Chapter 990

Orleandul watched the battlefield from the hill without changing expression.

The rain had turned the slope beneath his boots into dark mud, but the command post had been built properly. Wooden platforms reinforced with stone plates. Covered tents. Signal poles. Mana lamps protected under glass casings. Runners moving between stations with sealed orders tucked beneath their cloaks.

This was where the headquarters had been placed. High enough to see the entire battlefield. Far enough to avoid the first wave of disaster. From there, Lionfang looked almost small beneath the storm.

Almost.

Its walls stood against the rain like a line carved into the world. Fires burned along the parapets. Mana flared in bursts near the front. The fields around it had been reshaped for defense, turned into lanes, traps, and open killing grounds by people who clearly understood that terrain was only neutral when idiots used it.

And in front of those walls, the first ten thousand were being broken apart. Orleandul’s eyes followed the movement calmly. He was tall and narrow, wrapped in dark ceremonial armor that looked more like a noble’s funeral attire than battlefield gear. Blackened steel plates overlapped beneath a long storm cloak, and silver filigree traced the edges in patterns that seemed decorative until one looked too closely and noticed the runes hidden in the lines. His face was pale and composed, almost beautiful in the way statues of dead kings could be beautiful cold, deliberate, and entirely removed from warmth.

His hair was long, white-blond, tied behind him with a black cord. His eyes were the disturbing part. Too still. Too bright. Not human in any comforting way. Beside him stood Armandis.

Where Orleandul looked like a noble ghost dressed for war, Armandis looked like a scholar who had decided armor was an inconvenience but death was more so. He wore a long gray coat reinforced with hidden plates beneath the fabric, its shoulders marked by imperial command sigils and several thin chains of office. His hands were gloved. His beard was neatly trimmed. His brown hair, streaked with gray at the temples, had already been flattened by damp air despite the canopy above them.

He held a spyglass in one hand and a rune tablet in the other, both of which he used with the expression of a man watching numbers misbehave. Down below, Lionsguard’s frontline drove froststeel spears into the mud and launched another wave of spinning water spheres into the imperial formation.

The impact rolled across the battlefield like a line of invisible hammers. Men flew. Shields broke apart. Formations turned into clusters. Armandis lowered the spyglass slightly.

“As expected,” he said, voice tight, “Lionsguard has absurd magic firepower.”

Another wave hit. This one smashed into a mercenary flank that had been trying to adjust. Armandis’s mouth thinned.

“We will lose those ten thousand soldiers in no time at this rate.”

Orleandul did not look at him.

“That is fine.”

Armandis turned his head slowly.

“Fine?”

“They were never going to be part of our real force anyway.”

The answer came without hesitation. Without cruelty, even. That made it worse. Orleandul watched as Arslan cut through another imperial heavy warrior, flame aura tearing steam from the rain around him. Behind him, Lionsguard pressed forward with frightening cohesion for an organization that should have been too young to move like that.

“The first wave has several purposes,” Orleandul said. “Testing their formation. Measuring spell output. Identifying commanders. Forcing them to reveal their preferred counters.”

He glanced toward the battlefield at last.

“And reducing useless mouths.”

Armandis said nothing for a moment. Below, another section of the attacking line buckled. The troops were dying quickly. Not instantly. Not without accomplishing anything. But quickly enough that any ordinary commander would have started reinforcing the line already. Signal officers waited nearby, tense and watchful, no doubt expecting the order that had not yet come. Orleandul had not given it.

Armandis adjusted his grip on the rune tablet. “They are adapting faster than projected.”

“Yes.”

“That frontline spell combination was not in the latest reports.”

“No.”

“They are using the rain.”

“Obviously.”

Armandis glanced at him. “You seem unconcerned.”

“I am observing.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only useful answer until enough information has been gathered.”

Armandis looked back toward Lionfang. “You assumed they would weaken once Ludger died.”

“No,” Orleandul said.

The correction was soft. Armandis stiffened slightly. Orleandul finally turned his pale gaze toward him.

“You assumed that.”

The rain pattered against the canopy above them. Armandis’s expression tightened, but he did not argue immediately. Orleandul continued.

“You believed there was a binding structure. A command spell. Some centralizing enchantment tied to the child’s mana that strengthened the guild and the settlement. A reasonable theory, given the reports.”

He looked back toward the battle.

“But theory has now met evidence.”

Another roar rose from Lionsguard as Arslan led another push. Orleandul’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And it looks like Ludger is still alive and kicking.”

Armandis followed his gaze. The implications were not pleasant. If Ludger had died in the capital, some weakening should have appeared by now. Even if the theory had been incomplete, there should have been a sign. A drop in morale. A disruption in the guild’s enchantments. A failure in whatever invisible network had allowed Lionfang to develop so quickly.

Instead, the opposite was happening. Lionsguard looked furious. Focused. Very much empowered. Armandis tapped the rune tablet once, jaw clenched. “The Regent’s last message indicated containment was successful.”

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“Containment,” Orleandul said, “is not death.”

“The capital barrier was active.”

“And yet we are watching his father fight as though he expects his son to arrive late, not never.”

Armandis had no answer for that. Below, the first ten thousand continued to bleed. Arslan’s flame aura carved a burning wedge through the center, while the froststeel spear formations punished every attempt to recover structure. The mercenaries on the flank hesitated now, clearly realizing they had not been paid enough to be used as meat against a frontier guild with battlefield magic support.

Orleandul studied all of it with calm interest.

“Lionsguard is stronger than expected.”

Armandis breathed through his nose. “That is one way to say it.”

“Their morale is not dependent on ignorance. They understand the situation. They know they are outnumbered. They know the Empire intends to erase them.”

“And yet they are attacking.”

“Yes.”

“That should concern you.”

“It does.”

Orleandul’s tone did not change. Armandis looked at him sharply. For the first time, there was something almost like amusement in Orleandul’s eyes.

“Concern is not panic, Armandis.”

The older man looked back at the field, lips pressed thin.

“What are your orders?”

“Let the first wave continue.”

“They will collapse.”

“Yes.”

“If they collapse too quickly, Lionsguard will gain even more momentum.”

“Briefly.”

Orleandul raised one hand slightly. A nearby signal officer straightened immediately.

Down below, Arslan’s burning sword rose again, and Lionsguard roared loud enough to reach the hill.

Orleandul’s face remained still.

“Let them feel victory first,” he said. “It makes the next lesson more memorable.”

Armandis watched the battlefield through narrowed eyes.

Rain streaked down the lenses of his spyglass, forcing him to lower it and wipe the glass with a cloth that was already too damp to be useful. Below, the first wave continued to bleed into the mud. The imperial formations had not collapsed entirely yet, but the shape of them was breaking. Men were no longer advancing as one body. They were being split into knots of resistance, smashed apart by water magic, then cut down when Lionsguard surged forward behind Arslan’s burning blade.

Armandis disliked what he was seeing. Not because he cared for the soldiers dying. Because the numbers were wrong. They were dying faster than projected.

“Verk is near the capital,” he said at last.

Orleandul did not look at him.

Armandis continued anyway. “Even if Ludger escapes, Verk will finish him off. The supporters there should have weakened him enough for Verk to have his revenge.”

A flash of flame tore across the battlefield below as Arslan split another armored warrior apart. Steam rose around him in a boiling halo where rain struck his aura. Armandis’s mouth tightened.

“Once that happens, we can go all out.”

Orleandul’s eyes remained on the front.

“Can we?”

The question was mild. That made it more irritating.

Armandis turned slightly. “You doubt Verk?”

“I doubt everyone until results arrive.”

“He was placed there for this exact possibility.”

“Yes.”

“And his current armor was designed with Ludger in mind.”

“Right...”

“Then assuming the boy survives the capital, he still has to pass through Verk.”

Orleandul said nothing. Below, Lionsguard’s frontline fired another synchronized wave of spinning water spheres. The attack slammed into the imperial soldiers hard enough to rip an entire shield group apart. Several men flew backward. Others fell beneath the impact and vanished under mud, boots, and broken formation.

Armandis exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Still,” he said, voice lower, “there is another issue.”

Orleandul glanced at him.

“If information of their deaths reaches Lionfang at the wrong moment, it might not weaken them.”

“No.”

“It could stir them further.”

“Yes.”

Armandis grimaced. “A dead Ludger and Viola could turn this into something uglier than ordinary morale collapse. They are already fighting like cornered beasts. If they believe those two were murdered behind the lines…”

“They will become an even greater menace on the battlefield,” Orleandul finished.

Armandis looked at him carefully. “You understand the risk, then.”

“Of course.”

“And?”

Orleandul folded his hands behind his back, gaze returning to the rain-choked battlefield.

“Even so, their forces will exhaust sooner rather than later.”

His tone was calm.

Unmoved.

Not because he underestimated what he was seeing, but because he had already placed it inside a larger structure.

“Anger burns hot. So does desperation. But both require bodies to carry them.”

He looked down at Arslan’s advance.

“Lionsguard is spending strength. Magic. Breath. Formation integrity. Their opening is impressive, but it is still an opening.”

Armandis’s eyes followed the line again. There was truth there. The guild’s counterattack had shattered the first imperial push, but it had also revealed a lot. Spell timing. Frontline coordination. Arslan’s preferred tempo. The range of their water sphere formation. The dependence on froststeel spear anchors. How far they would surge after breaking enemy posture.

Information purchased with lives.

Orleandul continued, “If all else fails, we will join the battle ourselves and make certain their tactics do not work forever.”

Armandis was quiet for a moment. That was not a small statement. If Orleandul entered the field personally, the shape of the battle would change. If Armandis joined him, it would change again. But neither move should be wasted early. Not while Lionfang still had hidden pieces of its own.

Not while the northerners had yet to move. Orleandul’s gaze shifted briefly toward the town.

“They are still holding back their northern allies.”

Armandis frowned. “You noticed.”

“I would be concerned if I had not.”

“That means Arslan is saving them for impact.”

Rain hissed over the command platform. Below, the first wave tried to stabilize under shouted orders. Officers forced shieldmen back into lines. Mages began preparing counterfire, though the mud and rain made coordination harder than they wanted. Mercenaries on the flanks were slowing now, clearly unhappy with how the battle was unfolding.

Orleandul raised one hand. A nearby runner approached immediately, kneeling despite the mud.

“Orders, my lord?”

“Tell the frontline to hold their ground.”

The runner bowed his head.

“Do not order another full advance. Stabilize. Shields forward. Spears braced. Mages to suppress but not overextend. Their task is to keep Lionsguard engaged.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Orleandul’s eyes remained fixed on the battlefield.

“And have the runic pilots prepare to deploy.”

The runner stiffened. Only slightly. Enough for Armandis to notice.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Not yet,” Orleandul added. “Ready only. I will give the signal.”

The runner bowed again, then hurried away down the command platform toward the signal corps. Armandis watched him go.

“The runic pilots this early?”

“Preparation is not deployment.”

“You expect Lionsguard to push deeper.”

“I expect Arslan to punish any hesitation.”

Below, as if proving the point, the Lionsguard line surged again, spears and shields driving into a staggered imperial group that had failed to reform quickly enough. Arslan cut through the center, fire turning rain to steam around him. Orleandul’s expression did not change.

“If we let the first wave collapse too freely, their confidence will swell beyond what is useful.”

“And the pilots?”

“They will give Lionsguard a new problem before long.”

Armandis looked back at the field.

The rain had turned everything into motion and shadow, but beyond the forward armies, hidden behind transport screens and heavy canvas structures, the runic units waited. Not the old disposable models. Pilots. Trained operators inside armored machines made for battlefield disruption, not simple patrol or intimidation.