Meanwhile on the other side where the Alpher was, The war room buzzed with voices—generals debating, strategists adjusting plans—but Caidren barely heard them.
He had given the order. The battle would begin at dawn. And it would end in two days.
His soldiers had blinked at him in surprise, but no one dared question him outright. Two days. That was all he would give them to secure victory. No prolonged sieges, no careful maneuvers to wear the enemy down. A swift, ruthless strike. Overwhelming force.
It was reckless. It was aggressive. It was unlike him.
And yet, no one objected.
Because he was Caidren.
Because when he spoke, they obeyed.
Because no one but Dain truly saw the crack beneath the surface.
No one else noticed the way his grip tightened at the mention of Elias. No one else saw the way his unease was not with the battle ahead—but with something he had left behind.
Someone.
Caidren forced the thought from his mind.
This was not about the boy.
It could not be about the boy.
The First Day of War
The battlefield was chaos.
Caidren did not hesitate. He fought with ruthless efficiency, cutting down his enemies with the ease of a man who had done this a thousand times before. His forces moved like a storm, a wave of steel and fire crashing against the enemy line.
The battle unfolded exactly as it should.
Yet still—something felt wrong.
It wasn't the enemy. They were losing ground, retreating just as predicted. It wasn't his men—though they moved with a desperation he had not expected, perhaps driven by the urgency of his command.
No.
It was something deeper.
Something missing.
By nightfall, half the enemy's defenses had crumbled. His officers expected him to be pleased.
But Caidren did not smile.
He did not drink in the victory, did not relish the blood-soaked success.
Instead, he called for another assault.
Push harder. Win faster.
He did not rest that night.
Neither did his men.
And Dain—watching him from the shadows—laughed under his breath.
The Second Day
The enemy did not stand a chance.
By noon, their forces were scattered, their leaders dead. The last remnants were surrendering, falling to their knees in the snow.
Victory was his.
Two days.
Exactly as he had ordered.
The battlefield was his. The war was his.
So why did he still feel like he had lost something?
Caidren stood at the edge of the field, staring at the remnants of the battle. His men cheered. The enemy lay broken. The blood of the fallen stained the snow beneath his boots.
And yet—
The unease in his chest had not faded.
If anything, it had grown worse.
Dain approached, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "Well," he mused, "you got what you wanted. A quick victory. No wasted time."
Caidren said nothing.
Dain's smirk deepened. "Strange, though," he continued, tone light. "You fight as if something is pulling you away. As if your mind is somewhere else."
Caidren turned, fixing him with a cold stare. "Be careful, Dain."
Dain only grinned. "Careful? Of what, exactly?" He tilted his head. "Or who?"
Caidren didn't respond.
He didn't have to.
Because at that moment, a messenger arrived—breathless, shivering, half-frozen from travel.
And the words he spoke sent an unfamiliar chill down Caidren's spine.
"My lord—Elias is gone."