The Western Guard Camp is already awake by the time we return.
Smoke curls from the morning cookfires, the scent of burning wood and salted meat lingering in the damp air. Soldiers move through the pathways, their armours clinking softly, their gazes sharp with the alertness of those who have lived too long on the edge of battle.
And yet—
The moment we step into the camp, I feel it.
The shift.
The weight of attention settling upon us, subtle but undeniable.
They know something happened.
And now, they want answers.
——
We are escorted to a large tent near the command post, where several figures are already waiting.
At the centre stands Captain Cliff (Commander of the Western Guard Camp), his broad form radiating authority without arrogance. His short, cropped hair is streaked with silver, his face lined with age but still as sharp as the blade at his hip.
Seated beside him is Elgriffin (Strategist of the Guard Camp), a man whose calculating gaze reminds me of Edan—except where Edan's curiosity is tempered with humanity, Elgriffin's is pure strategy, pure logic, pure pragmatism.
Across from them, near the side of the tent, I recognize Grusha (Veteran Soldier, Edan's Opponent in the Expedition Council).
His arms are crossed, his stance tense.
Unlike the others, his gaze is not on us.
It is on Edan.
——
"You left the camp without permission," Captain Cliff states, his voice even, measured. "Explain."
Edan steps forward, his posture composed, his expression calm—a man who knows exactly what he is about to say and is prepared to defend it.
"We had to recover a critical document," he says smoothly. "A set of inscriptions that would have been lost forever if we delayed."
He hands the parchment forward.
Captain Cliff takes it, reading carefully.
I can see the way his brows furrow, the way his fingers press against the paper as if weighing the words.
Elgriffin leans slightly, glancing at it from the side.
But it is Grusha—
Grusha, who has been silent until now—
Who finally speaks.
——
"Convenient," he says dryly. "That you just happened to realise their importance after the ruins collapsed."
Edan does not flinch. "Historical sites are unstable. That is the nature of ancient structures."
Grusha scoffs, arms tightening across his chest. "And yet, strangely, every time you get involved, something in history gets buried before anyone else can confirm your findings."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Tell me, Edan." His tone is mild, but his eyes are sharp. "What did you really find?"
——
The air tightens.
I feel every gaze shift subtly toward us, toward Edan, toward the document.
I glance at Elias.
He is calm, unreadable, watching with the faintest trace of amusement—as if this is a game.
But I am not amused.
Because this is not a game.
This is a battlefield.
And these people are not warriors with swords.
They are warriors with words, power, and intent.
——
Grusha's suspicion burns into me, into Edan, into every word written on that parchment.
He does not care for history.
He does not care for the truth.
He cares for control.
For power.
For who gets to decide what history becomes.
And the worst part?
He is not wrong.
——
I keep my expression blank, but inside, my mind turns.
This is just a small camp, a minor force in the grand scheme of this world's powers.
And yet, even here—even among people who should be united against a greater enemy—
There are factions.
There are struggles.
There is ambition.
——
For the first time, I realise something deeply unsettling.
It is not just the world's laws and balances that are breaking.
It is its people.
It is the way they fight for control over knowledge, over history, over things they cannot truly understand but desperately want to claim as their own.
And it is happening everywhere.
Not just in these ruins.
Not just in this camp.
But in every city, every empire, every kingdom.
This is not just a game of survival.
This is a world built on power, manipulation, and war.
And we—
We have just stepped into the heart of it.
——
Edan does not waver.
His voice remains even.
"We recovered what we could," he says. "And this is what remains."
A pause.
Then—
Captain Cliff sighs, setting the parchment down. "It checks out."
Elgriffin nods slightly. "The explanation is reasonable."
But Grusha?
He says nothing.
Only watches.
And in his silence, I realise—
This is not over.