Kingdom of Verdwryn

The camp was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the central fire. Michael sat on a log, his gaze distant as he stared into the flames. His hands were steady, but his mind raced. The skirmish against the Zeranthian scouts had been his first true taste of combat—not sparring matches in the training yard, but the real, bloody chaos of war.

He exhaled slowly, the events replaying in his mind: the traps that worked flawlessly, the missed opportunities, and the sharp, unrelenting necessity of ending another man's life.

The familiar weight of Captain Garren's hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. The older knight stood tall, his expression as stern as ever, but his voice held a note of rare approval. "You did well, Michael. Better than I expected, to be honest. Your traps were sharp, your movements precise. But—" his grip tightened slightly, "you hesitated."

Michael flinched inwardly, knowing what the captain meant. "I hesitated to kill," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Aye," Garren said, stepping around to face him. "That hesitation could've gotten you or someone else killed. You're sharp—damn sharp. But war doesn't wait for you to make peace with yourself. You need to be faster—decisive."

Michael nodded, absorbing the words like a sponge. Garren wasn't cruel, but he was unflinching in his truths.

"Now," the captain continued, his tone softening, "tell me about that move you used—the one that turned the tide."

"Seeded Battlefield," Michael replied, his voice steadying. "It creates an area of effect that disrupts enemy movements with snaring roots while releasing a poison mist. The mist forces them to spend mana resisting it or weakens them over time."

Garren gave a low whistle. "Clever. Versatile, too. You'll refine it with time, no doubt. But I want you thinking about how to better coordinate that with your team. You're not a lone wolf, boy. This isn't about just you surviving—it's about the whole squad."

Michael nodded again, his mind already racing with ideas.

Later that evening, the squad gathered around the fire. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the fallout from the skirmish hanging over them like a storm cloud. Alric, his tone sharp as ever, broke the silence. "You're reckless, Michael. Charging ahead, setting traps on your own? What if one of us had stepped into one? You could've killed us as easily as the enemy."

Michael's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. "I accounted for your movements. Every trap was placed to funnel the scouts into Seren's line of fire."

Alric scoffed. "Calculated or not, it was risky. You're not the leader here."

Torval, ever the peacemaker, interjected. "Ease up, Alric. Michael's traps saved us more than once. If anything, we should be working to integrate his strategies better."

Seren, who had been quietly cleaning her bow, added without looking up, "He's right. Michael's traps were effective. But Alric's point stands—coordination needs to improve."

Gregor, the ever-loyal earth mage, grunted his agreement. "Michael's sharp, but we're a team. We need to move as one."

Michael met Alric's glare with a calm resolve. "I'll refine my methods," he said. "But my goal has always been the same: to protect this team and ensure we succeed."

Alric held his gaze for a long moment before nodding begrudgingly. "Fine. Just don't make me regret trusting you."

Kara, the healer, smirked from her spot by the fire. "Well, at least you're all still alive to argue about it."

After the squad had dispersed, Michael stayed behind, practicing in the moonlit clearing. The skirmish had exposed the limitations of his abilities, and he was determined to improve. He focused first on Seeded Battlefield, adjusting the mana flow to extend its range while reducing the mist's concentration. His goal was clear: make the ability less mana-intensive while maintaining its disruptive effects.

Next, he tested combinations. He summoned Binding Roots on a practice dummy, then layered Earthen Spikes beneath it. The synergy was brutal—the roots held the target in place while jagged stone pierced through. He imagined the chaos he could create with proper coordination. Torrential Wave could drive enemies into his traps, while Nature's Pulse ensured he knew exactly where they were.

Lost in his experiments, he didn't notice Garren watching from the shadows. "You're relentless, boy," the captain said, stepping forward.

Michael paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "There's no time to waste. Every moment I spend here is another I might need out there."

Garren nodded. "True enough. But remember this: power is nothing without control. You're a craftsman, Michael. You don't just wield power—you shape it. Never forget that."

Michael bowed his head, a rare smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Captain."

As the camp settled into silence, Michael lay awake, his mind a whirlwind of strategies and possibilities. The battle had tested him, but it had also shown him how far he still had to go. For now, though, he allowed himself a small measure of pride. He had survived, he had contributed, and he had earned the respect—if not the trust—of his team. War loomed on the horizon, and Michael knew the path ahead would be fraught with danger. But as he drifted into a restless sleep, one thought burned brighter than all the rest: he would not just survive. He would thrive.