Threads of Crimson and Gold

The air in the Rowdy Barracks was thick with the smoky tang of distant fires, the usual cacophony replaced by a hushed urgency. Micheal woke abruptly, the remnants of a restless dream lingering in his mind like a whisper he couldn't quite grasp. His head throbbed, a telltale reminder of the mead-fueled revelry the night before. He rubbed his temples and blinked groggily, realizing the sun wasn't yet up—but the barracks was already stirring with activity.

Recruits moved quickly, pulling on their gear and gathering supplies. The buzz of hushed conversations filled the space, their words tinged with unease. Micheal overheard snippets: "red sky" and "red fog." He pushed himself upright, clutching the edge of his bunk for stability as his mind tried to piece it together.

His roommate, Claude, was leaning against the barracks door, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the yard. Even in the dim light, Micheal could see the faint shadows under his eyes—a sign of a man both hungover and alert.

"What's going on?" Micheal asked, his voice rasping from sleep and the effects of too much mead.

Claude's fox-like ears twitched as he glanced over. "You've not seen the sky yet, have you?" he said, his tone laced with unease. "Get moving, Prince. There's no time to dawdle today."

Micheal threw on his gear and stepped outside, only to stop short as the sight above struck him like a blow. The sky was a deep, foreboding crimson, streaked with ominous clouds that seemed to pulse faintly, like a living thing. Tendrils of red fog curled through the edges of the camp, licking at the ground like creeping shadows.

"Is this… normal?" Micheal asked as Claude joined him, his tone betraying his discomfort.

"Not even close," Claude muttered. "I've heard of beast tides, but with the red fog? That's different. The others say it's a bad omen."

The steady thud of boots pulled Micheal's attention as Garrick, the grizzled half-beast, approached. His usual gruff demeanor was subdued, his bear-like features set in a grim expression.

"You're up," Garrick said, eyeing Micheal's disheveled appearance. "Good. We need every hand."

"What can I do?" Micheal asked, his unease sharpening into a desire for action.

Garrick gestured toward the bustling yard. "Help where you can. Reinforcements, gear, supplies—it's all hands on deck now."

Micheal nodded, his hangover fading into the background as adrenaline took its place. He grabbed his toolbox and moved into the fray, Breeze trotting at his heels. The tiny wind-dog sniffed curiously at the fog curling along the ground, its oversized ears twitching at every sound. Soldiers rushed past, hauling stakes and reinforcing the protective barriers.

Fires burned high, their flickering light casting long shadows over rows of sharpened stakes and glowing glyphs etched into the earth. Micheal worked quickly, hammering, tightening, and adjusting anything that looked out of place. His mind raced, partly from the strange energy in the air and partly from the conversations he overheard.

A soldier nearby whispered to his companion, "The Duke himself is here, can you believe it?"

Micheal's hands froze mid-motion. "The Duke? Here?"

Garrick, who had been overseeing the barrier reinforcement, turned at Micheal's startled question. "Louis von Shelb," he confirmed, his voice low. "Arrived late last night. He's in the command tent with the Count."

Micheal's thoughts spun. His father was here, in Armond camp. Why? He'd expected many things from this assignment, but not for the Duke to personally oversee the defense. Shaking off his surprise, he returned to work, the question lingering in the back of his mind.

As he moved toward another section of the camp, his attention was drawn to a small, box-like device sitting on a crate—a Talker. His mind immediately filled with fragmented memories from his dream repository, piecing together the story of its creation. The Talker was one of the many innovations of the same mage who had invented the com-tab. Micheal's admiration for the ingenious design was momentarily interrupted by the buzz of the device as it crackled with incoming reports.

Location: Armond Camp, Command tent

Inside the command tent, Count Drifter stood over a sprawling map, his expression grim. The Talkers around him buzzed intermittently as reports streamed in. Duke Louis stood nearby, arms crossed, his presence commanding as he analyzed the updates.

"Beasts gathering in larger numbers than expected," one scout's voice crackled through a Talker. "No sign of movement yet, but it's only a matter of time."

Drifter exchanged a glance with Louis. "They're organizing," he said, his tone heavy with meaning. "This isn't a mindless tide. Something's directing them."

Louis nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then we prepare as if it's the worst-case scenario."

As the reports grew more concerning, Louis relayed a message through his Aide to Ethan, instructing him to arrive with reinforcements earlier than planned.

Outside the tent, Micheal paused for a moment, watching as soldiers moved with renewed urgency. Breeze nudged his leg, a soft whine escaping its throat. Micheal patted the pup absently, his thoughts consumed by the ominous signs surrounding them.

The camp, for all its busyness, felt like a powder keg waiting to explode.

The Talkers on the command table buzzed faintly, interspersed with updates from scouts about the unsettling movements in the forest. Count Drifter leaned over the map, his sharp eyes scanning the routes marked in red ink. Duke Louis stood nearby, arms crossed as he absorbed the reports in silence.

Outside, the sounds of the camp at work—soldiers reinforcing barriers, commanders shouting orders—created a constant undercurrent of tension.

The flap of the command tent was thrown open suddenly, making the guards stationed outside flinch. Magda Valoria von Shelb stormed in, her robes trailing like a tempest, her crimson eyes blazing with urgency.

Drifter straightened, his brow furrowing as he regarded her. "Princess," he greeted dryly, his tone wary. "To what do we owe this dramatic entrance?"

Magda didn't bother with pleasantries. "Pull the scouts back," she commanded, her voice sharp and resolute. "Now."

Drifter raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Duke Louis, whose expression betrayed nothing. "Care to explain why?" Drifter asked, his tone tinged with amusement.

Magda stepped closer, planting her hands on the edge of the table as she leaned forward. "I had a vision—a dream," she began, her voice steady but laced with urgency. "A two-headed humanoid devil with red skin stood at the center of the beasts. It wasn't just commanding them—it was orchestrating them. They surrounded it like courtiers to a king, moving with precision and purpose."

Drifter's faint smirk faded, his features hardening as he studied her.

Duke Louis broke the silence, his voice calm but cutting. "And what makes you believe this vision is more than just a dream?"

Magda hesitated, her crimson eyes flickering with a shadow of doubt. She didn't tell them about the other detail—the devil's eyes, so eerily similar to her own, that had seemed to pierce through her dream as if it could see her. That memory alone was enough to send a chill down her spine.

"Because I felt it," she said finally, her tone firm. "As if I was there. And when I tried to focus on it, it saw me. This is no coincidence. If the scouts stay out there, they'll be walking straight into a trap."

Drifter folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "That's a bold claim, Princess. You realize what you're asking? Pulling back the scouts means losing eyes on the enemy."

"Better blind than dead," Magda retorted, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Do you really think they'll stand a chance against an organized force like this? Whatever information they gather will die with them."

The tent fell silent, the weight of her words settling over the room like a shroud.

Louis exhaled slowly, breaking the tension. "Order the scouts to retreat," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Drifter scowled but reached for a Talker. "All units, fall back. Repeat, fall back to the perimeter. Now."

The device buzzed with hurried confirmations, voices of scouts acknowledging the order with relief.

As Magda stepped back, the tension in her posture eased, though the weight of her vision lingered. Drifter's voice carried over the hum of the Talkers, directing units to shift their focus to the defensive lines.

Barely minutes after the scouts began their retreat, one of the Talkers crackled to life.

"The green orcs," a scout's voice came through, breathless. "They're moving in formation. Testing the edges of the barrier. This… this isn't normal."

Drifter swore under his breath, his earlier skepticism replaced with a grim acknowledgment of Magda's warning. He glanced at her, his expression a mixture of grudging respect and concern.

"It seems your vision wasn't just a dream," he said, his tone softer than before.

Magda said nothing, her mind still haunted by the devil's piercing gaze. As she left the tent, the weight of unspoken fears pressed heavily on her chest.

Inside the tent, Louis turned to Drifter. "She's proving to be more useful than I anticipated," he said quietly.

Drifter snorted, his voice gruff. "Let's hope her visions don't get us all killed."

Outside, the camp moved with renewed urgency as soldiers fortified the barriers and prepared for what they knew was coming. Micheal, still at work reinforcing the stakes, noticed Magda leaving the command tent. Her expression was distant, troubled, but her crimson eyes burned with determination.

"Something's happening," Micheal muttered to himself, patting Breeze absentmindedly as the pup sniffed the air. Around him, the camp bustled with the energy of a storm about to break.

Location: Shelb Estate

While the Armond camp buzzed with activity, preparing for the looming red sky and creeping fog, the Shelb estate seemed a world apart. The grand parlor exuded refinement, its tall windows framing the soft morning light that bathed the room in golden hues. Duchess Eleanor von Shelb sat at the head of the room, her regal poise underscoring her resolve to bring her elder sons to heel.

Across from her, the twins were a study in contrasts. Ethan, the eldest, sat upright with disciplined posture, his piercing blue eyes calm and composed, while Adrian slouched dramatically in his chair. His golden blonde hair, longer than his twin's and tied neatly behind, hung over one shoulder as he fiddled idly with his teacup, his expression a mask of feigned boredom.

"Backs straight. Shoulders relaxed," Eleanor said sharply, her tone brooking no argument. "And for the love of the Emperor, Adrian, stop looking as though you're being tortured."

Adrian groaned but reluctantly straightened, leaning just enough to appease her. "Mother, how exactly is this supposed to improve my romantic prospects?" he asked, gesturing lazily to the pristine tea setup.

Ethan, ever composed, didn't miss the chance to deliver a dry quip. "By teaching you not to drink tea like a barbarian," he said, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.

Adrian rolled his eyes, glaring half-heartedly at his twin. "And I suppose you're the 'Romantic of the Century,' are you?"

Ethan's lips quirked upward into a faint smirk. "Certainly closer to it than you are."

"Enough," Eleanor interrupted, her exasperation momentarily cracking her elegant façade. "It is precisely this attitude that leaves all of you lacking in refinement. Even your married brother struggles in matters of romance, and you two are no better—especially after provoking Micheal to leave. You ought to be ashamed."

Adrian straightened further, his usual smugness faltering slightly under her reproach. "That's hardly fair. Micheal isn't a child anymore—"

Eleanor's sharp look cut him off. "Micheal was always different. And without your father here to protect you from me, I fully intend to ensure the both of you learn proper decorum."

Adrian let out a long, exaggerated sigh, his slouched posture returning. "If you're so set on refinement, why not just hire a poet to compose a ballad? After all, Father didn't need tea lessons to earn the title of 'Romantic of the Century.'"

Eleanor's expression softened slightly, though she quickly masked it with a more severe tone. "Your father had his flaws, but he also had the courage to act decisively. Do you think his public proposal to me at the Harvest Festival Ball happened by accident?"

Ethan tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his usually impassive features. "So he really did propose in front of the entire court?"

"He did," Eleanor said, her voice laced with a mixture of fondness and pride. "And no one expected it—not from the stoic heir of House Shelb. But your father always had a flair for the dramatic."

Adrian grinned, leaning forward slightly. "And Grandfather Harold? He conquered the Southwest just to woo Grandmother Lila. Boldness is clearly a family trait."

"Bold gestures," Eleanor said firmly, "are meaningless without refinement to back them up. And that is why you're both here—so that when the time comes, you won't embarrass yourselves or this family."

A knock at the parlor door interrupted the lesson. Eleanor's aide entered, bowing deeply. "My Lord Ethan," he said respectfully, holding out a sealed letter. "A message from His Grace."

Ethan opened the letter and quickly scanned its contents, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly. "Father wants me to leave for the barracks earlier than planned," he announced, setting the letter down with practiced precision. "The situation at Armond is worse than expected."

Adrian immediately perked up, his slouched demeanor forgotten. "Wait, you get to leave while I'm stuck here drinking tea?"

Ethan rose gracefully, adjusting his cuffs with meticulous care. "Someone needs to stay behind and manage the estate," he said, his tone almost too casual. "Besides, I've already mastered the art of tea drinking."

Adrian glared, his indignation plain. "Oh, come on! You know I'd be more useful out there than stuck here playing housekeeper."

Ethan's smirk widened as he picked up his gloves. "Perhaps, but who else will ensure you finally learn to pour tea without spilling?"

Eleanor, watching Ethan with a quiet intensity, spoke softly, her voice tinged with concern. "You've been spending too much time on the battlefield lately," she said. "It's beginning to affect you… perhaps too much."

Ethan paused, her words hanging in the air like a weight. "Mother," he said simply, "this is necessary. I'll return soon." He gave her a small nod, then turned and strode from the room.

Adrian slumped back in his chair, visibly annoyed. "You know," he muttered, his tone half-joking, "sending him to the temple might not be such a bad idea. Some spiritual reflection could do him good."

Eleanor arched a delicate eyebrow. "You think so?"

Adrian crossed his arms, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "I think it's a brilliant idea—especially if it means I don't have to sit here drinking tea alone."

Eleanor chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Then I suggest you perfect your technique quickly, darling. Who knows? You might end up impressing me."

Adrian groaned, dragging a hand through his tied-back hair. "I'll never forgive you for this," he muttered as he picked up the teapot with exaggerated care.

The Duchess, ever composed, simply laughed. "You'll survive, my darling. After all, refinement is a family legacy."

Location: Armond Camp

The crimson sky loomed ominously over the camp as Magda's warning weighed heavily on minds of those who stood in the command tent. The retreating scouts had brought back reports of unsettling movements in the forest, confirming her visions. Within the camp, the air was charged with tension, yet the soldiers pressed on, their determination unwavering.

Micheal, still unsettled by the encounter in the command tent, pushed those thoughts aside as he walked through the bustling camp. His toolbox swung at his side, and Breeze, ever faithful, trotted beside him, his large ears twitching at every sound.

"Alright, let's see where I can help," Micheal muttered to himself, his gaze scanning the activity around him. He quickly spotted Claude and Garrick near the western barricade, where a group of soldiers struggled with a particularly stubborn stake.

Claude noticed him first, his hazel eyes sharp even in the dim, reddish light. "Prince! Fancy seeing you out here. Shouldn't you be in the workshop, inventing something miraculous?"

Micheal smirked faintly, setting his toolbox down. "Miracles take time. Right now, this barricade looks like it could use some reinforcement."

Garrick, leaning against a stack of planks, let out a low grunt of approval. "Good to see you putting those hands to work, Prince. Just don't break a nail."

Ignoring the teasing, Micheal rolled up his sleeves and got to work. The rhythmic clang of his hammer soon joined the chorus of activity echoing through the camp.

As the day wore on, Micheal's ingenuity became increasingly evident. Soldiers paused to watch as he adjusted mana distributors, explaining how the devices would channel energy more efficiently through the barrier formations.

"This little contraption," Micheal said, holding up a compact device with glowing veins of aura-threaded material, "will redistribute mana to weaker points in the formation, reducing strain."

A nearby recruit squinted at the device. "Looks fancy. Will it hold under pressure?"

"It will," Micheal replied confidently. "The formation's only as strong as its weakest link. This makes sure those links don't break."

The soldier nodded, impressed despite himself. "Not bad, Prince."

Another soldier, emboldened by the conversation, gestured toward Micheal's armor. "What about that? Think you could make me a chest plate like yours?"

Claude, leaning casually against a post, chuckled. "Get in line, mate. The Merchant Prince here has a long list of orders already."

"Very funny," Micheal muttered, shaking his head as the soldiers laughed. Despite the teasing, he couldn't help but feel a small swell of pride at their growing respect.

Amid the camp's serious atmosphere, Breeze provided much-needed levity. The wind-dog darted between the legs of soldiers, chasing after scraps of leather and sniffing at discarded tools.

At one point, the pup snagged a length of aura-threaded material and bolted across the camp. Soldiers scrambled to catch him, their shouts of protest mingling with laughter.

"Your dog's got more energy than the rest of us combined," Garrick grumbled as Breeze skidded to a stop in front of Micheal, tail wagging furiously.

Micheal crouched down, gently prying the scrap from the pup's mouth. "Breeze, we've talked about this—no stealing supplies."

Claude, watching from a few feet away, smirked. "He's just taking after you, Prince. Always grabbing things and making them better."

Micheal shook his head, exasperated but amused. "If he starts modifying mana distributors, I'll be impressed."

As Micheal moved from one task to the next, his focus and determination didn't go unnoticed. Soldiers began to refer to him not just as the Merchant Prince but as a capable and resourceful member of the camp.

From a distance, Count Drifter and Duke Louis observed the scene, their expressions unreadable.

"He's resourceful," Louis remarked, his deep voice calm but edged with something that could have been pride.

Drifter nodded slowly. "He's got more potential than I anticipated. If he keeps this up, he might just survive the tide."

Louis's gaze lingered on Micheal for a moment longer before turning back to the camp map. "Potential is one thing," he said evenly. "Whether he has the strength to carry it through remains to be seen."

Location: Shelb Camp

While the Armond camp braced for the beast tide under the ominous red sky, the Shelb estate presented once again a different kind of spectacle. The training yard, usually a place of discipline and rigorous drills, was now adorned with floral garlands, pastel banners, and a rather elegant centerpiece of roses resting on the command table.

Adrian von Shelb strolled through the yard with his usual relaxed confidence, inspecting his handiwork. His long golden blonde hair, tied neatly behind him, swayed with each step as his sharp blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Soldiers sparring nearby exchanged confused glances, their expressions caught between amusement and disbelief.

"Who in the Emperor's name put floral arrangements in the command tent?" barked a senior captain as he stormed toward the elaborately decorated centerpiece.

"That would be me," Adrian said cheerfully, spinning on his heel to face the captain. He spread his arms theatrically. "Doesn't it look splendid? A touch of charm in all this dreariness is precisely what we need."

The captain stared at him, clearly at a loss. "My Lord… this is a military training ground, not a… a noble's garden party."

"Exactly why it needed a little sprucing up," Adrian replied, undeterred. "Morale is just as important as muscle, Captain. When soldiers feel valued, they fight harder."

The captain muttered something about "foolish nobles" before stomping off, unwilling to argue further.

The younger recruits whispered and chuckled as they passed the flower-adorned weapon racks. One muttered to his companion, "Next, he'll be asking us to fight with bouquets instead of swords."

Adrian's sharp ears caught the comment. Without missing a beat, he called over his shoulder, "If you think you can swing a bouquet hard enough to knock out an orc, I'll gladly provide one."

The recruits burst into laughter, their earlier tension easing slightly. Adrian grinned to himself, satisfied with the reaction.

Harry, Adrian's ever-loyal aide, trailed after him with a clipboard in hand, his expression hovering between amusement and exasperation. He adjusted his glasses and sighed heavily. "My Lord, do you truly believe floral arrangements will prepare these soldiers for battle?"

Adrian stopped and turned to face him, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. "Harry, it's not about the flowers. It's about creating an environment where people feel seen and appreciated. Happy soldiers are motivated soldiers."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "And you think flowers achieve that?"

Adrian gestured toward the sparring soldiers. "Look at them. Laughing. Smiling. That's worth more than a hundred drills."

Harry sighed again but couldn't help the small smile creeping onto his face. "Your methods may be unorthodox, my Lord, but I can't argue with the results."

As Adrian continued his rounds, a particularly enthusiastic sparring session sent one of the floral garlands flying into the air. It landed squarely on the head of a burly veteran, who froze mid-swing. The sight of the grizzled soldier wearing a crown of daisies drew roaring laughter from the recruits—and Adrian himself.

"Looks good on you!" Adrian called out, clapping his hands.

The veteran grumbled under his breath but couldn't entirely suppress a begrudging smile as he removed the garland. The recruits doubled over in laughter, their earlier nerves forgotten.

Even Harry had to admit, for all its absurdity, the scene had lightened the mood considerably. Adrian, watching the soldiers laugh and relax, grinned to himself.

"Who needs a battle hymn," he said softly, "when you've got a good laugh?"