F-Class Swordsman, S-Class Commander

The fog hung like old breath above Ysera's yard, cloaking everything in gray uncertainty. Even the sun refused to burn it off.

Renard stood at the edge of the training grounds, boots braced in half-frozen earth. The faint scent of oil, rust, and boiled oats lingered in the morning air. Soldiers moved like pieces on a broken board: Alpha, orderly and crisp in their drills; Omega, looser, slower, watching with skeptical eyes.

Kael Drayven broke from Omega's side, rolling his shoulders, his sword strapped across his back. He didn't call attention to himself, didn't raise his voice—but when Renard passed nearby, Kael stepped cleanly aside.

A quiet gesture. Intentional.

Not one person missed it.

"Commander," Kael said, and it wasn't a joke.

Renard gave a small nod and kept walking, unbothered.

From the corner, Omega soldier Jax, built like a forge and twice as blunt, muttered, "Since when did Kael start playing nice?"

Beside him, Corin scoffed. The youngest of the squad, quick with a blade and quicker with his mouth. "Since he got hit by a fluke swing and decided to pretend it meant something."

"Still hurt him, though," Silva added quietly, her voice barely more than smoke. "That swing wasn't luck."

"Please," Corin snapped. "He tripped into it. Could've happened to any of us."

Kael, still in earshot, didn't flinch. He just crossed his arms and said nothing.

But Lysara, sitting nearby on an overturned crate and sharpening a hooked knife with calm precision, chuckled under her breath. "You don't see it yet," she murmured. "But you will."

Renard didn't bother with morning announcements. Instead, he posted orders on the old message board just outside the armory:

DRILL FORMATION BETA

Squad Merge: Alpha + Omega

Recon Simulation – Fog Terrain Navigation

Timing: Midday

Command Lead: Acting Captain Valtierre

By noon, the yard buzzed with questions.

Merge?

Alpha and Omega had never trained side-by-side. Not once. The unspoken rule had always been clear: Omega handled the messier tasks, the night watches, the jobs too unpredictable for clean doctrine. Alpha followed the book. Omega tossed it into the fire.

And now they were being told to run drills together.

Branley of Alpha read the notice with a sneer. "Ridiculous."

His partner, Deren, frowned but said nothing. Like most of Alpha, he followed protocol—but only because it was safer than questioning the chain of command.

The fog worsened as the squads moved into formation beyond the north gate. Even with daylight bleeding through the mist, visibility dropped to ten feet.

Renard stood in the center with Kael and Sorell flanking him. One by rebellion. One by cold adherence.

"Echo wedge formation," Renard called. "Omega forward. Alpha behind. We follow terrain cues, not map lines."

Branley raised a hand.

"Sir. Request clarification. Alpha has superior navigators."

Renard didn't blink. "You also have predictable gait. The fog favors improvisation."

The Alpha line stiffened.

Omega moved first, Kael giving a two-finger signal. Jax and Silva ghosted through the mist with Thorn and her warhound taking the right flank. Corin moved left—sloppily, at first, until Lysara barked a correction.

When Corin nearly tripped over his own blade, Jax caught him by the back of his collar and growled, "Eyes forward, pup. If we go down, it won't be pretty."

Corin snapped back, but Silva smacked his shoulder. "You trip in a fight, I won't catch you. Stay sharp."

Omega was beginning, slowly, to talk like a team.

Alpha followed. Reluctant. Eyes forward. Steps too loud.

Renard watched everything.

Every movement. Every hesitation. Every spark of unspoken friction.

They reached the first checkpoint: a rise overlooking a bend in the forest where the tree roots bled into the path like veins. Here, Renard paused.

"Pattern disruption. Break column. Circle analysis."

Alpha hesitated.

Branley again. "Captain, protocol calls for straight-line recon unless contact is made."

"Caerenhold doctrine doesn't follow lines," Renard replied. "They follow our habits. So we break them."

Kael gave a low laugh. "Finally. Someone with a spine."

Branley flushed, but obeyed.

They spread into a rough perimeter.

That's when it happened.

A shape flickered through the fog. Quick. Silent.

Thorn hissed. Her warhound froze—ears up, body stiff.

Omega dropped into a crouch. Alpha fumbled.

"Hold," Renard called.

Jax's axe was already out. Corin flanked low.

But it was gone. No sound. No shape. Just fog, folding in again.

Renard whispered: "False trail. Caerenhold trick. Let's keep moving."

They returned in silence.

By dusk, back inside Ysera's brittle walls, the squads were raw.

Thorn iced her warhound's leg. Corin nursed a twisted wrist. Branley cleaned his boots like scrubbing away failure.

Kael leaned against the barracks door, watching.

"You did good today," he said to Silva.

She blinked. "We didn't fight anything."

"Exactly."

Inside the mess hall, the air was warm but tense. Alpha on one side. Omega on the other. Again.

Renard entered late.

He didn't raise his voice. Just placed a small stack of parchment on the center table.

Doctrine notes.

Fog formations. Phantom tactics. Rotational silence protocol. Unofficial.

No one touched them.

Until Kael did.

He leafed through the top page. Folded it. Passed it to Thorn.

And said, "Read it. You might live longer."

It should have ended there.

But outside, in the clearing near the old archery posts, voices rose.

Branley.

"Next time we recon, don't send us in behind dogs."

Corin. "Say that again."

Lysara: "He just did."

Weapons weren't drawn. But they didn't need to be.

The tension itself cut deeper.

Alpha stood tall, straight-backed, sneering. Omega leaned into it, teeth bared. Thorn's warhound growled low, fur bristling.

Jax stepped forward, voice like gravel. "Come on then, tin soldier. Let's settle it."

Branley drew a training dagger. "I don't take orders from mutts."

It was going to break. Right here. Right now.

Then Renard stepped into the center.

He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He just looked at them.

One half trained to obey. The other, trained to survive.

"I see what you're doing," he said, voice flat as steel. "You want a reason to hate each other. You want a reason not to trust. You want an excuse for failure."

They froze.

"You don't need an excuse."

He stepped closer. The fog curling around his boots like a cloak.

"You need an enemy."

His voice dropped into a whisper that struck louder than a roar.

He turned his gaze inward, just briefly—barely perceptible.

What if I'm that enemy?

What if I'm the one you fear more than the enemy beyond the fog?

What if I'm your death sentence?

He didn't say it aloud.

But something in the way he looked at them—like a blade just before it strikes—left them still. Breathless.

He turned his back to them. Walked into the fog.

No one laughed.

No one moved.

Even the mist withdrew.