This.
“You adjusted quickly,” he says after a moment, glancing at me.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he replies.
I glance at him.
“You chose this,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looks ahead, then back at me, something faintly amused settling into his expression.
“Because you matter,” he says.
I let that sit.
Then shake my head slightly.
“Not the way you think,” I reply.
He laughs, quiet and genuine in a way that makes it worse.
“We’ll see,” he says again.
When the villagecomes into view, it’s from the wrong side.
From his side.
The defenses are visible, the movement along the lines, the structure still holding despite the pressure—and then they see me.
The shift is immediate.
Sharp.
Perfect.
Krago lifts his hand slightly, signaling the halt, his eyes never leaving the reaction ahead.
“Now,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the satisfaction in his tone quiet but unmistakable. “This is where it becomes useful.”
28
VERR
The line is still holding when I realize something is wrong, and that realization doesn’t come from what’s breaking but from what isn’t. The pressure has shifted, not diminished, and the absence of force in one section draws my attention faster than any direct assault would. The rhythm of impact has changed, coming in shorter bursts, more controlled, like something beyond the barricade has decided to stop testing the structure and start working around it instead.
I step back just enough to widen my view, my blade still angled forward as I track the movement along the outer edge. Orcs continue pressing in uneven clusters, nagas still slipping through weak points along the flanks, but the center—the place that should be under the heaviest strain—has thinned in a way that doesn’t match the rest of the engagement. It isn’t collapse. It’s intent.
“Kareth,” I call without raising my voice.
He’s beside me quickly, his breathing controlled through effort, not ease, his shoulders tight from sustained engagement. “I see it,” he says, his gaze already moving where mine is. “They’re easing pressure through the center.”
“They’re not easing,” I reply, shifting my footing as another strike glances off my blade. “They’re redirecting.”
