravan of villagers, moving in the dark through thick forest, unprepared for an ambush… there would be no defense. No chance.
Even Yarik found himself nodding.
"A smart plan," he said, forcing a smile. But his eyes shifted nervously between the two men.
Then his smile faded. A shadow passed over his face as he paused. Something tugged at his conscience—or maybe it was fear. He bit his lip, his body going stiff.
Ravik noticed. His voice was sharp. "Spit it out. We don't have all night."
Yarik swallowed. "It's just… with the village getting ready to leave, things will be tight. Guards, eyes, suspicion everywhere. I'm not sure I'll be able to slip away again. This might be my last chance to send you any more information."
Commander Voss leaned back, folding his arms. "So?"
Yarik looked down, then took a shaky breath.
"I just… I want to be sure you still plan to keep your side of the deal."
Malrec raised an eyebrow when he heard that.
Commander Voss, however, just stared at Yarik for a moment—and then, out of nowhere, burst into laughter. A loud, booming sound that filled the tent.
"Yarik, Yarik, my man!" Voss bellowed, stepping around the table and giving him a hard slap on the shoulder. "Is that what's been bothering you this whole time?"
Yarik gave a weak chuckle, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I—yes. I've done everything I said I would, and I just—"
"Yarik, my man," Commander Voss cut him off, still smiling. "I'm a man of my word. When I give it, I mean it. Once this is over and Underwood is ours, you'll be well rewarded. I'll personally make sure that what's left of Underwood Village will be under your control. You've earned it."
Yarik bowed deeply, his voice smooth with gratitude. "It would be the greatest honor of my life, Commander. Serving you—and serving Vanilia—has always been my goal. Thank you."
"Now get going," Ravik said, walking back to his spot. "Wouldn't want anyone noticing your absence now, would we?"
Yarik nodded quickly and slipped out of the tent.
The moment the flap closed behind him, Commander Voss's expression changed. The laughter was gone. His face turned cold and serious.
"Pfft," he spat. "How dare that little rat even question me."
Malrec gave a small chuckle, stepping closer. "Let him dream a little longer. Once the village is burned to the ground, we can deal with him however we want."
A dark smirk returned to Commander Voss's face.
"I can't wait to see the look on his face when he finds out what his 'reward' really is," he said.
Malrec nodded slowly. "For now, let's focus on our next move. Theron's decision has handed us victory on a silver platter."
Commander Voss gave a dry laugh.
"That boy has no spine," he scoffed. "Marcus would've stood his ground and fought until the last drop of blood."
Malrec sneered. "Killing Marcus during the first raid was the smartest thing we did. Without that old fox, Underwood collapsed like wet parchment."
The two men laughed, their voices cold and cruel.
---
Outside the tent, Yarik stepped into the cool night air and let out a heavy sigh.
The fires of the Vanilia camp glowed softly through the trees. Most of the soldiers were already asleep, with only a few still patrolling.
The two guards outside the commander's tent called after him.
"Hope you brought real intel this time," one said with a sneer. "We don't reward useless info."
Yarik didn't answer. He walked past them silently, ignoring their laughs.
His heart was pounding—not just from fear, but from something deeper. Guilt. Regret. Still, he reminded himself that he had no choice. He did what he had to do. That's how the world worked.
So, keeping his head down and his pace steady, he moved on, his heart heavier than ever.
Behind him, the guards watched him go.
As soon as he was out of earshot, they spoke again.
"You really think the commander's gonna reward that backstabbing rat?" one said, nodding toward Yarik.
The other laughed. "Hah! No way. Who'd trust a traitor like him? He sold out his own village. He's a snake. And snakes get crushed."
The first guard frowned slightly. "Yeah. Makes sense. So the commander's just leading him on."
"Of course," the second spat. "You think trash like that deserves mercy? Traitors deserve pain, not reward."
The first nodded.
Then he leaned closer. "What do you think he told the commander tonight?"
The second shrugged. "Who cares? As long as we take Underwood, it doesn't matter. I've seen their women. Soft faces. Warm skin. Can't wait to have my turn."
The first grinned darkly. "Yeah. We'll have our pick."
They both laughed—ugly, heartless sounds that faded into the night.
But the truth was far from what they believed.
The boy they mocked was no longer the same.
The soul now inside that young, fragile body was something else entirely. It had seen war. Known death. Endured betrayal. It had crossed time itself, shaped by pain and burned by rage.
And now, that soul was ready to do whatever it took to live—to avoid dying over and over again. It was willing to go as far as necessary.
No matter the cost.