The stone walls of the former crypt absorbed the sweat and fear of a hundred elven soldiers. Water seeped through cracks in the vaulted ceiling, mingling with the soot from oil lamps. At the center, leaning on an oak cane topped with a wolf''s head, stood Captain Darvin—a tall elf whose face was carved with scars. The most prominent gash crossed his left brow, making his predatory yellow gaze even more piercing. His worn officer''s uniform, adorned with tarnished insignia, smelled of gunpowder and old wounds.
"Limus," his hoarse voice cut through the silence, "will be your new home. Or rather, your mass grave, if you act like idiots."
A tattered newspaper slammed onto the table: "OUTSIDERS UNWANTED: ''STEEL CLAW'' GUILD EXPELLED FROM CITY."
Someone in the third row choked. Darvin didn''t even glance their way.
"Hoods," he struck his cane against the floor, "won''t save you. But without them, they''ll slit your throats before you even open your mouths."
A nervous crack of knuckles echoed somewhere in the hall. Darvin continued, switching the map''s display. Now at its center yawned the "Zone of Silence"—a black stain spreading across half the continent. At its edge loomed the tiny mark of Varlav, marked with a skull.
"The human army is nothing but pitiful garrisons guarding their last safe cities. And the guilds..." He snorted derisively. "Mercenaries with expensive swords. They hunt demons in dungeons while the real plague spreads across the land."
Gimlor, seated in the front row, stood abruptly. His silver hair, tied in a tight ponytail, swayed. "Varlav... That''s three days from human borders. How could a replicant—"
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"Get that far?" Darvin bared his teeth. "Congratulations. Now you understand why the guilds are failing."
The cane struck the floor again, making even the steeliest flinch.
"The guilds call them ''shapeshifters.'' Remember this: anyone they''ve seen becomes their mask. They''re stronger than a trained elf. Faster than fear itself."
A muffled cough came from the back rows. Darvin lowered his voice. "Most are beasts in human skin. But there are... others. The ones who remember. Speak in your voice. Laugh like your friends."
Liran, the gaunt archivist with unkempt hair and spectacles perpetually sliding down his nose, leapt up so violently he knocked over an inkwell. "Enough! This is classified!"
Kaldor, sprawled across the back bench, drawled lazily, "Oho, so the truth is even worse?"
Gimlor refused to be sidetracked. "What''s the mission''s ultimate objective?"
Darvin''s cane moved automatically to point at Eclipsa. "There..." His voice cracked. "...lies the graveyard of our hopes. Eclipsa—ground zero of the catastrophe, a trove of answers no one wants to face." His gaze swept the room. "Three hundred elves of the ''Shadowblade'' entered. None returned. The Council calls it... ''training exercises.''"
Liran hurled a chair. "Silence! Final warning!"
Darvin moved faster than most could blink. His hand closed around the archivist''s throat. A slip of paper fluttered from Liran''s trembling fingers.
"You''d send them in blind again?" Darvin hissed.
Liran wrenched free. At the threshold, he straightened his crumpled collar. "Orders are orders."
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving behind a document faintly inscribed: "OBJECT 14: PHASE █████."
Darvin sank heavily into his chair, suddenly aged. "Forget this conversation. We march in three days."
The soldiers filed out in silence. Eldarion, midway through the column, stepped sideways—crushing the forgotten paper beneath his boot.
Outside, new recruits were already being shouted into formation—fresh meat for the grinder.
Kaldor, the last to leave, scooped up a scrap of newspaper. His fingers froze over the fragment: "...third one found in Varlav..." The ever-present sardonic grin stiffened imperceptibly.
As the door closed behind the final soldier, the map on the wall rustled—as if stirred by an unfelt wind.