They reached the western camp under a darkening sky. Ragnar was still turning over Arin’s demonstration in his mind, the connections threading themselves into something sharper.

  “I’m exhausted. Let’s take a drink,” Marius suggested.

  “I have reports to handle,” Ragnar said, declining without looking up. Rain began to fall again, light at first, speckling the mud.

  “Shayara,” Ragnar said, turning to her, “you’ve fulfilled the vow of a Crimson Knight. Remember, rest is as important as duty.”

  Her face lit with pride, and she nodded. Yet in the back of her mind, the memory lingered. That ghastly aura around the Prophet. The Prophet was the anchor of all that was holy. How could it be wrong? Had she misread it?

  Her doubts were cut short by Ragnar’s voice. “Do not doubt yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Marius added with a smirk, “you did good for a fledgling.”

  She bowed and took her leave, clutching the crimson cloak close. Her stride carried more purpose now, each step measured with determination.

  Ragnar and Marius returned toward the General’s quarters. Around them, soldiers hurried to their tents, the rain hissing as it put out the last of the open campfires.

  From the shadows, a figure emerged. It was Grahm, Brahm’s younger brother.

  “General…” Grahm paused, pulling a small medal from his satchel. “Brahm would want you to have this, Sir. He won it in a running tournament when we were kids. Said he wanted to show you someday. Always bragged he was fast enough for anything.”

  His voice faltered. Ragnar took the medal in silence. Thunder rolled overhead.

  “I—” Ragnar began, then stopped. “I solemnly vow I will end this, Grahm.”

  “I know, Sir.”

  Grahm handed over the medal and walked away into the rain.

  “We have to win this, Ragnar. For them,” Marius said quietly. His usual grin was gone. “The Prophet, what do you think? Necromancer? Or Shraak’s plot?”

  “Don’t know,” Ragnar said. “Too little information. First, we deal with Moloch. Even if I have to pierce through the Veil itself, I will become a demigod, and defeat him.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Marius chuckled, though it lacked its usual edge. “But… what the Prophet said”

  Shayara’s words echoed in Ragnar’s mind. His Holiness said… they’ll win regardless.

  Back in his tent, Ragnar sat alone, a rare moment of quiet after the chaos of the battlefield. He closed his eyes and the images returned unbidden. The clash of steel. The roar of artillery spells. The stench of blood-soaked mud heavy in the air.

  The scene shifted. Arabus’s smug face. The Prophet’s blank stare. The lines on his face seemed deeper, but it was his eyes that froze him.

  Dead eyes.

  Ragnar sat up abruptly. How had he missed it? Perhaps his focus had been too fixed on Arabus. Eyes were not easily disguised, and these had held a darkness behind them, something cold and unnatural. It confirmed Shayara’s words.

  But how? The Prophet was the most secure person in the Kingdom, even more protected than the King himself. How could such a thing be possible? And where were the gods in all of this?

  For the first time, Ragnar felt his faith waver. Did the gods want Arcadia to fall? The thought struck like a hammer blow. His magic had always been called a gift from the gods; it was what he had been taught since childhood. All his life, he had believed that faith in the Crown of Radiance would keep him strong, that he could shield Arcadia from its enemies.

  But if the gods themselves were against him… how could he win?

  A crack of thunder tore through the silence, jolting him back. Ragnar tightened his resolve. Now or never.

  He rose and pulled a worn, leather-bound diary from the shelf—his private notes on the Law of Causality, a project he had researched in secret since his days at the academy.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Ragnar began to scribble across the diary’s worn pages, sigils layered over sigils, muttering under his breath. “Law of Regression… Law of Causality… what about reversal of states? How do they connect?”

  As time passed, the lines grew sharper, more deliberate. A faint hum began to rise from the pages themselves, as though the parchment remembered every stroke. Ragnar’s mind edged closer to grasping something, an underlying truth just beyond reach.

  Arin’s words echoed in his thoughts. There is no single objective reality for everyone. Faith. Belief. He could almost see the thread binding them to the Laws.

  A sudden, thundering roar shattered his focus. Ragnar jolted upright, he had fallen asleep in his chair, slumped over his notes. Outside, the camp stirred in a growing frenzy; the din of voices and hurried footsteps filled the air.

  The flap of his tent shifted, and a young soldier peeked through. “General… may I come in?”

  Ragnar gestured for the soldier to enter.

  “Commander Johan, Boris, and Farlow have taken charge and are leading the troops at the front. Commander Gray is posted as vanguard, while Commander Marius sent this report, Sir.”

  The soldier stepped forward and handed over a folded note. Ragnar dismissed him with a nod.

  Unfolding it, he read:

  The news of Moloch being a demigod is highly probable. Scouts reconfirmed. Plans to set the Drake Diablo on them are underway. Current estimate of Moloch’s arrival is twenty-six hours. Other commanders can handle the fighting. Continue figuring out the demigod stuff.

  Ragnar lit the lantern on his table, watching the flame waver in the draft. Without hesitation, he held the note over it. The parchment blackened, curling inward as fire consumed it.

  Arin’s words returned to him once more. There is no single objective reality for everyone.

  “How does belief and faith empower magic?” Ragnar murmured to himself.

  Fresh from his tent, Ragnar stepped into the chill morning air. Healers moved briskly between the wounded, their hands glowing faintly as they worked. A few soldiers sat or lay on the ground, still exhausted from the day before.

  The erratic rhythm of footsteps was broken by the deep, thundering boom of artillery spells in the distance. Overhead, the morning sky flashed with streaks of magic as mages loosed their power.

  In the shadow of a supply cart, Ragnar spotted Grahm sitting alone, his eyes fixed on the ground. When he noticed Ragnar, he rose to his feet.

  “General,” Grahm said firmly, “I will not fall. I’ll return to my mum. I’m resting now, but once my strength returns, I’ll heal my brothers here. I will not let them die. So do not worry about us. Win the battle.”

  Ragnar’s stern expression softened into a genuine smile. In Grahm’s voice, he heard no fear, only resolve.

  Even if the gods abandoned him, Ragnar knew he would not abandon his comrades. He would win.

  Ragnar scanned the camp. Soldiers moved constantly along the mud-laden paths, carrying supplies, weapons, and the wounded. Then a thought struck him—Shayara.

  She was a prodigy in magic, but not yet a soldier. Still, he had seen her determination—to fight for Arcadia, for their people… for him. He hadn’t seen her anywhere in camp. A sinking feeling told him she might have volunteered for the front lines. She might look meek, but he had felt the fire in her resolve.

  He saddled up and rode toward the vanguard.

  “Commander Gray!” Ragnar called.

  “General,” Gray replied, saluting. “The vanguard is stable. There's nothing to worry about. Report from the front line says the enemy isn’t advancing today. They’re mostly on the defensive. After we countered their illusion spell, I think their morale’s a bit low.” Gray smirked.

  That’s not correct, Ragnar thought. Marius’s report said their morale was high due to Moloch’s approach.

  “Relay to the front line: this is nothing but a ploy,” Ragnar ordered. “Moloch is advancing with a troop. Do not get overconfident.”

  Gray’s smirk faded. He saluted sharply. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Also… have you seen a young woman? Early twenties, about this height, dark brown hair. Meek at first glance. A student of the academy.”

  Gray looked surprised. The General rarely asked about specific students. “No, Sir. I can ask around.”

  He dashed over to a small group of soldiers. Ragnar noted their posture immediately, students.

  Within moments, Gray returned. “Not certain, but someone matching that description went with a scout team toward the midsection. They’re scanning for threats and assisting any soldiers who’ve fallen back.”

  Ragnar spurred his horse forward, scanning the field as he rode. Midway toward the front, his eyes caught movement in a deep trench.

  Inside, a small group of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, swords and shields raised. Among them, he spotted Shayara and Elof. Both were in the thick of it, trying to support the line against a wave of Moloch’s soldiers.

  Not ordinary soldiers but assassins. They moved like shadows, camouflaged to slip past the front and strike deep within enemy territory.

  Shayara’s face and neck were streaked with cuts, her breath ragged as she worked a hastily-cast enhancement spell. Elof was limping badly, his staff clutched in one hand. Two soldiers guarded them frantically while the rest of the group pressed forward in a desperate counterattack.

  Ragnar urged his mount toward the trench as the assassins closed in.