Days melted into a blur of strategic reports and clandestine magical practice for Lysander. By day, he was the High Commander's peculiar asset, hunched over maps, his piercing grey eyes dissecting troop movements and enemy communiques with an unnerving accuracy. He identified subtle feints, predicted flanking maneuvers before they materialized, and even pinpointed potential enemy supply caches with disturbing precision. The intelligence officers, initially skeptical, now treated his pronouncements with a mixture of awe and unease, their grudging respect growing with each proven prediction. Lysander was becoming indispensable, weaving himself deeper into the fortress's vital functions.
His analysis, fueled by his meta-knowledge, was sharper than any spy network. He could see the larger, overarching patterns that dictated the enemy's actions, knowing their typical commanders, their strengths, and most importantly, their ingrained habits from the novel. He was playing a game of chess, not just against the orcish hordes, but against the very narrative that sought to contain him. This was the quiet, methodical work of the Ash-Forged Sovereign, laying the groundwork for his ascent.
By night, in the solitude of his small, stone-walled chamber, the resonance crystal was his only companion. Its faint hum was a soothing counterpoint to the relentless grind of his strategic mind. His practice with the Earth's Whisper had solidified. He could now consistently tap into that grounded energy, feeling the subtle vibrations of the fortress, the very pulse of the earth beneath it. His senses were sharper, his movements more balanced, a subtle layer of resilience cushioning his every step. It was a foundational power, not flashy, but profoundly useful for a man who needed to perceive more than others.
But the active magic remained stubbornly elusive. He continued his agonizing attempts to conjure even the simplest flame. Sometimes, a tiny spark, like a dying ember, would flicker into existence at his fingertips before vanishing. Other times, a frustrating warmth would build, then dissipate without a single flame. His fingers would twitch, his head would throb, and sweat would bead on his brow from the sheer mental exertion. He was trying to force a talent that wasn't innate, to build a bridge where nature had left a chasm. He'd painstakingly draw arcane diagrams from The Crimson Blade's obscure lore, trying to deduce the underlying principles of Arcane Resonance, to rationalize magic into something understandable. He felt like a brilliant engineer trying to build an engine without understanding combustion. Yet, he refused to yield. The power was there in this world, and he would claim it.
One afternoon, as Lysander was meticulously detailing a projected enemy assault on the South Gate, a sudden, urgent summons arrived. High Commander Valerius himself requested his immediate presence. Lysander found him in the war room, surrounded by his senior officers, his face etched with grim concern. Kaelen was also there, standing a little apart, his expression unusually tense.
"Thorne," Valerius greeted, his voice tight. "A new development. We've just received a distress signal from the village of Thornwood. A significant portion of the main enemy force, which we believed to be contained to the eastern plains, has made a rapid, undetected detour." He gestured to a point on the map, far to the south-east, beyond the established lines. "They are pillaging Thornwood, and seem to be moving towards the Ironfist Pass – a critical chokepoint into the Heartlands. If they take it, our supply lines are severed, and the capital itself is vulnerable."
Lysander's mind raced. Thornwood. Ironfist Pass. This wasn't in the novel. The main force was supposed to remain fixated on Oakhaven for much longer, allowing Kaelen to conduct his solo heroic ventures and gain power. This was a significant deviation, a direct result of Lysander's own earlier actions at the West Gate. By crippling Vilefang's probing unit, he had perhaps forced the main enemy command to shift tactics, to find an alternative route. His ripples were becoming waves.
"Undetected?" Lysander asked, a frown creasing his brow. "How could such a large force bypass our patrols and advanced scouts?"
A haggard intelligence officer stepped forward. "We… we don't know, Private. It's as if they simply appeared. No warnings, no prior sightings from any watchtowers."
Lysander's eyes narrowed. He remembered another obscure detail from The Crimson Blade: a forgotten sect of dark mages, known as the Veil Weavers, who specialized in illusion and mass concealment, but were supposed to be extinct or too weak to influence major battles. Could his alterations to the timeline have stirred them prematurely? Or had the enemy found a way to utilize their long-lost magic?
"Veil Weavers," Lysander murmured, almost to himself. "A rare, ancient magic. Capable of mass illusion and concealment. They operated through specific arcane focal points, often hidden deep in the wilderness, drawing energy from… ley lines."
Silence fell over the room. Valerius stared at him, his gaze piercing. "Veil Weavers, Private? You speak of legends. Are you suggesting an entire legion of goblins, orcs, and trolls simply vanished into thin air?"
Lysander met his gaze steadily. "Commander, the enemy adapts. My 'studies' indicated that while rare, some archaic magical disciplines were capable of such feats, especially when coordinated with their strategic movements. If they used Veil Weavers, their path to Thornwood would have been cloaked, unseen by conventional means." He didn't have proof, but the suddenness of the attack, combined with his meta-knowledge, made it the most logical explanation.
Kaelen, who had been listening intently, finally spoke, his voice grave. "If what Thorne says is true, Commander, this is graver than we thought. Illusions of that scale would require immense power, and a direct threat to our very understanding of the battlefield."
Valerius slammed a fist on the table, a rare show of frustration. "Then we cannot let them hold Ironfist Pass! Kaelen, gather your most skilled knights. You will lead a vanguard. Push them back from Thornwood, secure the Pass at all costs."
Kaelen nodded, a grim determination hardening his features. This was his element, direct action, heroic confrontation. He glanced at Lysander, a flicker of something in his eyes – a mixture of the lingering suspicion from their last encounter, but now, perhaps, a hint of grudging respect for Lysander's strange insights.
"And Private Thorne," Valerius continued, turning back to him, his voice firm, "You will accompany Lord Alden. Your 'unconventional thinking' could be crucial. This isn't about the front lines; it's about understanding what we face, and how to counter it. Find out how they moved so swiftly, and how they managed this concealment."
Lysander's heart gave a jolt. This was it. Direct involvement. He would be moving with the hero, into the heart of a major, altered conflict. This was his chance to observe Kaelen's methods up close, to learn more about the world's power systems, and, perhaps, to find another source of power. He was an exiled noble, not just plotting from the shadows, but now stepping onto the stage, directly influencing the unfolding drama. This was the precise catalyst he needed. He would find the Veil Weavers' secrets, and he would make them his own. The next phase of his ascent to Ash-Forged Sovereign had begun.