Byun coughed into his fist, voice low but cutting enough for Jae to hear. "That almost sounded genuine. Almost."
Jae said nothing, but the faint narrowing of his crimson eyes betrayed the flicker of thought beneath his calm exterior.
Sun, meanwhile, stood tall, unmoving. His jaw tightened, muscles tense beneath his skin, but his gaze didn't break.
He had been raised for this, for moments when eyes needed an anchor, when duty demanded poise. The insult cut, yes, but Sun carried it like armor, refusing to let the wound show.
Veynar spread his arms wide, claiming the battlefield as though it were his stage. The crimson cape behind him caught the breeze at just the right moment, billowing with perfect drama, as though even the wind bent to his theatrics.
"Tell me, young prince," he said, his cadence smooth and heavy, trained like an actor's, "when pawns begin to move like kings, who truly leads the board?"
The words fell like a riddle, but there was no wisdom in them, only performance. He spoke as though meaning was irrelevant, as though confidence alone could turn emptiness into prophecy.
The cadets shifted uneasily. Some frowned, as if straining to decipher the line, desperate to make sense of what wasn't there. Others nodded faintly, pretending they understood. It wasn't comprehension that bound them to silence but intimidation, the kind that lingered not because it made sense, but because no one dared dismiss it.
Veynar let the pause stretch, savoring the unease like a fine wine. Then he laughed again, shorter this time, sharper, a cruel punctuation mark that echoed across the hills.
Without warning, he wrenched his spear from the dirt. The motion was swift, violent, yet his follow-up was all elegance. He spun the weapon once, a flourish too polished to be improvised, then settled it back across his shoulders, arms slung lazily over the shaft. His every movement seemed rehearsed, like choreography designed to remind the enemy that they were an audience before they were an army.
And then, without haste, he turned.
One step. Another. His heel dug into the soil with practiced weight, his cape trailing behind to sweep dust in his wake. He walked as though the battlefield had already been decided, as though the cadets and their prince had never been worth more than a passing curiosity.
The enemy moved at once.
Ranks tightened, shields snapping into flawless alignment. Spears dropped in a perfect incline, angles sharp as a thousand identical teeth. Drums thundered again, faster now, pulsing like a relentless heartbeat. The sound hammered against the chests of every listener, steady, unyielding, impossible to ignore.
On the cadets' side, silence reigned. Not the silence of calm, but of dread. The instructors didn't speak, their faces carved into stone, eyes locked on the enemy's lines. Their stillness was not reassurance, it was warning. Veterans didn't go quiet because they were at ease. They went quiet when they knew what was coming.
Among the recruits, fear leaked through cracks in discipline. One boy let out a shaky exhale that sounded too loud in the oppressive hush. Another rubbed clammy palms against his trousers, leaving damp streaks dark across the fabric. A girl lifted her bow, then lowered it, then lifted it again, three times before she forced her hands still.
They had expected faceless soldiers, armored men who could be hated as a mass. What they had not expected was a man who bent the air around him into theater, who twisted a battlefield into his stage. That unsettled them more deeply than blades or numbers ever could.
Jae's eyes didn't leave Veynar's retreating form. He tilted his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck with slow fingers, pressing against the muscle as though working out tension. "Loud man," he muttered at last, voice low enough for only a handful nearby to hear.
Byun leaned toward him, his grin thin but stubborn, the kind that survived in defiance of fear. "Loud, dramatic, and apparently obsessed with you. Out of everyone here, he picks you to fixate on. Congratulations, farmboy. You're his new hobby." He dropped his tone even lower, almost conspiratorial. "Try not to die too quickly. I don't think he'd take it well."
For the first time since the drums had begun, Jae chuckled. It was quiet, fleeting, almost hidden beneath the thrum of marching feet, but it carried. Cadets close enough to hear glanced toward him, their expressions shifting as if the sound itself lent them breath. His calm didn't just belong to him; it rippled outward, an anchor dropped into storm waters, steadying those who clung to its presence.
And as Veynar's army reformed and the horizon filled with red and black banners, the recruits realized something dangerous, that fear might still choke them, but it could not silence all of them. Not while men like Jae still stood unflinching.
Steel shrieked in the night as Lord Veynar's raid struck like a storm breaking against the camp. Torches toppled, bedrolls caught fire, and cadets woke to blades already slashing through the dark. The quiet of sleep was ripped apart in a breath, replaced by the raw panic of men screaming, weapons clashing, and orders shouted too late to be clear.
The enemy had slipped in like smoke. By the time the cadets rose, steel was already in their midst. Some tried to grab swords with shaking hands, others stumbled barefoot into the dirt, still half-dreaming, only to be cut down before they found their footing.
Above the mess, a voice rose with frightening clarity.
"Awake, little lambs!" Lord Veynar stood proud on the ridge. The torchlight caught his cloak, flaring crimson against the night, his spear raised high like a conductor's baton. His laughter split the air, sharp and theatrical, as though the chaos below were his stage and every scream his music. "Dance for me! Show me if you're worth the meat you eat!"
His army crashed into the camp like waves of black iron, shields locked, blades thrusting with ruthless rhythm.