I woke to the soft gray light of marsh dawn filtering through the thin gaps in the hut’s walls. Lira was still pressed against my side, one of her fox ears resting against my shoulder, her breathing slow and even. For a few moments I simply lay there, listening to the distant sounds of the outpost beginning to stir. Memories of the previous night came rushing back in, and I took a second to stare at her. It had not been planned. It had not been strategic. And yet it had happened.
Lira shifted and opened her eyes. When she realized how close we still were, a faint flush rose across her cheeks. She didn’t pull away immediately, but there was a quiet awkwardness in the way she sat up, drawing the thin blanket higher across her chest.
"Good morning," she said, voice a little rough.
"Morning."
We dressed in relative silence. The intimacy of the night before had changed something between us, but neither of us seemed ready to name it. When our eyes met, there was a new layer of awareness, softer than before, but still careful. I helped her adjust the bandage over the worst of her burns. When my fingers lingered a second longer than necessary, she just turned to meet my gaze and gave a light smile.
"About last night..." she began, then stopped, searching for the right words.
"We don’t have to turn it into a conversation," I said. "Not yet."
She nodded, relief and something else flickering across her face. "Alright. But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen either."
"Neither am I."
That was as much as either of us seemed willing to say. We finished dressing and stepped out into the cool morning mist.
The moment we left the hut, I felt the difference in the camp’s atmosphere. A few of the younger rebels nodded to me with respect as we passed. Others, older fighters and a pair of low-ranking mages, watched with more caution than before. Their gazes lingered a second too long before sliding away. It was subtle, but deliberate. Elandor’s influence, no doubt. The mage had probably decided I needed closer observation.
Lira noticed it too. "They’re looking at you differently," she murmured.
"I know." I replied and pushed the thought aside, I didn’t have time to play ’pleasing the mage’
We found Harlan near one of the supply platforms, sharpening his spear with slow, methodical strokes. The usual dry edge in his expression was dulled. He looked like a man who had not slept well.
"Harlan," I greeted.
He glanced up and managed a short nod. "Antoine. Lira." His voice was quieter than usual. He had left the hut last night and hadn’t returned. I had no idea where he had gone to, but I could tell something about him had changed.
"You alright?" I asked.
Harlan gave a humorless half-smile. "As alright as any of us get out here. Don’t worry about me." He returned to his spear, clearly not interested in further conversation. I left it alone for now.
Not long after, a messenger found us. Veyra wanted to see me. Alone, if possible. Lira squeezed my arm once before heading toward the training grounds. I followed the messenger to the central command area.
Veyra was already waiting, dressed in practical travel gear rather than her usual command attire. "Come with me," she said without preamble. "There’s someone you need to meet."
We left the main outpost under light escort and traveled for nearly an hour through the misty paths until we reached a more solid stretch of ground where a temporary pavilion had been raised. Inside waited a man in fine but understated southern clothing. He was in his fifties, with a carefully trimmed beard and the calm, assessing eyes of someone used to power. Two armed retainers stood behind him.
"Governor Rellen of the Southmarch Territories," Veyra introduced. "Governor, this is Antoine, the one they call the Orc Slayer."
Rellen studied me with polite interest. "I’ve heard the reports. Impressive, if true. Please, sit."
We did. A servant poured watered wine. The conversation that followed was careful and revealing.
Rellen spoke of the war in measured terms. The southern kingdoms had no desire to see Grimgor’s influence expand further, of course. Stability was important. Trade routes needed protection. The liberation of enslaved humans was a worthy cause. Yet every statement carried an undercurrent of calculation. The governors and nobles were willing to provide limited supplies, coin, and the occasional small contingent of trained soldiers—but never enough to fully commit their own forces. They preferred the rebellion to bleed Grimgor down.
"We must be pragmatic," Rellen said with a thin smile. "Open war with the full might of Blackfang Hold would devastate the southern economies. Better to support a... useful pressure from the marshes."
Veyra’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but she kept her tone respectful. "Controlled pressure still requires weapons, food, and medicine, Governor. Our current supplies will not last another major engagement."
Rellen inclined his head. "I will see what can be arranged. A modest increase. Nothing that draws too much attention." His gaze returned to me. "And you, Orc Slayer. Do you intend to remain with the Liberation Army long-term?"
"As long as it serves the goal of breaking Grimgor," I answered evenly.
He seemed satisfied with the ambiguity. The meeting continued for some time, filled with careful promises and unspoken limits. By the end, it was clear the southern governors viewed the rebellion as a convenient tool rather than a true ally. Their support would always be measured, conditional, and self-serving.
We were preparing to leave the pavilion when hurried footsteps approached. Elandor appeared through the mist, his faded robes damp at the hem, his expression unusually intense. He barely acknowledged Governor Rellen before turning to Veyra.
"I need a word," he said. "Privately."
Veyra excused us. Once we were a short distance away, Elandor spoke in a low, urgent voice. I stood away, enough distance to not impose, but also close enough to hear fragments of their discussions.
"It worked." Elandor started, his voice laced with an excitement I had never seen on the mage’s face.
Veyra’s eyes sharpened. "What worked?"
"The latest process." A rare note of triumph entered the old mage’s voice. "I have successfully created a mage, stable and conscious. The awakening held through the night. We finally have a viable method."
Veyra stared at him for a long moment. Something complicated passed across her face, hope, and a trace of unease. "You’re certain?"
"I am. The subject is recovering now. With refinement, we may be able to produce more." Elandor’s gaze flicked briefly toward me, then away. "This changes everything. We will no longer need to rely so heavily on... unpredictable elements."
I kept my expression neutral, but the information was certainly a big one. Mages were the rarest kind of humans ever, and to be able to create one was no easy feat. But this also meant that Elandor had been conducting experiments, dangerous ones, from the sound of it. And now he believed he had succeeded.
Veyra nodded slowly. "We’ll discuss the details later. For now, keep it quiet. The governor doesn’t need to know."
Elandor inclined his head and moved away. Veyra turned back to me, her expression carefully composed once more.
"Come," she said. "We still have work to do."
I found myself turning the new information over carefully. The rebellion was more fractured and desperate than it appeared on the surface. Elandor was willing to cross lines most would not. And somewhere in the camp, a newly created mage was recovering from whatever process had forced power into an ordinary human body.
Lira would want to know some of this. Harlan, too, though I suspected he already knew more than he admitted.
I understood that these were desperate times, and desperate measures must be taken. But human experiments weren’t something I expected when I joined the rebellion. I wondered how many lives they’d thrown away for this achievement, and just how much more they were willing to sacrifice.