Chapter 249: Enemy force beyond the ridge 3
He let the Dragonfire Blade spark into being for a heartbeat, just enough to feel the heat ghost along his fingers and the familiar hum in his bones, then dismissed it again.
The flame curled back like a cat and vanished into the sheath — a private test, a promise to himself that the edge was ready when it was needed. No one needed to see him conjure it; they would see it when it mattered.
Byun drifted up beside him, shadow sliding long behind his boots, an easy presence in the center of the sudden bustle. "You’re acting like this is routine," he said, tone a half-tease, half-warning, watching Jae’s casual air as if it might snap.
"I’m acting like I know worrying doesn’t stop armies," Jae replied with a faint grin, running a hand through his hair and flattening it back into place. "Might as well toy with my blade instead of my nerves." The words came easy, but they were a small armor against the real thing: the knowledge that tonight, tents and mock drills would decide between living and dying.
Byun shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. "One day that smirk is going to get you into proper trouble," he muttered, not entirely joking. His shadow leaned against the ground like a blade of ink; even his humor was edged.
The light changed as the day moved on. The sky bled orange, turning dusky along the ridge where distant fires already blinked like a threat. Soldiers paused in their tasks, faces tilted toward that horizon as if trying to read what the glow would say. The enemy’s campfires dotted the dark line like sparks escaping a larger blaze — small, but enough to set the mind racing. The sight stole the last of the casual breath from men who had been pretending this was still a game.
The camp quieted as night settled in, but quiet was not sleep. Men moved to and fro with restless energy. Some prayed out loud, low and rhythmical petitions to gods and fates. Others crouched by the lamplight, sharpening blades until the metal sang, the sound oddly comforting. Elise sat with the medics, double-checking salves and sterile cloth with careful hands that kept sliding into small, automatic gestures of care. Yuna sat close beside her, fingers twisting around the staff as if holding it could anchor her. Tirel drifted among the men, humming tunelessly as she traced sparks in the air between her palms, small flame-motes that danced and died the moment she smiled. It was a nervy, human performance — people doing what they could to feel in control.
And Sun — silent, as he had been all day — stood high on a rise that overlooked the border. Fin lingered behind him like a shadowy echo. The prince’s silhouette was a dark cut against the dimming sky, arms folded, jaw set so tight it might as well have been carved from stone. He watched the distant fires with that stillness of a man who measured everything in consequences. He watched the camp, watched the glances, watched the way attention drifted like a moth toward brighter things.
He had seen it in the camp that day — small things, becoming patterns. Cadets skipping quick to watch Jae instead of him; a commoner laughing a fraction too loudly at Jae’s joke; a soldier pausing mid-step as if choosing whom to follow. Each was a minor theft of the focus Sun believed belonged to him. Even here, at the edge of war, Jae had pulled eyes and drawn quiet curiosity like a needle draws thread. The thought sat in Sun’s chest like a stone.
Sun’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched white. The pull of the metal under his hand was real, grounding — as if holding on might make the rest of the world obey the order he wanted. Hatred, slow and furious, burned in his chest, heavy as molten iron. It was a taste he could not swallow.
"In this war," he whispered to the wind, voice rough and low enough that Fin only heard, "I’ll make sure the farmboy never rises again."
xxxx
Night had settled over the camp in a restless hush. Fires burned low in their pits, their glow dulled and broken by the thin mist that crept down from the ridge. The air carried the damp chill of autumn and the faint, metallic tang of sharpened steel. Cadets stretched out in bedrolls tossed and turned, but few found true sleep. Every sound became louder in the silence: the creak of worn leather as someone shifted under a blanket, the whistle of the wind slipping across the plains, the sudden crack of wood in a fire pit. Each noise struck sharper than steel, a reminder of how near the danger lay.
Jae sat cross-legged outside his tent, refusing to lie down when sleep would not come. The Dragonfire Blade rested across his lap in its dormant state, the edge hidden but the presence undeniable. Under his palm it pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat, as though the weapon itself listened to the night. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, where faint orange glows shimmered and wavered just beyond the ridge. Enemy campfires. Too many to count, scattered like embers from some vast unseen forge.
His lips curled into a faint smirk. He dragged a hand through his hair, more out of habit than vanity, as though the motion might untangle the knots inside his chest as well as the strands.
Byun crouched nearby, one knee bent, his long shadow stretched into odd shapes by the nearest firelight. His eyes flicked between Jae and the distant glow. "You’re smiling at a war camp," he muttered, voice pitched low so as not to carry. "I don’t know whether to call you fearless or insane."
"Neither," Jae said without hesitation. His tone was steady, almost casual. "Fear’s a waste of breath. We’ll fight when they come. Simple as that."