Chapter 305: The Night Before Ritefield

Trafalgar met her gaze and nodded once. "Yes." That was all he said.Aubrelle didn’t answer right away. Through Pipin’s eyes, she looked up at the sky—black and endless, scattered with distant stars that felt closer from this height. Beneath them, the ocean stretched like a dark mirror, vast and quiet, its surface broken only by faint moonlight. The flying ship cut through the night smoothly, wings steady, while the wind threaded through the air and caught her hair, setting the golden strands in motion like slow, rolling waves.

She stayed like that for a moment. Still. Thinking.

Trafalgar watched her without speaking.

Her silhouette was calm against the stars, but he could see the hesitation in the way her shoulders held themselves. His eyes—blue, deep, and steady like the ocean below—never left her. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t press. He simply waited.

Aubrelle turned back toward him.

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Then, finally—

"There are some details I’ll have to leave out," she said softly. "So it doesn’t count as you intervening."

Trafalgar didn’t question it. He didn’t argue. "That’s fine," he replied. "I understand."

The tension in her chest eased, just a little.

For the first time since the battle, she felt like she could set part of the weight down. Not all of it. Never all. But enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

She was sharing this with someone she trusted.

Her junior from the academy. One year younger. And yet—right now—someone she felt she could rely on.

The wind passed between them again, carrying the scent of salt and open skies.Aubrelle steadied herself. Then, quietly, she began.

The wind vanished.

So did the sky.

Aubrelle was no longer on a flying ship.

She was there.

The canvas walls of a large command tent surrounded her, thick fabric stretched tight against wooden supports. The air inside was heavy with mana residue, oil, ink, and the faint metallic scent of prepared artifacts. Outside, distant movement could be heard—boots on soil, muffled orders, the low hum of items being prepared.

This was territory bordering the Ritefield of Beasts.

Close enough that the land itself felt different. Sacred. Watched.

Inside the tent, several figures stood gathered around a central table marked with rough maps and mana-inscribed tokens. Every allied family aiding the Sylvanel had sent a Heir, not just for necessity, but for experience. For recognition. For future leverage.

Aubrelle stood among them.

To her left stood Karon au Sylvanel.

An elf, tall and sharp-featured, with the quiet authority of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. He looked young by human standards, but Aubrelle knew better—nearly two centuries old. The fourth child of Elenara au Sylvanel.

And the one chosen to command this first major engagement.

Near the edge of the tent was a dwarf woman of Stonehearth, arms crossed, eyes scanning a crate of devices with practiced scrutiny. She wasn’t here to fight. Her role was clear—ensuring every item, mechanism, and enchanted construct was ready for deployment.

Opposite her stood a human man from the Watercaller family, somewhere in his forties. His robes bore subtle traces of condensed moisture, mana flowing through him with the calm consistency of a deep current. A veteran mage, experienced and controlled.

Beside him lingered the Heir of the Thorncrest Elves.

Beautiful in the effortless, distant way elves often were. Too beautiful, almost—features too refined to guess an age. He said little, eyes sharp, posture relaxed but alert.

Then there was Lorian.

Moonweave.

The same elf.

The one who had spoken without thinking. The one who had seen her scar and decided she wasn’t worth his time. The one who had said she was a waste loudly enough for the entire party to hear.

And now, he stood there as the chosen representative of his House.

Aubrelle could feel it without needing to see—most of the heirs regarded her presence as an insult. A Summoner with no visible achievements. Blind. Young. A liability.

All of them—

Except Karon.

He did not look at her differently. Did not dismiss her. Did not elevate her either.

He judged by results, not appearances.

And for now, he was simply waiting to see what she would prove herself to be.

Everyone was standing.

No one sat. No one leaned. This was not a discussion meant to invite comfort.

At the head of the table stood Karon au Sylvanel, posture straight, presence firm without needing to assert it. A map lay spread beneath his hands, weighted at the corners by mana-marked tokens.

"The timing is favorable," Karon said, his voice calm, carrying effortlessly through the tent. "The Ritefield of Beasts will be in full celebration when we move. Rituals will be underway, traditions observed, attention divided between ceremony and symbolism rather than vigilance. Thal’Zar prides itself on these rites—they believe them sacred, untouchable. That belief will make them careless."

His finger traced a slow arc across the map.

"Thal’Zar will be unguarded. Or close enough to it. This is the ideal moment to strike—not a probing attack, but a decisive one. We hit hard. We make it clear this war has truly begun."

No one interrupted.

"The Sylvanel forces will form the spear," Karon continued. "We advance directly. No hesitation. No withdrawal until contact is made."

His gaze shifted.

"Moonweave. Thorncrest. Watercaller. You will strike from the flanks. Disrupt. Isolate. Collapse their formations once they commit to us."

Measured nods followed. Agreements without words.

Then—his attention turned.

"Lady Aubrelle au Rosenthal."

The tent seemed to tighten around them.

"Your role," Karon said evenly, "will be to observe the battlefield and react if an unexpected variable arises."

That was all.

No charge. No responsibility. No trust. Just containment.

Aubrelle understood immediately what it meant. She was being set aside.

In Karon’s eyes, she lacked recorded achievements. No visible feats. No reason—yet—to be placed where she could interfere. He wasn’t cruel about it. He wasn’t mocking her.

He simply didn’t see her as necessary.

A faint, stifled sound escaped from somewhere in the tent.

A laugh—barely held back.

Aubrelle didn’t need Pipin to know where it came from.

Lorian.

The Moonweave heir hadn’t even bothered to hide it. The same elf who had spoken without thinking before, who had seen her scar and decided she wasn’t worth his time. The same one who had laughed then, just as he was laughing now.

She paused.

"...And that was when he laughed," Aubrelle said quietly, finishing the thought.

Trafalgar frowned.

"That Lorian," he said, cutting in without realizing it. "I don’t like him."

He stopped himself a second later and glanced at her. "Sorry. You were saying."

For a brief moment, Aubrelle was silent.

Then—unexpectedly—she smiled.

It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t bright. But it was genuine.

"It’s fine," she said softly. "You’re not wrong."

She took a breath, steadying herself, and continued exactly where she had left off.

Karon continued as if nothing had happened.

His finger moved across the map, tapping a wide clearing marked deep within Thal’Zar territory.

"The Ritefield of Beasts," he said, his voice calm and controlled, "is sacred ground to Thal’Zar. It was never designed as a battlefield. There are no walls, no defensive structures, no permanent garrison meant to withstand a direct assault."

His gaze lifted briefly, meeting the eyes of those gathered.

"They believe the weight of tradition is enough to protect it. That belief is what we will exploit."

No one spoke.

The comparison did not need to be stated aloud. Everyone in that tent understood the parallel to the Sylvanel sanctuary that had been damaged months prior.

Karon straightened and folded his hands behind his back as the discussion moved forward.

"For this operation," he continued, "the Sylvanel will mobilize just over two thousand soldiers. A focused force, not a full deployment. This is an opening strike, not a campaign meant to be decided in a single day."

The number settled heavily in the air.

Aubrelle understood what it truly meant, even if Karon did not say it.

For the Sylvanel, those troops represented less than five percent of their total military strength. A calculated risk. Painful, but survivable.

Karon’s attention shifted to the other heirs present.

"Your families will be committing forces of a similar scale," he said, his tone unchanged. "Each of you understands what that entails for your Houses. This is not a symbolic contribution. Losses will be real, and the consequences will follow you long after this battle ends."

Some of the heirs stiffened. Others avoided his gaze.

The truth needed no embellishment.

For most of the allied families, losing two thousand soldiers would not be a setback. It would be a wound deep enough to force them to question whether remaining in the war was worth the cost.

And yet, Aubrelle knew the other half of that truth just as clearly.

They were bound to the Sylvanel.

By oath. By alliance. By obligations that could not be severed without consequence.

Leaving was not as simple as deciding to walk away.

Karon allowed the silence to stretch before speaking again.

"The plan stands as it is," he said. "There will be no revisions. Rest while you can. Tomorrow, we move."

Nothing else needed to be said. The pieces were already in place, each one settled by calculation and silent agreement. The decision itself had been made long before this gathering, merely formalized here—given structure, timing, and inevitability.

All that remained was to wait for morning.

For plans to leave parchment behind.For anticipation to turn into movement.

And for the first true battle of the war to finally begin.