The metallic frame is light and reinforced enough that it shouldn’t break unless under extreme stress. What lies within that frame, that will be the deciding factor to the success of this project.

-From The Recently Deciphered Notes of King Arneshal, 6th Grouping

Boring. That’s the word Yureal would use to describe his rounds. He flew over the entire camp and back so many times, day in and day out, just for the faint sight of a Phasgorian. He thought it was just going to be another day of these same exhausting trips, but found himself actually looking forward to it.

He’d overheard a Brigadier speaking of retreat, and his heart was sent soaring. It was pure chance that he’d caught his supervisor speaking of such a thing, and was glad that he did. It reinvigorated Yureal, but restless as well. And this morning, he’d had it confirmed! They were finally going to go back home! The way the brigadier had told them, it seemed even he couldn’t contain his excitement. He’d let them act out their happiness, watching quietly from the head of his office.

Now Yureal made his rounds through the air quickly and efficiently. Maybe he missed a few spots on the ground where Phasgorians could be, but surely the other Afterburners could cover that for him. He needn’t be so precise. Just a few more days, and he’d be out of the camp, back at home, meeting his father once again.

What would he say? You’ve grown tall, lad, probably, then smack him on the back. Or so the young man hoped, as he flew through the air.

During one of these trips, he spotted something on the path below him. A singular cart, travelling around in the middle of the night? What was it doing down there? A group of men crowded the top of the wooden cart, cloaked and sitting next to each other.

Yureal decided to follow his curiosity, and started to drop out of the sky.

****

From inside, Galeon’s heart beat quickly. He glanced up from the small cart they were on, narrowing his eyes on the singular red star on the sky. The sun had long set behind them, and Galeon hoped that it made them invisible to the onlooker.

Around him, other soldiers sat. A regular shipment of soldiers, arriving to help the Armon in the war effort. Another cart had passed them by before, one containing wounded soldiers whose places they were to take.

The other soldiers similarly went still under the floating Afterburner’s gaze. Galeon let out a misty breath, closing his hand over Isildan’s leg.

“If there’s trouble, get the soldiers out first,” Galeon whispered, without looking in his direction. Isil grunted, affirming the request. Galeon let his leg go just in time for the Afterburner to land in front of their cart. Emile drove the carriage, leading with a pair of horses they could spare for the mission.

the man landed in front of them and spoke in the Ravenishtani tongue. He said a few words that sounded like a greeting, but no one replied. What was their tongue called? Galeon couldn’t remember, even though he’d spent the past few days learning the basics. Fear seized his heart that they would be caught immediately.

Emile spoke a few words back to the man, and Galeon let himself unclench a fist he didn’t know he’d been holding. They exchanged words back and forth between themselves, even a chuckle, before the conversation broke off. Galeon recognized a few words in there, but nothing that made sense to him. Emile gave the man a foreign salute, and the Afterburner flew back into the air.

Galeon watched him soar through the skies, and when he was gone, turned back to Emile.

“What did you tell him, Emile?” he asked.

“He just wanted to know if these were the recruits. Joked that we might not even need them.”

“You know Ofnah?” Isil asked. That was the name of their language!

“Enough to talk. I wasn’t the best scout they trained in it.”

Emile looked to the skies, staring at the moon that had appeared tonight.

“I’ll try to make it to the camp before the sun rises,” Emile replied seriously. He yanked the reins on the horses, which sent them clopping forward again in a rhythmic motion.

Galeon spent the rest of the trip growing more restless. He tapped his feet against the cramped space of the cart, growing annoyed with the space between him and the other troops. He felt restricted, which made him even more anxious for their arrival at the camp.

Isil nudged Galeon awake, drawing his attention past Emile. Galeon looked up, finding blue lights in the distance. They illuminated their path, all the way down towards the Ravenishtani camp. The first thing Galeon noticed, was the shape of the buildings. Tents of a different style were placed in square formations along every road that led further into the place.

“We’re finally here…” Galeon watched the tents grow closer to them. There was a light mist sneaking into the fields, which made it harder to look further than the front, but Galeon thought he saw the shadow of buildings behind the veil.

“We can use this,” Emile said. “Bring the cart to the middle of the camp and ditch it there, while leaving in different directions.”

Galeon turned to Isil.

“Can you see through the fog enough to make portals?” he asked.

“Maybe so,” Isildan replied. They stopped in front of the beginning of the camp, where an old man stood guard. He looked wizened, and asked Emile for some kind of authorization. Emile handed him a folded paper from his cloak, and spoke an apology, after which the old man let them go.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Looking out from the cart, Galeon thought he was back in his own camp. Though the style and colouring were different, there was an air about the camp that felt familiar. They passed under a drying rack hung between tents, and Galeon got an idea. He glanced around for Ravenishtanis, then grabbed the clothing off of the rope and threw it among their group.

“We’ll blend better with these!” he encouraged them, and they stopped in the middle of an alley. It fit the cart perfectly, and the entire group got off. Emile soothed the horses while Galeon and the others changed, dawning green and yellows that flowed like robes off of them. Galeon took took to a loose green tunic that hung off of him, mixed with baggy pants and a rough leather belt. Isildan rolled up his sleeves and all three of them wore their cloaks over the clothing.

One of the other soldiers, the mundane ones, came up to Galeon once he was done changing.

“Should we begin the mission?” they asked.

“You should spread out and hide. We might need your help once we’re done here,” Galeon said, nodding towards Isil and Emile. Isil was back on the cart again, staring off far into the camps. He squinted his eyes, but that seemed to fail.

He shuffled around in his pants and came out with the tiny scope Treomish had gifted him. Raising it to his eye, Isildan searched out the place. Even though it was past midnight, he still found locations to place his portals. His eye came out of the scope glowing green, and Isil ripped another right in front of him.

“This is the western end of the camp,” he noted, as a few of the soldiers stepped through. He closed the portal after them, then repeated the steps for the next group, until only him, Emile and Galeon were left in the alley.

He put the scope back into his loose pants, and prayed to Lasz that they would be safe.

“What do we do now?” Isil asked.

“Now? We see what the Ravenishtanis have been up to,” Emile answered.

****

But first they’d need to keep themselves sparse. Walking alone at night wasn’t the best motivator for one’s innocence. They decided to bide their time until the first hints of the sun came through. It burnt through the mists, and a rooster’s caws began to wake the camp up. They watched a tired looking man carrying a pail pass them by, and left the alley soon after.

Galeon patted the horses one last time. “Stay here and we’ll come back.”

Noise exploded around the camp in an instant. It seemed everyone came out of hiding, walking and pushing past each other. Around them, vendors laid down mats and spread their goods across the floor, yawning with a cup of tea in their hands.

It overwhelmed the group a bit, and they stood silent for a few moments. Those few moments passed, and it seemed no one cared for their presence.

“The makeup’s fooling them,” Galeon said in astonishment.

“Or they’re blind?” Emile suggested.

“Let’s not stay in one place, even if it works,” Isil said, leading the three of them out of the busy market street. They walked for a while, finding the large structures Galeon had only glimpsed earlier. They looked like strongholds, some smaller or bigger than others, but still strongholds. There was none of the grandiose architecture that King Selerin liked to employ, giving off a more clinical and military feel.

From afar, Galeon thought he heard a bit of wincing. He looked over to find an old man holding up several boxes on a cart. His mule began to neigh fiercely, the boxes started slipping, and the old man cried for help. Galeon freed his bewl in that instant, dashing to the man and taking his place underneath the boxes. He pushed the crates back inside of the cart, and the mule in front calmed its tantrum. He looked over to find Emile soothing the animal, while Isil helped the old man up.

The old man took Galeon’s hands and shook them up and down, before doing the same to Isil. Words streamed from his mouth, but Galeon had no way to reply. He heard a ‘thank you’ in there, repeated innumerable times, but forgot the words to reply.

“Welcome… you?” Galeon tried, but felt his attempt amateurish. Emile pushed past him and carried the conversation on from there. The old man reached into a box by his side and brought out oranges for them, but Emile raised his hands to deny it.

Surprisingly, that seemed to anger the man. Even Emile looked distraught, as the old man angrily pushed the oranges further into their hands. He then huffed and turned around, continuing placing boxes into his little transport.

Emile turned around and tossed one to Isildan and Galeon, sighing.

“Why did the old man chew you out?” Galeon asked.

“Took it as an insult that I wouldn’t accept his fresh oranges. I don’t even like oranges,” Emile said. He still peeled the fruit and tossed the skin to the side, though.

“Maybe it’s a sign to abandon your hate,” Galeon said idly.

“If you got splashed as often as I do with juice, you’d be a murderer,” Emile fired back.

Galeon dug into his own treat, enjoying the sour sweet fruity taste. It indeed splashed on Emile again, and Isil had to stop him from uttering Phasgorian curses in public.

Finishing their meal, they happened upon a curious sight. There was an opening between the tents, where a large field extended outward. People were lined up starting from Galeon’s position all the way to the field, where a small group of men and women crouched over automatons.

“Line start’s over here!” a man told them with a sneer. He was aged and hunched over, sporting a clean-shaven and pockmarked face and worn olive clothes. Galeon understood enough to get the meaning of the man’s words, but stood confused.

“Why… line?” he asked.

“If you don’t need a Weave, why are you lollygagging around?” the man accused them. Emile helped translating, but the time spent seemed to agitate the man further.

“You… use… Weaves?”

“What are you, Formless? Of course we do! Now back away, this is my spot!”

Galeon raised a hand in peace, doing as the man instructed until he was satisfied. Emile and Isil watched from the sides as the Necromancers brought their automatons to life. They both cringed a little when the automatons rose, looking away.

“They let their Necromancers work in front of children? Bah!” Emile spat to the side.

“It’s… none of our concern, Emile.”

Emile peeled himself away from the wall, turning away from the field.

“If the hallowmancer says so, I suppose…”

They walked a while after that, which Emile called reconnaissance. Every which way they went, however, they’d find someone picking up boxes, or tying down a tent, or packing belongings. The sheer volume of the people participating confused them, and they all seemed to be smiling or cheering. Afterburners and Planars were spread across the camp as well, helping with the effort.

“They’re packing up…” Isil noted, and Galeon knew him to be right. Boxes were being fixed to carts, tents were being folded, and the air around the entire camp felt… hectic. A couple of kids ran between Galeon and his group, looking cheery as they chased each other around.

“But why? Does Ravenishtan have the Weapon?” Emile asked. If that were true, then the war was already over. But he didn’t see any signs indicating such.

“Or they’ve given up?” Galeon offered an alternative.

“Doesn’t matter to our mission. Novi said we have to find the deciphered notes, so that’s what we’ll do,” Isildan told the both of them.

“Tsk, look at this, Isil. If the commoners are packing up, their nobles ought to be out of the camps already!” Emile countered.

“Or they’re waiting for their personal Planars and Afterburners to take them. We need to finish the mission before Venastian leaves, and takes the notes with him,” Isil told them. Emile grunted, then nodded.

“Then let’s find that damned General’s house.”