Days passed. The raging battles that had been occurring for days slowed and then stopped. A tense, unspoken agreement came to be between the two armies.

As Thorne walked through the camp with his teammates, he noticed a remarkable change from three days ago. With no more wounded coming in and soldiers not being deployed, the camp was focused on rebuilding.

Many wounded had been healed, and the previous disarray, while still present, had lessened considerably.

Lyra had taken it upon herself to structure a reorganization amongst the camp. Out of all the team members, she had taken Moravian’s death the hardest; her method of coping with that sorrow was action.

She had structured the camp into sections, each with distinct responsibilities. There were training sections, agriculture sections, healing sections, and many more. For only a few days of labor, Thorne was thoroughly impressed with Lyra's work.

Thorne thought it strange that a change of that magnitude was possible in just a few days, but it seemed that the desire for improvement had not only struck Lyra. The whole camp had been spurred by the realization of the city lords’ return. They all remembered his rule and the rule of his commanders, and no one wished for that tyranny to return.

Thorne reached the edge of the camp and spotted Zal leaning against a wall. Upon seeing him, Zal flashed a grin, though his usual sparkling charisma was damp. “I can feel it, Thorne. Today is the day.”

“You really think so?” Thorne queried, walking up to the tall man.

“It’s been three days; there’s no way that they haven’t received the message, and today is a perfect day to send a message back.”

Thorne nodded in agreement, looking up to the clear sky and feeling the lack of wind. Even with the mesh coverings, sand still managed to sneak into the city. On days with intense winds, the sandstorms within the city could be pretty disruptive.

“Well, all we can do is wait,” Thorne said with a low sigh. “By the way, do you think you and the others are prepared if we duel today?”

Zal looked at him with a slight smirk, this one far more genuine than his previous smile, “Of course we are. Even if they have numbers, they’re primitive and weak for their power levels.”

Thorne nodded, but a crease of worry manifested in his mind, “That’s good, but don’t overestimate them; we can’t let what happened the other day happen again.”

Zal looked down at his worn shoes. The mention of Moravian was a touchy subject; it wasn’t fun knowing that primitive systemless cultivators had killed a bright cultivator from the wide universe.

Zal looked up, his face despondent. He opened his mouth reluctantly, closed it, and opened it again: “Do you think the city lord will want to duel?”

Thorne sighed, looking at the man—his friend. “I don’t know.” He stated plainly, “It could be that the city lord wants to make examples of us by destroying us personally, or it could be that he doesn’t want to stoop too low, and he will allow his commanders to duel us. It all depends on what kind of leader he is.”

“And, unfortunately, we do not have an ounce of information on him.” A female voice cut in. It was Lyra.

Thorne and Zal had been too focused on their own conversation to notice Lyra and Procka walking up to them. Compared to the somberness of Zal, the two of them looked healthy and well in the aftermath of Moravian’s death.

Procka, as always, was stoic and emotionless as she bore down on them. She didn’t speak and only acknowledged Zal and Thorne with a glancing look.

Lyra was quite the contrary. She stood tall; her lean Lumanari frame gave her an air of authority and imperiousness. She had used these two traits often after Moravian had died. ‘Poor girl.’ Thorne thought as he saw the plastered-on professional smile on her face, ‘She thinks it’s all her fault.’

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I believe that after the duels if they do occur, we should send spies into the enemy camp. Information surpasses cultivation levels in wars such as this," she said.

“I agree,” Thorne said, indulging her idea; it was a good one, after all. “If they send an army with them to spectate the duel, we could send a few of our soldiers with them on the way back.”

“Yes,” Lyra nodded, her eyes distant as if she was picturing the plan in motion, “That would be satisfactory, other than the fact that this world’s primitive communication methods make that plan null.”

Thorne winced; he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Let’s just wait until the actual duels, and then we can see what we can do,” Thorne said, trying for a confident tone. It didn’t come off that way, and instead, he rattled off the words in a too-quick stammer. ‘Damnit, I hate people who act like her. All prim and formal with dumb mind games.’ Thorne’s logical side knew she wasn’t acting in such a way on purpose, and she meant no harm. ‘Reminds me of Vlad and his men. Always trying to mess with the minds of men to get what they want.’

“Mhm,” Lyra murmured, not paying attention to him. “Well, regardless, we should look to instate a-”

“Man spotted! Man Spotted!” The watchmen atop the furthest building on the edge of camp shouted. The alarm in his voice was contagious, and the team—ignoring their conversation—rushed to the camp's border, where the farm gate was.

“Open the gates!” Thorne shouted up to the gate operators.

They obliged, and soon, a low creak sounded throughout the camp as the large steel doors creaked open.

Through the cracks, Thorne could see the man they were talking about, and as soon as he did, he knew that it was the messenger.

Thorne didn’t know the man personally. He was tan and short—the staple of this area. His shaggy black hair hung low around his shoulders, and scruff dotted his chin and neck. These features didn’t notify Thorne of his status as a messenger, though. What did was the fact that the man was missing two hands, both cut off at the wrist.

The man’s face was pale, and his eyes were red and blurry. He had been crying for a long time. “Curse of the crimson domain,” Zal muttered. They hadn’t only cut off his hands. Implanted into the stump of an arm the man had left were two grey, tubby hands. Hands that had once belonged to a non-human. Hands that had once belonged to Moravians.

Thorne gulped but stepped forward. No one else followed him except for Prock, though even she seemed a bit shaky. Thorne could feel the fluctuating heat around her. He didn’t know how Grandorians expressed emotion, but he was sure this was one of them.

“Zal, Lyra, go fetch the healers and bring food and water!” he shouted over his shoulders.

He turned back to the man, who was swaying while standing. Thorne stepped up to him with haste and let the man lean on his shoulder. “You’re safe, soldier. Healers will be here soon,” Thorne whispered in the most comforting tone his stiff voice could manage.

“I have a message.” The man croaked out, his eyes hollow and glazed over. “Duel in the square where the grey one died in three days’ time, midday.” The man said before his eyes shut, and he collapsed against Thorne.

Scrambling, Thorne moved his hand to the man’s heart. ‘Still beating,’ Thorne realized, letting out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He let the man lay against him. He wasn’t an expert on wounds, but he did think that losing two hands—while horribly painful—wouldn’t immediately cause death, even for a non-cultivator like this man. Furthermore, the stumps had been bound, and the bleeding had been quelled. He hadn’t planned to show mercy in the duels before, but now he was sure he wouldn’t.

In no time, he heard stomping footsteps back in the camp. Lyra and Zal ran out, followed by a hoard of healers. They weren’t cultivators—there was only one turquoise cultivator on their side, and he was far too valuable to disturb for this one man—instead, they were non-cultivators trained in medicine and anatomy. The healers were their assistants who carried stretchers and supplies.

One of the healers, a stout fat woman, shouted at the others, “Put him on the stretcher and take him to the clinic. Do not touch his hands at all, understood!”

It wasn’t a question, and the other healers and assistants rushed off to complete the orders. They ignored Thorne and Procka and quickly carted off the man on the stretcher. Throne sighed, content with the knowledge that the man would probably be okay. However, he wasn’t fine with how the messenger had arrived.

“It’s my fault,” Thorne muttered. The other three looked over at him, bemused. “I sent the enemy messenger with a hand cut off. I didn’t think that they would take it too far. It thought it was… necessary.”

The others were silent as they looked at Thorne’s shame-filled face. Lyra sighed, “You did what you thought needed to be done. The initiative is better than cowardice.”

Thorne looked up at her. Sometimes, the sterilized, robotic version of Lyra wasn’t too bad.

“The duel is in three days at midday.” He looked over to Lyra. “It’s in the same place where Moravian died. Can you handle it?”

Lyra nodded, “Of course I can.” She said confidently, though Thorne noticed some paleness creep onto her face.

“Okay, good. He said, deciding to speak to her about it later; now wasn’t the time.

“Do the same as you’ve been doing. Train and prepare yourselves. The duels will not be easy.”