Supreme Spouse System.

The Five Days of Fire

"Now, for the meanwhile, I have more important things to attend to. Aurelian has the audacity to enter the battlefield… Then I will crush him myself."

"You may go."

Veynor winced, his bow hasty, as if he was attempting to draw himself into a small space. "Y-Yes, Your Majesty."

Within, silence intensified once more. The soft whistling of the wind on the canvas slipped in, but the men within did not stir, all held fast by the weight of Gary's presence.

With a deep breath, Gary fell back onto his cushion, the sound echoing loudly in the silence. His green locks reflected the flame's light as they spilled loose over his shoulders, shading his black eyes now which sparkled with a smoldering intensity. He hunched forward, knees to elbows, gaping into nothing. The substance of his aura remained still, though less intense, as if even in silence he was a storm condensed into flesh.

Edric moved first. The taut lines of his body relaxed a little as he sat back down on his own cushion. The general next to him relaxed too, shoulders slumping as if some enormous burden had been removed. One by one, others imitated the motion, until the tent resumed its shape—a circle of warriors, bruised but intact, gazing at their king.

He hesitated, measuring Gary's face. The king did not lift his head, his eyes still veiled. But his fingers drummed once against his leg, an indication that he was paying attention.

The advisor went on, his voice stronger now. "That gives us five days at most to prepare. We have to catch them by surprise, or they will come at us with momentum we cannot break."

Others nodded, murmurs of agreement flowing like ripples.

Gary at last raised his head. His black eyes, hard and calculating, scanned the circle. "Five days," he said, and then shook his head, mouth twisting in a humorless smile. "No. We will not pretend to have five days. We will pretend to have three."

The tent tumbled—whispers, sharp gasps of breath, tension.

Edric's brow rose. "Three?

Gary's eyes snapped to him, glinting. "Yes. Aurelian is not a fool. If he has walked himself, then he bears purpose heavier than we suspect. To wait five days is to give him the tempo, the beat, the field of battle. No—I will not give him that power. We gear ourselves as if war comes in three. If he arrives later, then his tardiness only gives us force."

He reclined, his tone hardening, commanding the air in the tent.

Gary's jaw clenched. "Lower? Lower than the bottom of war. War has no 'lower.' Every drop of blood counts. Every sword. I will not stand by and watch my men wither away as I do nothing."

The counselor cleared his throat once more, warily. "And strategy, my king? What of the battlefield itself? If Aurelian advances east, then he will arrive at us at the river crossing. It is constricted, but not blocked. If he arrives there with his full might—

Gary held up a hand, stilling him. "The river will be his proving ground. We will not face him directly across its waters. We will turn the crossing into a sword. When he sets one foot on our shore, his unit has to break. We will be there, lying in wait, not in desperation but in control."

Edric leaned back on one shoulder, frowning. "So an ambush?"

Gary's black eyes sparkled. "Not an ambush. A crucifixion."

The word hung heavy, cold.

Another general shifted forward, his hands clenching on his knees. "But my king—our men are still shattered. Many of them can't even hold their arms. If Aurelian moves quicker than we anticipated—"

"Then," Gary cut in, his tone like steel, "we greet him with what we have. And we make what we have sufficient."

There was silence. The fire spat once, sending sparks into the air.

Gary sat back, his green locks spilling freely around his neck. His eyes relaxed only a little as he surveyed the tent, at the men's faces that hung in expectation for him to form their hopelessness.

"Listen carefully," he told them, his voice drawn out, intentional. "You all think of Aurelian as a shadow. A man who never moves from his throne, who stays hidden and sends others to die in his place.". If he now marches himself, then something has changed. He does not do so for fame. He does not do so aimlessly. Whatever he brings—it will not be wanton. It will be the bite of a serpent which has waited years to insert its fangs.

He hesitated, allowing the idea to sink in, allowing them all to picture the peril. And then he continued, quieter, but every phrase burning into them like flames.

"And that is why… if we are to live, we shall have to be fire itself."

No one uttered a word. Not even Edric.

"First—first, we heal. Every man, every commander. My medicines shall work throughout the nights if they have to. No excuse. Second—we take our wounded out of range of the eastern line. I will not allow their shrieks to shatter the morale of the men who march. Third—we stockpile supplies as if tomorrow were the start of the siege. Food, water, blades—everything within reach."

He leaned forward, voice falling low. "And finally… we sow rumors. We show Moonstone's scouts weakness. Let them believe that we are shattered, broken, barely clinging to breath. Let Aurelian advance believing that he kills a dying monstrosity."

A ghost of a smile danced upon his lips, cruel and keen. "And when his sword falls… we demonstrate the beast was waiting with jaws agape."

The generals locked eyes, uncertain but with a spark they had never before possessed.

Edric's gaze stayed on Gary, inscrutable. His lips compressed, then curved slightly. "You play with fire. If the rumors get around too well, your troops may believe them, too.

His eyes locked on his. "Then I remind them myself who they're following." His tone was low, menacing, intimate, as if shared with Edric alone. "And if they still have doubts… I will burn the doubt out of them."

The tent became heavy once more, each man lowering his head. They had witnessed Gary's fury. They had experienced his aura suffocate the air from their lungs. None doubted that he might consume their fear through brute power alone.

The evening dragged on. Plans changed like pawns on a board. Maps were spread out, drawn on, erased, rewritten. Gear was counted. Scouts were sent out. And through it all, Gary's voice rode over them, combining command with threat, hope with steel.

The brazier smoldered low, shadows stretching long over the tent. And yet the council did not end. Each time they were about to be silent, Gary was speaking once more, pushing deeper, compelling them to think not five days, but three. Compelling them to think survival was not luck, but will.

Outside, wind bit cold at canvas. Within, before Gary's black eyes and green hair that flickered fire, war itself already was underway.