Pirin trekked through the encampment. His boots crunched along the gravel shores just beyond the delta-gate, and the wind whipped his coattails around. Gray hopped along behind, occasionally stopping to peck at the rocks before fluttering to catch up.

There wasn’t much time to rest, and only a few tents sprouted up along the shore. Weavelings huddled around campfires, still clad in the armour Lady Neria had outfitted them with—brass plate armour overtop dark gambesons and long chainmail waist capes. Some had taken off their helmets, revealing their blank bronzey fabric faces and glowing eyes. Cowls of thick black hair streamed down the backs of their heads and bunched up around their shoulders.

Pirin kept his head up, but he didn’t beg them for attention, and none of them gave it. He wasn’t even sure if most of them knew what he looked like.

He stepped over smaller streams in the gravel flats, and what he couldn’t hop, he lifted himself up and over with a push of arcane wind. No sense in filling his boots with water if he could avoid it; the journey inland would be a long trip.

The sun hadn’t yet climbed over the valley walls, but the sky was lightening, and the sounds of combat had all faded. No more thunk-twang of ballistae, no more clanging swords or exploding warheads. The Aerdian footmen had retreated upriver or scattered in the hills, and the remains of their fleet sailed south, shrouded by a cloud of gnatsnappers.

In the main channel of the river, a set of shallow-draft transports lined up. They were long, and they had a curved, seed-shaped hull from a bird’s-eye-view, but they had no heavy weapons save for the siege engines stored safely in the belowdeck canisters. A set of masts rose up from the center of their hull, and a stripped-down superstructure made them look like they’d tip forward at any moment if it wasn’t for the cargo cranes near their stern to balance them out.

As soon as the barges were all ready, the army would move once more, but it’d be a few more hours at least, and Pirin had a meeting to attend. Again, he was almost late.

He walked along the edge of the main river, passing two more barges before arriving at a round tent nearly twenty paces across. Two Sirdian guards stood outside in their dented silver armour and tattered blue cloaks. Once, it might have been vibrant, high-quality livery (and their armour still had traces of once-ornate engravings.

They were both elves, but neither were wizards. They bowed their heads to him as he approached, and he nodded back, then turned to Gray and said, “Wait here, alright? I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Sure, sure. She paused. But what if I did come inside? Do you think the fancy generals will have seeds or birdfeed? Or…what if I listen in on their plans for total world domination?

“...Yeah, or, you could help out by tightening the tent’s stays,” Pirin suggested.

But his intent gave him away. He sent his thoughts over as well.

Helping? What do you take me for? A regular gnatsnapper? No, no, I am well above such trifles!

“Right. Problem is, you won’t fit through the flap, and you’ll hear plenty of their scheming through my ears, no?”

Gray tipped her head down. That is… She hopped toward the opening in the tent and pressed her head up against it, but she was still too tall. That’s, regrettably, an accurate assessment of my predicament. But look, I can be formal! More formal than the other gnatsnappers here!

“Indeed,” Pirin said. “But, while you’re waiting…it’s possible the other generals left crumbs and remains of meals around. If you want a snack, you’ll probably find something.”

That is a wonderful idea! She hopped back and spread her wings, then pecked at the gravel with such intensity that the stones clacked loud as thunder. I’ll find something! There better be something good out here…

“Just keep it down, alright? Don’t need anyone getting in a panic and thinking the battle’s still going.”

Understood! Whether I listen or not is another manner…

Pirin rolled his eyes. This new Gray wasn’t too off, not too different, but something was off just so slightly, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. “I’ll fix that, too…” he whispered. After all, the dragon itself had been his fault, and he shouldn’t have pushed them so hard that the dragon was able to get a little more footing in Gray’s mind.

He ducked under the tarp of the tent, entering a smokey, musty chamber. A rectangular table ran down the center of the tent, covered in candles, maps, and letters with wax seals in the bottom corner. There were no seats; all the elves around it stood. The tent smelled more like mud and wet fur than anything; elves had little natural body odour.

“Apologies, everyone,” Pirin said. “I know I’m a little late, but my Familiar was…acting up.”

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I can still hear you, Gray said.

Pirin hadn’t been pushing the words across their bond with intent, but she was starting to learn the sounds of Low Speech a little better, even if she’d never be able to replicate them.

“It is not a concern, your majesty,” said Chancellor Ivescent, who stood at the end of the table on the opposite side from Pirin. Today, the chancellor wore a light military gambeson and a cloak, and at his hip hung a short elven sword. His hair ran down his back in a braid, neat and orderly, ready for a fight—though by how clean he was, the chancellor probably hadn’t even swung a sword once yesterday evening.

All around the central table were marshals, admirals, and a few Lords from the north who’d joined them. They wore all manner of practical white and blue robes, or chainmail and doublets. The High Marshals, commanders of the land armies, all wore heavy plate armour to denote their status, where the admirals wore coils of braided rope from their shoulders to their opposite hip.

Next: Nomad. He wore his old chainmail hauberk and tattered leather coat, and he hadn’t trimmed his beard at all since they’d arrived in Sirdia, as if he was trying to prove his status as a vagrant to the elves. His racoon-cat still perched on his shoulder, its eyes blazing with intelligence, but without a Reyad to communicate to its wizard.

Finally, on the opposite side of the room, right next to Ivescent, were two weaveling marshals. According to the structure they’d been taught during their creation, their rank was a Middle Marshal. They’d been given green pauldrons in the Weavehome facility, but along the journey, they’d painted the pauldrons over with blue paint and added a hasty Sirdian whiteleaf overtop.

Lady Neria had not trained any of them as High Marshals; she was going to use ostal military minds, but if Pirin wanted more loyalty from them, he knew he’d need to promote some of them soon. These two—nicknamed Skell and Ebb; they had no proper names, only numbers—were his prime candidates so far.

In all fairness, he’d only learned a little about them along the journey, and he wanted to promote both charismatic and tactically gifted weavelings, but he had to start somewhere.

“By…uh, by all means, continue,” Pirin said, dipping his head.

Come on, he thought to himself. You have to actually show some spine to them, or what sort of king are you? Show them you’re worth following.

A High Marshal with long braided brown hair and a ragged scar down his face tapped the map ahead of him. He wore heavy plate armour and a tattered cloak. “We still don’t have the numbers or standing to maintain a continued assault into Aerdian territory. The Weavelings are an incredible asset, but—”

“But we shouldn’t have split them,” said an elven admiral.

The two weaveling Middle Marshals glanced at each other nervously.

Pirin set one hand down on the table and lifted the other. He vowed to himself that he wasn’t going to be a spectator to any of these meetings again, no matter how awkward it was. “We thought it was…expedient to send a contingent to Northvel and another to the Dremfell Wall. The harder we push the Aerdians, the harder they may try to resist us, and they may attack the wall.”

“We?” the first marshal asked.

“Chancellor Ivescent, his advisors and court, and me.” There hadn’t been time to consult any of the southern marshals when they’d landed on the northern shores; they’d received the call from the admirals and constructed their current plan in haste, then fleshed it out on the flight south.

“Marshal Velbor,” intoned Ivescent, staring at the elf with the scarred face, “what’s done is done. We can only work with the resources we have available. We have enough men to make our push.”

“I merely doubt your motives and your advice to the king,” Velbor stated. He adjusted his cuirass and gave a deep grunt. “Your majesty, I served in the Aerdian fieldarmy before the Sundering, though only as a footman. Never trust a politician to do a marshal’s work.”

“Ivescent is right,” Pirin said. “On one count. We have enough soldiers to make this push, correct?”

“As long as we don’t face any disturbances during the journey upriver, yes,” Velbor stated. The rest of the marshals—including the weavelings—nodded in agreement.

“Then we continue onward.” Pirin flexed his fingers, trying not to let his nerves show. “We capture Vel Aerdeil, we hold it until I can make the throne bloom, and with the help of the Aerdians, we emerge victorious.”

“How long will it take you to make the throne bloom?” an admiral asked—looking more at Nomad than Pirin.

Pirin himself didn’t know, but he took the admiral’s lead and motioned to Nomad.

“Depending on how smoothly the advancement to Wildflame goes, I reckon we can hit Wildflame before the first snowfall.” Nomad scratched his chin. “But at the moment, Pirin has reached a slight stall. In order to envision the Seven Inner Gates, Pirin needs an influx of elixirs. While it was necessary to consume a large amount of elixirs in order to advance as quickly as he did, he now has none leftover from our raid on the Aremir estate.”

Pirin nodded to confirm, then reached down the neck of his shirt and lifted out a stolen void pendant. He opened it, showing the interior of empty casks and the remaining shards of his sword and Lady Neria’s Control Dagger.

“The good news,” said Ivescent, “is that Vel Aerdeil holds an enormous elixir vault among its catacombs. Once we capture the city, he’ll have enough to…envision his Inner Gates.” The chancellor uttered the last words with a rising, inquisitive tone.

“It’s already snowing in Northvel,” muttered Velbor.

“First snowfall in Vel Aerdeil,” a different admiral whispered.

“Now,” Pirin said, trying to regain control of the conversation, “we’re facing an uphill climb—literally and figuratively—and soon, all of Aerdia will know about our excursion. We need to get moving sooner than later. As soon as the river barges are ready, we’ll depart. We’ll arrive in Vel Aerdeil in two weeks, correct?”

“Correct,” said Velbor.

“I will go to my airship and keep out an eye in the sky, but I’ll need gnatsnappers running long-distance patrols.”

“And the rest of the navy?” an admiral asked.

“Chase down the rest of the Aerdian ships, and keep them from spilling their secrets as long as you can. Does everyone understand?”

A chorus of mumbles and nods rolled through the room.

“Does everyone agree?” Pirin stressed. “If not, I’d rather know now.”

No one said anything.

“Then we get moving. Everyone—even me—lends a hand, and we fill up those barges in record time.”