Chapter 250: We’ll hold the line together
Byun let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "One day," he murmured, "that smirk of yours is going to betray you."
Before Jae could reply, the stillness fractured. A deep, guttural horn split the night air, low and resonant, like the growl of some beast roused from slumber. The sound carried on the wind, heavy and impossible to mistake. A second blast followed, sharper, then a third — each call overlapping, building into a dirge that made the mist itself seem to shudder.
The camp erupted.
Scouts came racing down from the ridge, boots hammering the packed earth. Their breath tore in ragged gasps, words flung ahead of them. "They’ve crossed!" one voice cried, breaking against the churn of panic. Another followed in a near-scream: "Enemy forces—moving fast!"
The effect was instant. Panic rippled outward like water from a dropped stone. Cadets scrambled upright, hands fumbling with armor straps and buckles, eyes wide and frantic. A spear clattered to the ground with a ringing crack that sounded louder than the horns, making several flinch as though struck. Some froze altogether, caught in the paralysis of too much fear, while others moved with frenzied haste that bordered on uselessness — tugging belts the wrong way, dropping helmets, knocking into one another.
The instructors tried to seize control, voices rising above the chaos. Orders rang out — "Form up! Hold the line! Stay in pairs!" — but the words scattered in the noise, swept away by the raw weight of panic. Fear was a contagion, and once it found purchase it spread fast, searing through the ranks like fire racing across dry grass.
In the center of it all, one figure moved with unshaken purpose.
Sun stepped forward. His dark hair clung damp against his forehead, sweat already beading from the tension that hung over the camp like smoke. Both swords were strapped across his back, their hilts catching the firelight in a brief gleam. He carried himself with the deliberate weight of command, his stride cutting a line through the confusion. Then he planted himself in the center of camp, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Stand firm! I am the crown prince of this kingdom. I will lead you into battle!"
Sun’s voice rang across the camp like a hammer striking steel. For a heartbeat, the clamor stuttered. The horns still moaned from the ridge, the mist still pressed thick and damp around them, but the cadets faltered in their panic, their eyes drawn to him. Title alone carried weight. Nobles straightened at once, shoulders squaring as though the mere sound of his declaration had restored their backbone. Relief flickered across their pale faces. Here was their prince—blood of the throne, their symbol of order and might—standing tall in armor, blades at his back, declaring he would lead.
But the relief was thin, brittle. The fear did not vanish. It clung stubbornly, coiled around the younger cadets’ throats and dragged at their limbs. Many still shook, knuckles white around spear shafts. One boy’s teeth chattered audibly as he fumbled with the strap of his shield. A girl’s breath came quick and shallow, chest heaving like she had run a mile though she hadn’t moved an inch. Sun’s scowl swept over them, sharp as a whip crack, but instead of inspiring steadiness, it only deepened the unease. His presence was a command, heavy and cold. His voice was loud, but it did not reach their hearts.
And then Jae moved.
He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t shout to match Sun’s thunder. He simply stepped forward with a calm stride, the Dragonfire Blade dormant at his side, his red eyes catching the torchlight until they seemed to glow faintly in the mist. His smirk was small but sure, carrying none of Sun’s weight of title yet somehow grounding more than any speech. He stood like a stone set in the middle of a storm—unmoving, unshaken, and impossible not to notice.
He passed the boy who had dropped his spear. The weapon still lay at the boy’s feet, half-forgotten in his panic. Jae bent smoothly, lifted it, and pressed the shaft back into trembling hands. His voice was low, steady, carrying just enough to be heard.
"Pick up your weapon," he said. "Don’t waste your strength on fear. Save it for the enemy."
The boy’s wide eyes met his for a moment. Something shifted there. The shallow, erratic breaths steadied just a fraction. His grip tightened, knuckles still pale but firming. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, but the panic in his face eased.
Jae moved on, toward a girl whose knees shook beneath the weight of her armor. She looked ready to collapse, her shield sagging at her side. Jae placed his hand gently on her shoulder, warm and grounding.
"You’re stronger than you think," he told her. "Stand tall. No one here fights alone."
The girl inhaled sharply, then exhaled. Her back straightened as though his words had put steel into her spine. She raised her shield, the tremor in her arm less pronounced.
One by one, Jae stopped at cadets caught in the grip of fear. He didn’t speak long, just a sentence here, a quiet touch there, but it was enough. A boy straightened his helmet. Another adjusted his stance. Shoulders lifted. Spines firmed. The storm of panic that had threatened to rip the camp apart slowed, stilled, replaced by something quieter, steadier.
Jae rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, smirk tugging at his mouth as though embarrassed by the sudden attention, but he didn’t turn away. His calm spread like fire banked steady instead of burning wild—warmth without blaze, reassurance without arrogance.
Even the instructors fell into silence, their earlier commands tapering off as they watched. Sun’s declaration still hung in the air, but it was Jae’s presence that held the camp together.
Byun stepped up beside him, the ever-present shadow at his back flaring wide across the dirt, curling like dark wings behind him. His voice came low, firm, carrying its own quiet conviction.
"He’s right," Byun said. "We hold the line. Together."