The moment the word left Kroq-Gar’s throat, Lysandor felt his heart skip a beat.
It wasn’t fear.
Or rather, it wasn’t only fear.
It was the feeling of having everything he believed shattered in an instant.
He had lived for more than three centuries.
He had studied hundreds of reports written by northern patrols, each composed with scholarly precision.
Every one of them described the reptilian creatures lurking deep within the rainforest as beasts.
Creatures without language.
Without tools.
Without society.
Pack hunters that behaved no differently from wild animals.
Yet now he stood before a towering Lizardman over three and a half metres tall, scales gleaming beneath the sun, listening to it calmly speak a word he understood.
“Elf.”
With that single word, everything he thought he knew splintered like thin ice.
The other Elves reacted even more openly.
The young female warrior with the injured ankle instinctively stepped backwards.
Her knee struck the Cold One rider standing behind her.
The mount let out a short, puzzled rumble.
Not a warning.
Simply surprise at being bumped.
She never even noticed.
Her eyes remained fixed upon Kroq-Gar’s face.
Her lips had turned pale.
The deputy stood beside Lysandor.
She appeared calmer than the others.
Yet after knowing her for decades, he had never seen her fingers tremble beside the hilt of her sword like this.
It wasn’t fear.
It was instinct.
The instinct every veteran possessed when confronted by an enemy that lay completely outside every tactical assumption.
Her body had already reached a conclusion before her mind had.
You cannot win against this creature.
Lysandor took a slow breath.
He spoke in the Common Tongue instead of Elvish.
If this being truly understood language, he wanted no room for misunderstanding.
“Who are you?”
Kroq-Gar looked down at him.
His slit pupils narrowed slightly beneath the midday light before widening again.
He did not answer.
Instead, his deep voice issued a completely different command.
“Lock them up.”
Lysandor blinked.
The Cold One riders struck their tails against the ground in unison.
Their captain gave a sharp hiss.
Several Skink guards hurried from the spawning complex on the eastern side of the plaza and took over escort duty.
Kroq-Gar inclined his head toward the cavalry captain.
“You’ve done well.”
His deep voice carried clearly across the square.
“Go and rest.”
“The water in the Cold One pens was changed today.”
The riders bowed.
They tugged lightly on their reins.
Forty-eight Cold Ones formed into a neat column before marching across the plaza toward the southern stables.
Lysandor watched them leave.
From the moment the order to rest was given until the entire formation departed, not one unnecessary movement was made.
No repeated commands.
No urging.
No confusion.
Among the Elven armies, such discipline would already be considered above average.
Yet according to every northern patrol report, these creatures were supposedly untameable beasts.
The Skink guards surrounded the prisoners.
Using the shafts of their javelins, they lightly tapped the Elves on the calves before pointing toward the eastern side of the plaza.
There was no pushing.
No shouting.
Only gentle taps against the stone and silent gestures indicating where to walk.
The young warrior with the injured ankle limped badly.
The Skink escort slowed its pace to match hers.
Every few steps it glanced back at her injured foot.
Tilting its head thoughtfully, it rummaged through the pouch at its waist before producing a handful of crushed Silverleaf herbs.
It held the green paste toward her.
The young Elf stared blankly at the tiny scaled hand offering medicine.
After a long pause…
She accepted it.
The Skink seemed pleased.
Its tail swished happily before it continued walking.
The chamber had once served as a repository for magical energy.
After the power conduits had been rerouted elsewhere, the storage room had fallen vacant.
Tekuna had ordered iron bars installed across the entrance, converting it into a temporary holding cell.
The room itself was surprisingly dry.
Faint blue light still flowed through the ancient magical runes carved into the walls, providing gentle illumination.
Fresh straw covered the floor.
A clay jar filled with clean water rested in one corner.
The iron bars were newly forged.
Even the rings hadn’t yet been polished smooth by repeated use.
The Skink guards opened the gate.
They waited until every Elf had entered before quietly closing it behind them.
There was no lock.
Only a thick wooden bar slid into place.
The little Skink who had offered the herbs crouched outside the cell.
Clinging to the bars with both hands, it watched the injured warrior apply the Silverleaf paste to her swollen ankle.
Its golden eyes blinked once.
Apparently satisfied, it hopped to its feet and scampered away.
The Elves settled onto the straw.
No one spoke.
Silence lingered for a long time.
Night eventually fell.
The runes upon the stone walls glowed brighter beneath the darkness.
Cool blue light seeped through every crack.
A damp breeze drifted through the ventilation shafts, carrying the scent of the rainforest and the distant rumbling breaths of Cold Ones sleeping in their pens.
Footsteps echoed outside the bars.
Light footsteps.
Scaled feet scraping gently across stone.
Several Skinks descended the stairs carrying wooden trays.
Clay bowls.
Rough loaves of dark bread.
The smallest Skink led the group.
Its scales were noticeably lighter than the others’.
Its tail stood proudly upright as it walked.
One tray after another was carefully passed through the bars.
The little Skink crouched outside afterward, gripping the bars while watching the prisoners.
The meal was simple.
A bowl of stew.
The meat had been cut into rough chunks.
Several wild greens floated in the broth.
There was plenty of meat.
A thin layer of fat shimmered upon the surface.
A loaf of dark bread.
Hard on the outside.
Still soft within.
The scent of fresh grain drifted from it.
Several wild fruits completed the meal.
The little Skink dug into another pouch.
It produced a tiny clay jar and slid it between the bars.
Salt.
Coarse, grey-white mineral salt.
The deputy dipped one fingertip into it before tasting it.
She remained silent.
Without a word, she pushed the jar into the centre where everyone could share it.
On a besieged front line…
Salt was worth more than silver.
The Elves stared at the food.
Then they looked at one another.
Finally, the young warrior with the injured ankle spoke.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Although the little Skink still sat outside watching her with obvious curiosity, making no attempt to hide the fact that it could hear every word.
“They brought us food.”
“They brought us salt.”
“They even gave me medicine.”
She lowered her eyes toward the Silverleaf wrapped around her ankle.
The swelling had already gone down considerably.
“Weren’t we told these creatures were beasts?”
“Would beasts treat prisoners like this?”
The archer picked up the dark loaf and weighed it in his hand.
“Beasts wouldn’t understand salt either.”
“I’ve seen human prisoner camps on the northern front.”
“The bread humans give their prisoners is harder than this.”
“The soup doesn’t even contain meat.”
“And they certainly don’t crouch outside the bars watching to see whether you’ve eaten.”
“The patrol reports were wrong.”
He rolled it slowly in his palm.
“Every part of them.”
“No language.”
“No tools.”
“No society.”
“Everything we were taught was wrong.”
“That blue giant spoke.”
“He gave orders using a proper language.”
“He has a name.”
“An army.”
“A city.”
“He even reminded his soldiers that the water for their mounts had been changed.”
He took a bite of the fruit.
Sweet juice ran down the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t bother wiping it away.
“It takes intelligence to care what your soldiers’ mounts drink.”
He swallowed before continuing.
“And did you notice something else?”
“His body is covered with old scars.”
“But there isn’t a single fresh wound.”
“A commander with countless old scars and no recent injuries means that nothing has reached him in battle for a long time.”
“Perhaps his guards are simply that capable.”
“Or perhaps anything that comes close dies before it can even scratch his scales.”
“I don’t know which possibility is true.”
“Neither one will let me sleep.”
“The word ‘Elf’…”
The swordsman who had attacked the Saurus rider finally spoke.
He rested his damaged blade across his knees.
The small chip along its edge reflected faintly beneath the runes’ blue light.
“He spoke it in the Common Tongue.”
He looked toward Lysandor.
“The Common Tongue came from the humans of the Old World.”
“Did humans teach Lizardmen to speak?”
He slowly shook his head.
“Impossible.”
“The humans themselves don’t even know what’s hidden inside this rainforest.”
“Perhaps the humans never taught them anything.”
The deputy lowered her wooden bowl.
She looked through the bars.
The little Skink was squatting outside, scratching something onto the floor with one claw.
After looking closely, she realised it was drawing a Cold One.
The proportions were crooked.
The lines were clumsy.
But the creature was unmistakable.
“It’s drawing…”
the young warrior murmured.
Wonder quietly crept into her expression.
Lysandor placed the fruit pit into his empty bowl.
He wiped the remaining broth clean with a piece of bread.
Years as a scout had taught him never to waste food.
After a long silence, the deputy spoke again.
“I don’t think the humans know there’s a civilisation here.”
Her voice was soft.
“The humans are fighting the Elves.”
“The Elves are besieging human cities.”
“There are daemons in the north.”
“And in the south…”
She paused.
Her eyes drifted toward the unfinished Cold One sketch outside the cell.
“…there are them.”
“And every piece of intelligence every one of us possesses is wrong.”
More footsteps echoed through the corridor.
These were heavier.
Armoured scales scraping softly against stone.
A Saurus Spearman descended the stairs.
He nodded once toward the Skink on night watch before taking up position outside the cell.
Without a word, he stood guard.
The young warrior glanced from the silent sentinel to her bandaged ankle.
Then she quietly spoke the words every Elf in the room heard.
“They aren’t beasts.”
“They’re more like…”
She searched for the right word.
“…us.”
No one argued with her.