The Immortal General

The massive ironwood gates of Bastion Cael Jena groaned shut, the sound a heavy, final punctuation to the brutal skirmish. The last of the Banner of the Claw and the Silvan Army filed through, their armor spattered with black orc blood, their faces grim. The air in the courtyard was thick with the scent of sweat, steel, and exhaustion. They had returned, but the taste of victory was bitter.

General Voron strode across the courtyard, his movements stiff with controlled fury. He met Arlan as the Grand Marshal dismounted from Kage, his own face a mask of cold analysis.

"Grand Marshal," Voron's voice was a low growl, barely contained. "That was not the plan. You signaled a full retreat when we had the momentum. Kroggnar's legion was beginning to break. Why did you pull us back?"

Arlan removed his helmet, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He met the general's accusatory gaze without flinching. "Because the battle changed, General. We didn't have the momentum; we were about to be killed in a trap."

He turned as Savage and Frej approached, their own expressions dark. Savage slammed the butt of his greataxe into the stone ground in frustration. "Arlan's right. Those bastards… they just kept getting stronger. We'd cut one down, and two more would take its place, fighting with even more ferocity. It wasn't natural."

Arlan nodded, his eyes scanning the faces of his weary commanders. "I underestimated him. Ghor-Thak isn't just an Orc Hero. He's a Holder… He has a Regalia."

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Voron's eyes widened in dawning horror. "A Holder? An orc?"

"The Unbroken Tyrant's Regalia," Arlan confirmed, his voice flat. "It empowers his entire army. The longer they fight, the stronger they become. We weren't just fighting fifteen thousand orcs, General. We were fighting an army that was constantly being reinforced by its commander. A prolonged battle would have been heavy losses across both your forces and mine."

A heavy silence fell over the assembled officers. The elation from their initial success had evaporated, replaced by the chilling reality of what they truly faced.

"Still," Voron finally conceded, his voice rough with grudging respect, "we inflicted heavy casualties. Over two thousand of their warriors fell, and we lost not a single soldier. That alone is a victory my men haven't seen in months."

"Definitely," Arlan added, the strain evident in his voice. "But I can't sustain that kind of mana output for an entire army indefinitely, I was losing more mana than I was drawing from Eternus, which speaks volumes at the threat these orcs pose." He looked past Voron, his strategic mind already shifting to the next move. "But we also managed to complete our objective. The supply depot we destroyed will slow them down a great deal."

Yuna stepped forward, her expression troubled. "But what now? We can't face them in a pitched battle if his Regalia makes them stronger over time."

"No, we can't," Arlan agreed, a cold, calculating light entering his eyes. "A conventional war is a losing war. So, we will not fight one." He turned to face his strike team, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "We're going to change the rules of the game."

"Our gambit at the feast was a success," Thalion stated, pacing the heartwood floor of his study. His usual calm was edged with a predator's satisfaction. "The Southern Houses are wavering. Lady Elara and Lord Finian are already mobilizing their own networks to verify the casualty reports. Alveri's foundation is cracking."

Emmeline, her regal poise unshaken, added, "But a cornered viper is at its most dangerous. She will not take this slight sitting down."

Before the discussion could continue, an elven servant entered, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. "Princess Emmeline," he announced, his voice a nervous whisper, "Lord Finian and Lady Elara have answered your summons. They await you in the receiving chamber."

Emmeline's expression hardened into one of cold, regal command. She turned to Yanie, her voice a stark contrast to her earlier diplomatic grace. "It's time they saw the true face of the queen they are funding. We will show them the butcher's bill."

The receiving chamber was a masterpiece of elven design, its walls carved from the living wood of the great tree, glowing softly with an internal light that cast long, dancing shadows.

Lord Finian and Lady Elara stood by a large crystalline window overlooking the moonlit city, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and deep concern. They were the two most powerful and respected leaders of the neutral Southern Houses; their support was the key to a bloodless coup.

"Princess Emmeline, Lady Yanie," Lord Finian began, his voice calm and measured. His simple silk robes belied the immense wealth and influence he commanded. "Your summons were… unexpected. I trust this matter is as urgent as your messenger implied. Our houses do not take kindly to being summoned like servants."

Lady Elara, her sharp eyes missing nothing, added a more personal note, her voice a low, melodious hum that held the strength of ancient forests. "We are here out of respect for your mother's memory, Yanie. But our loyalty is to the stability of Firane. Queen Alveri's methods may be… distasteful, but she holds the throne. Chaos serves no one's interests, least of all those of us who have built our fortunes on peace."

Emmeline stepped forward, the rolled scroll held tightly in her hand like a weapon. She didn't bother with pleasantries. "Lady Elara, Lord Finian, you speak of stability. I ask you, what stability is there in a kingdom that devours its own children for the sake of a lie?"

She unfurled the scroll on a polished heartwood table. It was the "butcher's bill" Nightingale had acquired—a grim, detailed accounting of the true losses on the northeastern front. The neat columns of figures, the names of fallen soldiers, the lists of depleted supplies—they stood in stark contrast to the glorious victories Alveri's court had been proclaiming.

Finian's eyes scanned the document, his calm facade finally cracking. His hand, usually steady, trembled slightly as he pointed to a specific entry. "The Sixth Regiment… She reported a successful tactical retreat with acceptable losses. This says… this says there were fewer than fifty survivors." His voice was a choked whisper.

"They were massacred," Yanie said, her voice quiet but filled with a cold fury that resonated through the chamber. "Sent into a known Orc stronghold with no support and inadequate supplies. My uncle's own sources have confirmed it. This is not war, my lords. It is a purge."

Lady Elara looked from the scroll to Yanie, her expression hardening. She traced a finger over the name of a young captain from a house sworn to her own. "The son of House Sylva… his father was told he died a hero, leading a charge that broke the orc line." Her voice was laced with ice. "This report states he and his men were used as bait, abandoned to be encircled while another unit retreated." She looked up, her eyes blazing. "The Queen has been bleeding the Northern Houses dry, using the orcs as her executioners. We had our suspicions, but this…" She shook her head, a look of profound disgust on her face. "This is a betrayal of every oath she swore to protect this kingdom."

Emmeline pressed the advantage. "And for what? Her ambition to invade the Free Cities of Yura? We are all aware of her intentions. But one thing does not make sense." She paused, trying to understand. "Why would she needlessly sacrifice thousands of her best soldiers? It would only weaken her position for her invasion of the Free Cities of Yura; she would be left with a hollowed-out army. It is a fool's gambit."

A heavy silence filled the room as the two neutral nobles grappled with the chilling logic of her words. It was Lucius who broke the silence. He had been standing quietly in the corner, his artifact goggles glowing faintly as he studied the distant spire of the Arborea through the crystalline window.

"It is not a fool's gambit," he stated, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made everyone turn. "Not if the soldiers' deaths are the true objective."

Thalion's eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself, Artificer."

"While you were all engaged in your… political theater," Lucius began, "I was observing the Arborea. There is a parasitic enchantment woven into its very life essence. A demonic seal. It is pulsing with a corrupt energy, a sickly purple haze that is invisible to the naked eye. It's feeding on something, growing stronger with each passing day."

JD and Chrysta exchanged a look of dawning horror. The memory of their time in the Grand Archives, of Kuro's chilling revelations, came flooding back.

"The Malum Incarnate," Chrysta added, "Kuro told us at the Grand Archives… he believed the Malum Incarnate might try to resurrect Adaneus by sparking wars across Althea. He said that when a person dies, their core shatters and their essence travels to another plane. If enough essence is gathered, Adaneus could be brought back." Her brow furrowed in confusion. "But that doesn't make sense. The ancient texts said Adaneus stood with the Ashra, against war."

JD's voice was grim as he connected the pieces. "Maybe the Malum Incarnate's goals aren't what we thought. Or maybe they're twisting the legend for their own ends. Either way, Alveri is sacrificing Silvan soldiers to power that… thing. The war isn't about territory or wealth. It's a harvest."

The room grew cold. The true, monstrous scale of Alveri's plan was now terrifyingly clear. Lord Finian looked physically ill, while Lady Elara's face was a mask of cold, righteous fury.

Just as the full weight of this revelation settled, a section of the room's deepest shadows detached itself from the wall. Nightingale materialized, a silent specter in the dim light. She knelt before Emmeline, a single, sealed scroll held in her hand.

"Princess," Nightingale's voice was a low, urgent whisper. "An update. A kill order has been issued from within the Arborea. The targets are numerous. All of them are you." She gestured to the entire group. "But the primary target is Lady Yanie."

Emmeline took the scroll, her knuckles white as she broke the seal. It was a list of names, a death warrant for every member of their party, with Yanie's at the very top.

"They're not waiting for a political solution," JD growled, his hand resting on the hilt of one of his longswords.

"They can't afford to," Thalion said, his voice cold. "We have exposed them. Now they will try to silence us permanently."

Nightingale rose, her posture sharp and precise. "I am already investigating the matter with my Panthers. The assassins are Inquisitors, and they will likely make their move tomorrow evening, under the cover of the new moon."

Lady Elara, her face a mask of cold fury, turned to Lord Finian. "This is no longer a matter of politics or stability. This is a battle for the very soul of Firane. We cannot stand by while our people are sacrificed to demons and the rightful heir is hunted in the streets."

Lord Finian met her gaze, his own eyes burning with a righteous anger that had finally broken through his pragmatic reserve. He looked from the butcher's bill to Yanie, then to Emmeline. His decision was made.

"Princess Emmeline, Lady Yanie," he began, his voice now ringing with an authority that had been absent before. "You have shown us the truth, however ugly it may be. The Southern Houses will no longer stand neutral while our kingdom is bled dry to feed a demon." He turned to Lady Elara, who gave a firm, resolute nod. "We will support your claim to the throne, Lady Yanie. We will send riders to the other neutral houses tonight. We will show them this proof. Queen Alveri's reign of terror ends now."

The alliance was forged. But even as they solidified their political victory, the shadows of Sylabell were gathering, preparing to strike.

That evening, Arlan stood on the highest battlement of Bastion Cael Jena, the wind a cold, biting presence that whipped at his red cloak. The sun had long since set, leaving the rugged peaks of the northern frontier silhouetted against a sky awash with a brilliant, star-dusted aurora.

The ethereal greens and purples of the celestial lights danced above, a breathtaking sight that did little to ease the tension in his heart. The day's brutal engagement had been a victory, but a costly one in terms of expended energy and the stark revelation of Ghor-Thak's true power.

A shadow detached itself from the stone wall behind him, coalescing into the familiar, silent form of an Umbra. "Master Arlan," the agent whispered, kneeling without a sound. "A report from Sylabell."

"Speak." ordered Arlan without turning.

"The political climate in the capital has shifted, Master Arlan," the Umbra began, her voice a low, dispassionate monotone. "Lord Commander JD engaged Lord Selin in a duel during the feast at Lord Finian's estate. The engagement lasted less than three seconds. Lord Selin was rendered unconscious by a non-lethal blow from the Lord Commander's pommel. The public humiliation was… significant. Queen Alveri's faction has lost face."

A faint, grim smile touched Arlan's lips. "That sounds like JD. What of the Princess and Lady Yanie?"

"They performed flawlessly, Master. Princess Emmeline used the opportunity to champion the strength of the Midland-Firane alliance, while Lady Yanie's presence alone reminded many of Queen Luell's reign. The seeds of doubt have been successfully sown among the neutral Southern Houses."

"And the butcher's bill?" Arlan asked, his voice hardening slightly.

"Delivered as planned," the Umbra confirmed. "Lord Finian and Lady Elara were shown the true casualty reports. Their reaction was… decisive. They have convened a secret council and are mobilizing their networks. They now view the war on this front not as a defense, but as a deliberate purge orchestrated by the Queen."

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"Good," Arlan murmured. The pieces were falling into place just as he had anticipated. He knew Alveri would not take such a direct challenge to her authority lying down. "Has the Queen made her move?"

The Umbra's posture grew even more still. "She has issued a kill order from within the Arborea. Nightingale and the Panthers intercepted the directive. The targets are your entire retinue in the city, but the primary target is Lady Yanie."

Arlan's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. "I understand killing Yanie but if they kill Princess Emmeline, that would be an act of war… What about the assassins?"

"Four of the Queen's most elite Inquisitors. They are to strike tomorrow evening, under the cover of the new moon," the Umbra reported.

Arlan was silent for a moment, the aurora above reflecting in his cold, calculating eyes. He had left his best people in Sylabell for precisely this reason. Their war was one of whispers and shadows, his was one of steel and blood.

"They're handling it?" he finally asked, the question a statement of confidence rather than a query.

"Lord Commander JD has already convened a council with the others," the Umbra answered. "Lucius is preparing a counter-ambush within Lord Thalion's estate as we speak. They are aware of the threat and are prepared to meet it."

A faint, grim smile returned to Arlan's lips. "Good," he murmured. "My trust in them is well-placed. If there's nothing else, you're dismissed."
The Umbra vanished as silently as she had appeared, melting back into the shadows of the fortress. The news didn't worry him; he had left a pack of wolves to deal with the Queen's vipers. He had his own beasts to hunt.

Footsteps crunched on the stone floor behind him. It was Erin, his face etched with the weariness of the day's battle, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "An Umbra? Is everything alright?"

Arlan finally turned, leaning against the cold stone of the parapet. He offered a rare, small smile. "I just received a report from the capital. It seems JD made quite an impression on the Silvan nobility."

Erin let out a low whistle. "How?"

"During a duel, he knocked out one of the Queen's most vocal supporters with the pommel of his sword in the middle of a feast."

Erin's face broke into a wide, genuine grin. "That sounds like JD. Never one for subtlety. I'm surprised he didn't challenge the whole room to a drinking contest afterward." His smile faded, replaced by the grim reality of their own situation. He looked out over the dark plains, the aurora reflecting in his eyes. "How are we going to win this, Arlan? Against Ghor-Thak… what I saw today… They fought like the mutated rebel beasts during the War of the Great Houses."

"I'll find a way," Arlan said simply, his gaze distant, his mind already churning through strategies and possibilities.

The sound of metal scraping against a whetstone drew their attention. A few feet away, Savage sat cross-legged, the massive form of his blacksteel greataxe resting across his lap. He worked the stone along the blade with a steady, rhythmic motion, his eyes closed in concentration, the very picture of a warrior at peace in the quiet moments before the storm.

"Slaying formidable foes is why I follow you," Savage rumbled. "That Orc Hero's power is not of this world."

"He is strong," Arlan admitted. "But strength isn't everything. There is always a way to win. Ghor-Thak is still an orc at the end of the day. While he relies on the raw power of his Regalia to crush his enemies. His command over the orcs is bound by their traditions. That may be the way to win. Earlier today, that Orc Aspirant Shaman challenged me to a duel. Maybe we can learn if there's some kind of tradition behind that."

Savage grunted, a flicker of interest in his otherwise focused expression. "A duel… An honorable death is a prize in itself. If their chieftains are bound by such a code, it is a vulnerability we can exploit." He opened one eye, a predatory gleam within it. "But to challenge that Orc Hero… You're a true warrior Arlan."

"People die for traditions as well," Erin interjected.

Arlan turned his gaze from the horizon to his two commanders. "Their tradition is a weapon we can turn against them. A duel forces their hand, it bypasses the grinding attrition of a full-scale battle where his Regalia gives him the advantage. It's a risk, but it's a calculated one."

Savage let out a low chuckle, resuming the steady scrape of his whetstone. "A risk worthy of a true chieftain. You think like a Hek-Jefah, Arlan. You seek the heart of the enemy, not just the limbs." He looked up, his expression serious for a moment. "But do not mistake their honor for weakness. An orc chieftain fighting for his life, with the eyes of his horde upon him… he will be a cornered beast with nothing to lose."

"I'm counting on it," Arlan replied, a cold confidence in his voice. "A cornered beast is a predictable one. And predictability can be defeated."

Erin watched the two of them—one a general whose mind was a battlefield of strategy, the other a warrior who saw glory in every clash—and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. The weight of the day, of all the days before it, settled upon him. "I keep seeing them, you know," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "Trent… Mahari… Roderic… Dimitri. When we were fighting today, I could almost feel Trent's sword in my other hand, like he was still right there with me, yelling at me to keep my shield up."

Savage stopped sharpening his axe, his eyes finally opening to look at Erin with a rare expression of understanding. The usual fire in his gaze was banked, replaced by a quiet solemnity. "The fallen walk with us," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "It is the way of the Hek-Jefah. We carry the spirits of our ancestors into battle. Their strength becomes our own. Your friends have not left you, Erin. They have merely changed their form."

Arlan nodded, his own gaze turning inward, the aurora above forgotten. "I see them too. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, when the world narrows to just the next swing, the next parry… I see images of them… of Noah… of all the men we've lost. For a moment, it feels like they're fighting beside us, pushing us forward."

Erin looked from Arlan to Savage, a flicker of something other than grief in his eyes—a shared, somber connection. "So I'm not going mad then. It felt so real. I could hear Trent's voice, clear as day, telling me to watch my flank. And for a second... I saw Dimitri on my right, just for a moment."

"They were there," Savage stated with absolute certainty. "Their spirits are bound to you, to this banner. They fight on through you. It is the greatest honor a warrior can have—to lend his strength to his brothers even after his heart has stopped beating." He looked at his own massive, scarred hands. "I carry the strength of my father, and his father before him. Their battles are my battles."

Arlan's expression grew more contemplative as he processed Savage's words. It wasn't a concept he had encountered on Terra, where death was a final, clinical end. But here, with magic and essence weaving through the very fabric of existence, perhaps it was possible. "I saw them too," he confessed, his voice quieter now. "During the final battle at Eisanyr, when I fought Luther. It felt like their hands were on my own, pushing me forward when I had nothing left." He paused, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "I don't know if it's my mind playing tricks on me, or if… they're somehow still connected to my core."

'My liege,' Sophia's voice resonated in his mind, calm and analytical. 'While I cannot confirm the nature of these phenomena, I do detect significant fluctuations in your core's output during these moments. It is possible that the residual Avens Power within you, a force known to bridge the planes of existence, is creating a temporary echo of their essence. A manifestation of your will and memory.'

"They were there," Savage stated with absolute certainty. "Their spirits are bound to you, to this banner. They fight on through you. It is the greatest honor a warrior can have—to lend his strength to his brothers even after his heart has stopped beating." He looked at his own massive, scarred hands. "I carry the strength of my father, and his father before him. Their battles are my battles."

Arlan's expression grew more contemplative as he processed Savage's words. It wasn't a concept he had encountered on Terra, where death was a final, clinical end. But here, with magic and essence weaving through the very fabric of existence, perhaps it was possible. "I saw them too," he confessed, his voice quieter now. "During the final battle at Eisanyr, when I fought Luther. It felt like their hands were on my own, pushing me forward when I had nothing left." He paused, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "I don't know if it's my mind playing tricks on me, or if… they're somehow still connected to my core."

'My liege,' Sophia's voice resonated in his mind, calm and analytical. 'While I cannot confirm the nature of these phenomena, I do detect significant fluctuations in your core's output during these moments. It is possible that the residual Avens Power within you, a force known to bridge the planes of existence, is creating a temporary echo of their essence. A manifestation of your will and memory.'

In the fortress's makeshift armory, the air was cool and still, a stark contrast to the chaotic din of the earlier battle. The scent of whetstone dust, weapon oil, and old leather hung heavy. Racks of chipped elven blades and dented shields stood in silent rows, testaments to the brutal attrition of the northern front. Here, amidst the tools of war, Niren sought a moment of quiet ritual.

He was meticulously polishing his silver kite shield, the holy sigil of Numen gleaming in the flickering torchlight. His movements were slow, deliberate, and rhythmic—less a task of maintenance and more a form of meditation.

The quiet scrape of the oiled cloth on the mithril-laced steel was the only sound, a steady cadence that seemed to push back against the lingering echoes of orcish war cries. Each circular motion was a prayer, a reaffirmation of his purpose, a cleansing of the darkness the shield had deflected that day.

The quiet was broken by the soft, hesitant footsteps of a new presence. It was Yuna, her bo staff held loosely in one hand. She stood at the entrance for a moment, her posture a mixture of determination and vulnerability as she watched the paladin's focused work. She seemed to be gathering her courage before finally stepping into the dim light.

"Sir Niren," she began, her tone respectful but direct, cutting through the silence without shattering it. "May I ask you something?"

Niren paused, his hand stilling on the shield's surface. He looked up, his expression calm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the fierce warrior he had been on the battlefield. He carefully set the shield down, leaning it against a weapon rack. "Of course, Lady Yuna. Please."

Yuna walked closer, her gaze fixed on the gleaming shield. "That spell you used today… the one that shielded the Vanguard during the retreat. I've never seen holy magic used to project a barrier of that size and strength. The amount of mana required would drain an ordinary mage in seconds, yet you held it as if it were nothing. How did you do it?"

A humble smile touched Niren's lips. He picked up his cloth again, not to polish, but to hold, as if the familiar texture grounded him. "It is not my strength, Lady Yuna, but the power of the Archangel Regalia. It allows me to channel Numen's will without the usual constraints of mana. Think of it not as me casting a spell, but as me opening a conduit. The Regalia is the key, and faith is the hand that turns it. It is a gift, one that I must use to protect others."

Yuna looked at her own staff, the arcane runes glowing faintly in the torchlight. A flicker of self-doubt crossed her eyes, a shadow that seemed out of place on the face of such a powerful warrior. "My magic… it feels so… direct. Destructive." Her voice was quieter now, her confidence wavering. "On the field today, I shattered their ranks. I broke their charge. But all I did was destroy. I can fight, but I can't protect people the way you or Fiala can. I feel like I'm the wildfire, while you and Fiala are the river that puts it out. I can only burn things down."

"Every warrior has their role," Niren said gently. He took a step closer, his presence a calming anchor in the dimly lit room. "You see your power as destruction, but I see it differently. Your strength lies in your fierce resolve, your ability to strike down evil before it can harm others. That is a form of protection in itself. A river cannot save a village if the wildfire has already consumed it. You are the one who stops the fire before it spreads."

He gestured with his hand, as if painting a picture of the battle they had just endured. "I saw you on the field today, Lady Yuna. You did not hesitate. Your spells were the storm that broke their charge, the lightning that cleared the path. Your power creates the space for healers like Fiala to work, for shields like mine to hold. Without the spear, the shield is meaningless. It can only delay the inevitable."

Yuna looked up, her gaze meeting him. The turmoil in her eyes began to settle, replaced by a dawning understanding.

Niren's voice softened, but his words held an unshakable conviction. "You are the storm that clears the path for the light. Do not doubt your purpose. Numen grants us all different gifts. Mine is to endure. Yours is to strike. Both are essential. Both are noble."

Yuna looked up, a small, grateful smile on her face. The burden she had been carrying, the quiet fear that her only purpose was to destroy, began to lift. "Thank you, Sir Niren. I… I needed to hear that." She stood a little taller, the doubt in her eyes replaced by a familiar, fiery resolve. "Then I will be the sharpest spear you've ever seen."

Niren returned her smile, a look of profound respect in his eyes. "I have no doubt about it, Lady Yuna. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, turning back to his shield, "I must finish my prayers. The dawn will bring another battle."

The dining hall of Bastion Cael Jena, usually a place of grim, quiet meals, was alive with a boisterous energy it hadn't known in months. The arrival of Jovann's supplies meant full bellies and high spirits. Elven soldiers, who had been subsisting on hardtack and watered-down broth, were now feasting on roasted boar and drinking rich, dark ale.

The clatter of mugs and the sound of unrestrained laughter filled the stone hall, a stark, defiant contrast to the oppressive silence of the frontier. The warmth from the hearths and the bodies packed within pushed back against the biting cold of the northern night, creating a pocket of life and camaraderie in a land defined by death.

At a long table in the center of the hall, Kristopher, George, and Michael sat with a group of Silvan rangers, the camaraderie easy and natural despite the differences in their armor and accents. The initial stiffness between the two armies had melted away, forged into a new bond by shared struggle and a shared, unexpected victory.

"I tell you," George said, gesturing with a half-eaten turkey leg, his voice booming over the din, "I thought we were done for when that chieftain's axe came down. My shield was about to give. But then, whoosh! General Arlan just appears out of nowhere, a blur of red and black, and cuts the bastard in half. I've never seen anything like it!"

A ranger with silver-streaked hair, a veteran named Lyren who had been at Voron's side, laughed, raising his mug in a toast. "We've been watching him fight for two days. Every time we think we've seen the extent of his power, he does something even more impossible. He moves like a forest spirit, but strikes like a mountain falling." He took a long, deep drink of ale. "To the Immortal General! May his blade never dull!"

The table erupted in a cheer, mugs clashing together in a chorus of metal and wood. "To the Immortal General!"

Kristopher added with a thoughtful look on his face, "It's not just him, though. The whole Banner… a few days ago, I saw Lieutenant Erin take on three orc brutes at once. He moved like a dancer, his two swords a whirlwind of steel. And that Hek-Jefah warrior, Savage… he's a force of nature. He fights like he's enjoying it."

"Enjoying it?" another elf chimed in. He was a young conscript, his armor still relatively un-dented. "That giant of a man fights like he's possessed by a war god!" He shuddered, a grin spreading across his face. "I've never been so glad to have someone on my side."

Michael grinned with a full-faced expression of pride. "That's our banner. We don't do things by half-measures." He took a sip of his ale, his gaze sweeping over the hall. "Every one of our leaders is a legend in the making. You saw the spearmen today, led by that Gryphon Knight, Lady Frej. She moved like she had wings, even on the ground."

"And their mages!" the young elf added, his voice filled with awe. "The spells they weave… I saw the one they call the Argold Witch paralyze an entire squad with a single word. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once."

George slapped his hand on the table, making the plates jump. "And don't forget the paladin! Sir Niren. He stood in front of a whole platoon of our wounded, shield raised, and not a single orc got past him. It was like watching a storybook hero come to life." He shook his head in disbelief. "This whole banner… they're all monsters."

Kristopher smiled. "They're our monsters."

The camaraderie was infectious. Even General Voron, who usually maintained a stoic distance from his men, was seen sharing a drink with a group of Vanguard sergeants, a rare, gruff laugh escaping his lips. The arrival of the Banner of the Claw and their subsequent victory had done more than just save the fortress; it had rekindled the very spirit of the Silvan army.

Just as the cheers and toasts reached a crescendo, the heavy doors to the dining hall swung open. The sudden silence that followed was more profound than the noise that had preceded it. Arlan and Savage entered, their presence immediately commanding the attention of the entire room. Arlan, in his simple, unadorned uniform, his red cloak draped over his shoulders, seemed to draw all the light in the room to him. Beside him, Savage was a towering mountain of muscle and scars, his greataxe a silent promise of violence.

In an instant, the boisterous hall fell silent. Every soldier, Midlandian and Silvan alike, rose to their feet as one. Their fists came to their chests in a unified, thunderous salute that echoed off the stone walls. It was a gesture of profound, earned respect.

Arlan surveyed the room, a rare, genuine smile on his face. He saw the faces of his men, of the Silvan soldiers they had fought beside, and he saw not just an army, but a brotherhood forged in the crucible of battle. He raised a hand, his voice calm but carrying an authority that needed no volume.

"At ease, soldiers. Tonight, we celebrate a victory. Enjoy it. You've all earned it."