Kingdom of Verdwryn

The Zeranthian war council was cloaked in shadow, its massive stone walls lit only by the flickering light of iron braziers. The flames cast distorted shapes across the faces of the assembled generals and commanders, their expressions grim as they confronted the disaster that had unfolded at the outpost.

At the head of the table stood General Kael Rathos, a towering man clad in blackened steel that seemed to drink in the light. Scars ran jagged across his face, each one a testament to the countless battles he had survived. His amber eyes glowed faintly, a sign of the fire magic that smoldered just beneath his skin.

"Forty soldiers," Kael said, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the chamber. "Four squads. Not a single one returned."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the braziers. Around the table, the assembled officers shifted uneasily. No one wanted to be the first to speak, the first to explain how an outpost—insignificant by most measures—had become a massacre.

It was Lirana Volstrein who broke the silence. A water mage of considerable renown, her silver hair fell in a sleek curtain around her face. Her pale blue eyes were as cold as her tone.

"This was no ordinary engagement," she said, stepping forward. With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a swirling projection of water, which coalesced into a detailed representation of the battlefield. "Our forces were undone by a strategist. A Verdwryn soldier with an uncanny ability to predict our movements and turn the terrain against us. Traps, coordinated attacks, precise use of mana—all of it speaks to a mind far more dangerous than the average knight or mage."

The projection shifted, showing scenes from the battle: Zeranthian barbarians caught in snares that left them exposed to archers, poison clouds cutting through mages like a scythe, and a relentless rain of spells that seemed to strike at every weakness.

Commander Hargon Drassk, a massive barbarian with a wild mane of black hair and a voice like a landslide, slammed his fist onto the table. "One strategist? You're telling me one whelp did this to us? Turned our warriors into fodder?"

Lirana didn't flinch. "Not just one. The squad leaders under his command displayed remarkable coordination. But this strategist—this Michael—is the linchpin. Without him, their advantage would crumble."

Kael's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his hands pressing into the table. "Michael." He let the name linger in the air, as if testing its weight. "Who is he?"

"An anomaly," Lirana replied. "A wood mage, barely above average in raw power. But his mind is sharp. His traps, his timing, his use of the battlefield—he's no ordinary soldier."

Kael's voice hardened. "He won't remain an anomaly. If we allow him to continue, he'll become a legend. And that is something we cannot afford."

In the far corner of the room, a figure stepped from the shadows. Draped in crimson and black, Veylor Iskan was an unsettling presence. The spymaster's hood obscured most of his face, but his voice carried a quiet menace that silenced the room.

"This Michael is dangerous," Veylor said, his tone a whisper that seemed to fill every corner of the chamber. "But he is also vulnerable. A strategist is only as strong as the trust of those who follow him. Break that trust, and he will fall."

Kael turned to Veylor, his eyes narrowing. "You have a plan."

"I always do," Veylor replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "We will mark him and every squad leader.Let them know that their victory has made them targets. Spread rumors, send assassins, and sow distrust. Let them live in fear of the shadows."

Kael considered this, then nodded. "And if fear isn't enough?"

Veylor gestured toward the entrance, and a group of Zeranthian warriors entered. At their head was Karth Vallor, a barbarian champion whose sheer size and presence made the air seem heavier. His armor was a patchwork of trophies taken from his kills, and his eyes burned with a savage hunger. Beside him stood Zelya Tirael, a fire mage whose reputation for leaving nothing but ash in her wake had become legend.

"These two will lead the hunt," Veylor said. "Where an army failed, they will not. They will hunt Michael and his squad until nothing remains but ash and blood."

Kael's voice was like steel scraping against stone. "No half-measures. Send word to the Verdwryn forces. Let them know the price of their defiance. Make Michael and his squad the symbol of what happens when you cross Zeranthia. And when they are broken, we will burn their outpost to the ground."

The room erupted in grim agreement. As the council dispersed, Kael remained at the table, his gaze fixed on the map. He traced a scarred finger over the outpost's location, his thoughts burning with determination.

Michael had become more than a soldier. He had become a threat. And Kael would ensure that threat was extinguished.

In the shadows, Veylor lingered, his smile deepening. For him, this was more than war. This was a game. And Michael was now the centerpiece of a deadly strategy.