Chapter 248: Enemy force beyond the ridge 2
Fin trailed close behind him, his expression calm, almost smug, though his eyes flicked quickly across the chaos with the sharpness of a hawk.
Sun’s face was carved from stone. Expressionless, unbending, though the deep scowl cut across his brow like it had been etched there. He spoke no word as he moved into view, but the silence around him seemed louder than any shout.
The nobles noticed first—straightening at once, their spines stiff, their gazes snapping toward him like moths to flame. His presence alone pulled them into orbit, his silence itself an order they felt bound to obey.
The instructors called for the officers, voices gathering into a knot at the camp’s heart. It took only moments for Captain Renald to rise above the crowd, climbing onto a crate so that his voice could carry over the din.
"Cadets!" His tone cracked like a whip. The noise dulled almost instantly, though fear and confusion still simmered beneath the surface. Renald’s expression was hard, carved deep by years of command. His voice was steel. "This is no drill. Scouts confirm a hostile host advancing toward the border. By order of the crown, you will be treated as soldiers of the kingdom from this moment. Any desertion or disobedience will be judged as treason. Do you understand?"
The response came ragged and uneven. Some cadets shouted "Yes, sir!" with voices straining too high, too fast. Others only nodded stiffly, their faces pale as chalk, lips pressed thin with the weight of terror.
Renald’s gaze swept over them like a blade. "Prince Sun has been granted operational command until further orders. He will direct through the instructors. You will obey. Hold the line. Follow orders. Live, and you will bring honor to this academy and to your families."
There were no grand speeches, no comforting words to soften the blow. This was not the place for them. War did not wait for speeches.
Sun still did not speak. He stood among them silent and immovable, like a blade already drawn. The weight of him was enough. Around him, the officers barked new orders, snapping at squads to haul supplies, sharpen weapons, and set pickets along the ridge.
Jae felt eyes slide toward him more than once. It started as little things — a pause in a conversation, a soldier’s hand lingering on a strap a beat too long, the quick flick of a boot as someone turned to get a better look. Men and cadets measured him against the prince without saying it aloud; the comparisons lived in the small, nervous movements of bodies and the way voices dropped a half-step when he walked by. He smirked faintly, folding his arms across his chest as if the gesture could fold the attention away. He didn’t need any speech to tell him what was coming. The camp smelled of wet leather and smoke and the ever-present tang of metal; that was enough to remind him that everything had shifted.
Around him the camp was busy in the clean, precise way of people trying to stay useful. Elise was already at the medic tents, hands busy with bandages and small glass vials, binding things that might be torn when the battle began. She moved with nervous purpose — fingers steady, but the tremor in her wrists betrayed how much she wanted to pace instead of bind. When their eyes met she lifted her chin and gave him a small smile, fragile and resolute. That smile carried more than thanks; it was a pact of shared risk.
Yuna hovered nearby, her usual pout gone, replaced by open, raw worry. She kept close to Elise’s shoulder, fingers twisting the edge of a bandage as if the motion could steady her pulse. Tirel, by contrast, looked almost thrilled. She leaned on a packed crate, lips curved in that daredevil grin she always wore when danger made the air smell sharper. Her red hair whipped in the wind, catching the last light like a living torch, and her laugh — brief, half-audible — was edged with adrenaline and mischief.
Mrs. Lira stood among the instructors, hands folded, face composed. As always, she looked unruffled, but when her gaze slid over the camp and landed on Jae it lingered long enough to show the concern she kept folded beneath professionalism. There was a softness brief and unguarded in her eyes, a note of worry that she didn’t allow to change her posture. The sight of her gave Jae a small, private steadiness. He nodded once at her, not loud enough for the others, and she returned the motion with the slightest upturn of her mouth.
Orders flowed through the camp like a practiced river. Men and cadets stripped tents down with brisk motions, pulling canvas away and rolling it into neat bundles. Wood was stacked with urgent precision, footsteps moving in organized patterns to craft barricades where needed. Trenches were dug along the ridge, shallow at first and then deeper as more hands joined the work. Armor was buckled this time with the care of people who had learned that a rushed clasp could be a costly mistake. Weapons were checked, then checked again: bolts tight, edges sharpened until they glittered faintly in the fading light. Laughed-at morning drills had been replaced by a choreographed scramble that smelled of smoke, sweat, and the clean-cut fear of what the night might bring.
Cadets whispered while they worked, their chuckles thin and brittle, trying to keep morale with jokes that landed weakly. They moved like people in a story who were suddenly aware they were in one: stiff, rehearsed gestures slipping into real urgency. The camp, once a place of ordered training and staged challenges, reassembled itself into a fortress in the span of hours. Men who had practiced maneuvers now learned to hammer stakes under real pressure, to lash poles together so they might actually withstand a push. Every scrap of canvas, every crate, every patch of trench mattered.
Jae went through his own checks slow and clean.