The shadeling didn’t particularly care for the earthly form it took. Still, if prompted to express an opinion, it would prefer to remain in a humanoid shape rather than stretching uncomfortably over one of the warriors like it was currently doing.
However, the Mistress had given an order, which meant it complied without a fuss. Fulfilling its contract was much more important than momentary pleasure.
And so, it acted as armor, protecting the squishy human within from blows that should have ended his life and allowing him to retreat toward the temporary stronghold, where it finally was able to detach itself.
As always, it didn’t bother to wait for the human to finish groaning and grumbling; instead, it took to the shadows to join its mistress.
“Good job; that should be enough for them to wonder if we have managed to keep a base hidden from their sweeps,” Amelia murmured, and the spirit listened, content to have fulfilled its part.
With a glance of amusement, she allowed a spark of her terrible power to coalesce into existence, and the shadeling greedily jumped at it, swallowing in one bite and humming with pleasure. It even went as far as to let a comical belch, as if overstuffed, in an act it had observed from the local humans.
Amelia shook her head at the antics but didn’t reproach it. This campaign was much more intensive than the last she took part in, and as a consequence of the revolution’s lack of special forces, she had to keep a lot more spirits summoned than she ever had before. That some of them started exhibiting human-like behavior was a surprise, having always known them to be detached creatures, but it wasn’t anything to worry about.
“Is it done, then?” An aged voice asked from the sofa close to the fireplace.
Amelia inclined her head, “It is. I suspect Count Pollus will not remain in our company much longer even with this, but he should leave a sizable company behind to handle these elusive forest warriors.”
It wasn’t actually one of her ideas, but Amelia was pragmatic enough to go through with it even while privately kicking herself for not thinking about it.
The loss of so many of her cultivated elites had been a worse blow than she had initially calculated. The ease with which she had recruited them had led her to believe she could replenish the ranks quickly, and while she had done it after taking more territory, the explosive expansion she had hoped for hadn’t materialized.
It just went to show, once again, why she shouldn’t be the one to make the big decisions. Amelia considered herself powerful enough to lead a movement, and her esoteric abilities made countering her almost impossible, but she lacked Leonard's je ne sais quoi. She simply had trouble considering emotions that weren’t greed, anger and pride. Those she could manipulate and use to fan the flames, but everything else was outside her competence.
Which was why she had gradually allowed one of the elders she had picked up into her confidence. Not because she genuinely trusted him, but because Oz could bring to the table something she lacked. That he had also shown a knack for organizing guerrilla tactics and seemed entirely too pleased with himself whenever they successfully fooled the Ducal Army made her genuinely consider leaving him in overall command once she left.
A time that’s coming closer and closer. The Count called for a meeting in an hour to discuss something with the brass, and I’ll give my right buttock if it isn’t to announce he’s leaving. We kept him here much longer than I thought possible, but by now, he must know.
“That means we need to prepare a sendoff for him. Wouldn’t want the good Count to have to march through the Darkwood without thinking of us,” Oz replied, a slightly deranged grin stretching his features. The old man enjoyed killing loyalists perhaps a bit too much.
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The Nightstalker didn’t feel boredom. That was a mortal concept it had trouble wrapping its mind around, which was saying something, considering it lived firmly between two dimensions.
But spending the last month clinging to a human had pushed it much closer than it had ever experienced before.
The realm of shadows wasn’t very eventful, but at least if something was threatening or annoying, it could simply shred it with its claws.
Jeremiah D’Ansan didn’t have that privilege. He spent countless hours bowing and scraping to other humans he obviously despised just so he could participate in their meetings and, one day, be elevated to the same level.
Ambition, the nightstalker could respect, but ambition without power and dedication was just daydreaming, and that was something that disgusted it.
Still, its mistress had given an order, and it obeyed faithfully, savoring the day it could enjoy its reward.
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Finally, the human stood up from his desk, leaving behind most of the innumerable pieces of paper he always scribbled on and left for the meeting it was interested in.
“Sir, I have your correspondence from the Duke here,” Jeremiah called to an old man, who the shadow knew to be the one actually in charge.
“Has he started making sense, or is he still blabbering about sending his son to get experience? If I have to pen another polite rebuttal again, I’ll start chopping heads!” The Count grumbled but grabbed the sheaf of paper and read as he walked through the camp.
“More nonsense. The Whiteguard has refused my request to send auxiliary Experts to deal with Light overdoses, and yet he still finds time to insist I need to take his son when I face the Hero.”
Jeremiah nodded just lightly enough to be mistaken for an involuntary movement but neatly enough that the Count would take it as agreement. The nightstalker didn’t like the human, but it could appreciate his subtlety.
“Well, nothing to do about that. I’ll just send another refusal wrapped in a different offer.” And with that, they were off to the meeting.
The large tent it took place in was richly furnished, as befitting a peer of the realm. Luxurious upholstery, carved crystal goblets, and even a tapestry depicting the duchy of Hetnia all marked the area as off-limits to the average soldier. Only nobles and their adjutants could enter, and the spirit could even feel a subtle ward meant to repel anyone not meeting specific criteria from loitering around.
It did not affect it since it was currently in a different dimension, but it displayed just how much importance these humans gave to the concept of noble blood.
The Count took his seat silently, sweeping his cold gaze over his men. To his left sat Baron Langley, whose mustache was the only thing that looked the same as before the campaign—stress lines ran over his face, and his eyes were almost sunken. On his right, Baron Luxfeld, fat and sharp-eyed, looked equally concerned, for once not spewing his smoke everywhere. Jeremiah sat slightly apart, his expression carefully neutral. The shadow knew he had been delighted to gain a proper seat, but with it came a lot of responsibility.
The Count wasted no time. "Report," he demanded.
Baron Langley cleared his throat, visibly nervous. "Another attack hit our supply lines last night, High General. We lost significant provisions and a convoy of mana crystals. Our efforts to secure the routes have been futile because they always disappear before we can muster a response, and it’s not feasible to heavily guard all shipments unless we want the flow of material to slow.”
Pollus' eyes flared with anger. "How many times must I hear this? Our supply lines are our lifeblood. We are being made a mockery of by peasants and hedgewitches!”
Langley winced but continued, pulling at his mustache, "We're doing all we can, sir. The rebels are elusive, and their tactics are... highly effective. They simply know the forest better than we do.”
Pollus turned his fiery gaze to Baron Luxfeld. "And you? Any progress with the sweeps?”
The man in question shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing, High General. It's as if they vanish into thin air. And we know they aren’t getting help from the orc tribes since they seem busy setting up a leadership contest. They have rebuffed every offer so far, but I’m confident they won’t pick the rebels’ side.”
That seemed enough for the Count to stem his anger, and he sat back with a huff.
“It remains to be seen whether the new leader will be as isolationist, but considering the losses they took during the Incursion, they should be hesitant to attack us.”
The Count's face darkened further, his fists clenching on the table. The tent was silent for a moment, and the only sound was wood cracking. The nobles exchanged nervous glances, sensing the mounting fury.
After a tense minute, Pollus spoke, his voice icy and controlled. "We cannot continue like this. Our position here is untenable, and we haven’t seen hide of Weiss. We must leave.”
The declaration hung in the air like a death knell. Baron Luxfeld's eyes widened in shock. "Leave, Your Grace? But what about the siege? The rebels might attack Volten—“
Pollus cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Weiss is not here!” He roared. “We have been tricked; it’s obvious now. The latest reports say the rebels are sweeping the southern towns to Treon! He must be there, acting just subtly enough to avoid notice. We must leave.” Then, taking a deep breath, he added, “But not entirely, of course. The reasons that led us here are not entirely foolish. Baron Luxfeld, you will remain with three corps to continue besieging the rebels. Use the heavy artillery to keep them pinned down. Make it seem like our entire force is still here for as long as possible.”
Luxfeld's protest died on his lips as he met the Count's unwavering gaze. "Yes, sir," he said reluctantly.
Pollus turned to Langley. "We need to move south immediately. Weiss is no doubt battering down Treon's gates as we speak. Locke is a decent commander, but he’s surrounded by idiots and lickspittles. He has no other option but to take refuge behind the wards and hope we’ll save him. We must march there as quickly as possible to relieve them, or we’ll lose the entirety of the south.”
Having kept quiet until the Count had worked through his anger, Jeremiah chose this moment to speak, his voice measured and calm. "Sir, if I may suggest, we should also consider a diversion. Something to mislead the rebels and buy us time. Their assaults on our supplies are successful because we can’t catch them, but if we stage a fake convoy and lead them into orc territory, they are likely to attack anyway. We could have the two fight against each other and nullify their advantage in the forest.”
Pollus nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes. "A good suggestion. Set it up quickly. I want us ready to move at dawn.” The nobles stood, the tension easing slightly but the urgency clear. As they filed out, the Nightstalker remained, blending deeper into the shadows, reading over the ambitious adjutant’s shoulders.
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Amelia swirled the wine in her glass, observing how the light hit the dark liquid and exploded in myriad shades of red. Lantean vintages were always memorable, even if this one was a cheap vintage made for export.
“I suppose you’ll leave us too, then?” Oz asked, staring out of the castle’s window and toward the forest, where the enemy camp was buzzing with frenzy.
Subtle, they were not. The dark was not an inconvenience to the Mistress of Shadows.
“I need to rejoin the main army soon, yes. Taking Treon will require more…overt interference from the powerhouses, especially if we want to pacify the city before the Count arrives.”
The old man hummed, hand twitching occasionally because of a wound he had taken from a Scourge.
While not a Champion, finding a Master had been a surprise. One with a thirst for revenge against the Duke even more so. But Amelia should have known. Treating your people poorly, lying about it, and heaping even more suffering upon them could only lead to terrible outcomes. It was a lesson she herself was still learning, and was thankful that Leonard’s orders had prevented her from being too callous with the locals. She wouldn’t have found someone to take the reins for her otherwise.
“I just have to do one last thing before I go. I’ll wait until the Count has left, then prepare a little surprise for Baron Luxfeld.”
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The shadows grinned. They didn’t feel mortal emotions, but they would undoubtedly enjoy taking their revenge for the long surveillance on the unsuspecting humans.
Of course, they’d take their time—nothing so unrefined as a frontal attack.
But seeing the fear envelop the enemy camp as people slowly started disappearing was oh-so-sweet.