The central command tent of the Elven camp was illuminated as dusk settled over the battlefield.
Outside, the Royal Guard had doubled the watch.
Every Elf not belonging to the command staff was stopped fifty paces from the entrance.
When the final dispatch runner delivered the day’s last report, one of the halberdiers guarding the entrance glanced at him and muttered quietly,
“They’re arguing inside.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The argument had already begun.
Elyndra sat at the head of the long table, one elbow resting against the arm of her chair, fingertips pressed lightly against her temple.
She had just finished recounting everything.
The Lizardmen cities.
Their disciplined armies.
Their silent command system.
The towering blue lord named Kroq-Gar.
And his proposal.
A temporary ceasefire in exchange for intelligence about Chaos.
Silence lingered for only a few heartbeats.
Then it shattered.
“I oppose any form of ceasefire.”
The first voice belonged to Aldaron, commander of the right wing.
A golden-haired Elven noble with the pine crest of the northern forest city-states engraved upon his armour.
His tone remained controlled, but every word carried an edge.
“We have besieged Clermont for weeks.”
“The defenders have provisions for perhaps another month.”
“If we stop attacking now, we hand Humanity exactly what they need.”
“Time.”
“They’ll reinforce their walls.”
“Secure fresh water.”
“Redistribute their ammunition.”
“Move their remaining food into new underground granaries.”
“When we resume the assault, the cost will be twice as high.”
“The cost?”
The commander of the left wing leaned back in her chair with folded arms.
She was a brown-haired Elven woman whose face bore three long scars stretching from forehead to jaw, souvenirs from a troll’s claws years earlier on the northern frontier.
“The cost of this siege is already too high.”
“The northern front is sending emergency reports.”
“The Dark Enemy is massing beneath the Greyspine Mountains.”
“We don’t even know their numbers.”
“Every extra day we remain here is another day the north stands alone.”
She looked around the table.
“If someone truly possesses intelligence about the Dark Enemy…”
“Real intelligence.”
“The kind we’ve never had.”
“Then I believe we should at least hear what those cold-blooded people have to say.”
“They aren’t beasts.”
Lysandor spoke from the far end of the table.
He had only been invited to report as captain of the reconnaissance team, but Elyndra had ordered him to remain.
“They have cities.”
“They have writing.”
“They have military command structures.”
“They fed us.”
“They treated our wounded.”
“They even gave prisoners salt.”
His voice remained calm.
Only the final sentence carried unmistakable emphasis.
“Beasts don’t give salt to prisoners.”
Aldaron turned toward him.
His expression revealed little beyond quiet scepticism.
“You spent one day in their custody.”
“Perhaps they simply fed you enough to make you believe exactly what they wanted.”
“They never interrogated me.”
Lysandor’s voice remained steady.
His hand unconsciously tightened around the empty sword ring hanging at his belt.
“They simply placed food inside.”
“Then one small Skink sat outside the bars and watched me eat.”
“If they wanted information…”
“They had no reason to behave that way.”
His eyes swept across every commander seated around the table.
“Have any of you ever seen a beast that draws pictures?”
“Is that really comparable?”
Another commander spoke without even turning his chair.
His sheathed sword rested across his knees while his fingers tapped thoughtfully against the scabbard.
“Goblin wolf riders along the Imperial frontier mark their territory as well.”
“Drawing symbols doesn’t automatically make them a civilisation worth trusting.”
“Whether they possess writing or not…”
“A mysterious race suddenly claiming to be an advanced civilisation in the middle of the rainforest sounds suspiciously like deception.”
“If we withdraw…”
“What stops them from occupying Clermont themselves?”
“If they wanted Clermont…”
A voice answered calmly from farther down the table.
“They wouldn’t need us to withdraw first.”
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The speaker was the Elven battle mage assigned from the northern front.
Her staff rested across her lap.
The crystal at its tip still shimmered with traces of frost left over from recent long-range magical communications.
“Captain Lysandor reported that Lord Kroq-Gar stands nearly one and a half storeys tall.”
“He can tear apart plate armour with one hand.”
“His army can deploy silently inside dense jungle.”
“A force capable of that level of concealment could surround our siege camp during the night.”
“We wouldn’t discover it until sunrise.”
“If they truly wanted war…”
“They wouldn’t need elaborate diplomacy.”
“Which is exactly why we should strike first.”
One commander muttered.
This time…
His confidence sounded far less convincing.
The brown-haired commander rose from her seat.
She stepped into the centre of the tent.
Unlike many Elven officers, she abandoned the elaborate ceremonial phrasing common in formal debate.
Her words were simple.
Direct.
“I don’t care whether they can draw.”
“I care about the north.”
“The Dark Enemy is gathering beneath the Greyspine Mountains.”
“We don’t know how many there are.”
“If the northern line collapses…”
“They march directly into the heart of the Elven Forest.”
“Our parents.”
“Our children.”
“Our families.”
“They all live there.”
Her gaze swept across every commander.
“Tell me.”
“Which of you would rather spend another month starving Humans behind Clermont’s walls…”
“Only to receive word that your own homeland has already fallen?”
Silence answered her.
One commander opened his mouth.
Then quietly closed it again.
Aldaron removed his fingers from his sword.
His throat tightened.
But he offered no reply.
Everyone present knew the reports from the northern frontier were genuine.
Each had been weighing the siege in the south against the safety of their homeland.
Few had dared say the truth aloud.
She had.
Elyndra finally spoke.
“We will report everything to Her Majesty.”
Her voice was quiet.
Yet every conversation stopped instantly.
She stood and walked toward the magical crystal lamp illuminating the front of the table.
Cold white light reflected across her face.
“What occurred today at the rainforest border was not diplomacy.”
“It was first contact.”
“Information from a first contact must be delivered completely and accurately to the Queen.”
“Until we receive instructions…”
“The assault on Clermont is suspended.”
“The siege remains.”
“Maintain the blockade.”
“Maintain patrols.”
“Maintain cavalry rotations.”
“A suspension is not a withdrawal.”
“It is simply a pause.”
She turned toward the brown-haired commander.
“You will draft a letter to the Human commander.”
“Keep the wording restrained.”
“Do not present it as a demand for surrender.”
“Do not acknowledge any formal ceasefire.”
“Simply state that the Elven command intends to temporarily suspend offensive operations while conducting discussions related to an unprecedented frontier contact.”
“Invite their commander to meet on the neutral ground between our siege lines.”
“If they agree…”
“The meeting will take place at sunrise the day after tomorrow.”
“If the Human commander refuses to come…”
“That will be his decision.”
“Not ours.”
The left-wing commander bowed sharply.
“I understand.”
Aldaron rested one hand upon the table.
His fingers spread slightly.
He offered no objection.
Neither did anyone else.
No one used the word beast again.
Lysandor watched them quietly.
He remembered the disciplined ranks of Saurus warriors upon Golden Tower’s walls.
Their perfectly synchronized spear drills. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Then he remembered Kroq-Gar’s words at the rainforest’s edge.
“Chaos does not distinguish between races.”
He wanted to repeat those words aloud.
To everyone in the tent.
But he was only a reconnaissance captain.
Present.
Not entitled to vote.
The meeting ended.
Elyndra remained alone at the head of the table.
A blank sheet of parchment lay before her.
The cold glow of the magical crystal stretched her shadow across the page.
Her pen hovered for a long while.
This was not a diplomatic letter addressed to a Human king.
Nor was it an ordinary military report for the Elven Council.
It would become the first official record of contact with an entirely unknown civilisation.
Finally…
She began to write.
To Her Majesty:
Today, at the edge of the southern rainforest, I met a being identifying himself as Kroq-Gar, Lord of the Lizardmen.
He stands approximately one and a half storeys tall, possesses blue scales, and speaks the Common Tongue.
His people control no fewer than three cities and maintain a standing field army numbering several thousand.
He claims extensive knowledge regarding the weaknesses of the Dark Enemy.
In exchange for sharing that intelligence, he requests safe passage for Human refugees into the southern rainforest and a temporary suspension of hostilities within the surrounding operational area.
She paused briefly before continuing.
He further stated that the Dark Enemy makes no distinction between races.
Therefore, I recommend that the Council conduct a complete reassessment of the southern rainforest.
Additional note: This being refers to the Dark Enemy as Chaos.
She sealed the letter.
Pressed her commander’s wax seal into it.
Then handed it to the courier waiting outside.
Afterward, she stepped from the tent into the cool evening air.
The wind swept gently across the besieging camp.
Far away, scattered torchlight flickered atop Clermont’s walls.
Beyond that lay the unseen snow line of the Greyspine Mountains.
And farther south…
The silent wall of rainforest.
She stood watching those trees for a very long time.
Finally, she whispered a single word.
Only she could hear it.
“Chaos…”
As the courier galloped away toward the capital…
Another procession quietly departed from the eastern road outside Golden Tower.
It was a funeral.
The dead were two Humans.
An elderly woman.
And a middle-aged man.
The old woman had passed peacefully the previous night.
She had gone to sleep…
And never awakened.
The old hunter quietly explained that she had endured too many winters of starvation.
Her body had already been failing long before she reached the rainforest.
Surviving long enough to arrive at Golden Tower had itself been a miracle.
The man had been discovered dead that morning.
Even in Hamstone, he had suffered from a relentless cough.
Every fit brought up black ash.
Not ordinary soot.
The ashes drifting from the cremation furnaces of the Chaos-corrupted city far to the north.
Once he entered the rainforest…
The coughing stopped.
But his lungs had already been destroyed.
On the third day after reaching Golden Tower…
He died quietly upon the simple bed inside his shelter.
Kroq-Gar stood atop the city walls and watched in silence.
Skink craftsmen carefully wrapped both bodies in woven reed mats.
They placed them upon stretchers braided from sturdy vines.
The procession slowly made its way toward the newly established cemetery east of the city.
It occupied a sunny hillside beyond the old walls of Tlaxtlan.
The soil there was dry.
Far from any water source.
The old hunter walked behind the stretchers alongside several Human refugees.
It was a small procession.
No prayers were spoken.
The refugees had come from many different villages.
The old priest had died during the journey south.
No one still carried a holy book.
Yet someone quietly began humming an old melody.
Soft.
Broken.
It was the song once sung during Hamstone’s Spring Planting Festival.