The scout's horse arrived coated in dusk-colored foam, its hooves silent on the soot-covered stones outside Emberleaf's forward command post.

Kael was already waiting when they reached the hilltop. No escort. No fanfare. Just the flicker of ward torches behind him and the wind stirring the hem of his cloak.

The scout dismounted with a grunt, bowed low, and handed Kael a rolled report, the leather band still warm with active runes.

"From the River Spine," the scout said, breathing hard. "Virelion's moving. Fast."

Kael broke the seal and unrolled the parchment across the campaign table just inside the forward tent. Great Sage flickered the runes into a glowing projection above it—casting an illusionary landscape lined with troop markers, siege emplacements, and false wards.

Great Sage: "Confirmed: Three siege engines. Constructed in mobile segments. Location—1.3 kilometers from Emberleaf border threshold. Status—active calibration."

Kael's eyes scanned every symbol. The movements weren't defensive. They were forming a spine. A wedge.

"They're not guarding territory," Nyaro growled, stepping in behind him. Her golden eyes shimmered. "They're preparing to punch through it."

Kael gave the faintest nod.

Across the tent, Rimuru drifted in upside down, softly glowing blue and gold, a ring of smaller slime copies orbiting her like lazy moons. One of them drooled onto the map projection and sizzled where it landed.

"Three catapults," Rimuru muttered, squinting. "Two captains. One… very nervous horse."

Kael raised an eyebrow.

Rimuru rotated upright. "You'll know it when you see it."

The corner of Kael's mouth twitched.

He looked back to the Flame Scout, who still stood at attention, dust clinging to his boots.

"Casualties?"

"None on our end. We stayed out of the ridge shadows and watched their mana burn patterns from a distance. Their movements are too synchronized—controlled, but not tight. Like they're trying to look calm and ready."

Kael rested his hands on the map table, staring down at the lines of fire and ink.

"Then it's time we moved. Quietly."

Rimuru drifted forward, tentacles tapping the air. "Calling it now: Operation Hot Foot."

Kael smirked faintly. "March of Flame sounds better."

He looked to Nyaro. "Divide the Ember Guard. Send vanguard cells through the twin roads. I want full embedment within two days—no formation flags, no visible banners."

Great Sage: "Elemental-link repeaters prepared. Communication latency within tactical thresholds. All units may operate semi-autonomously for field updates."

Kael stepped back and let his cloak settle over the scaled armor beneath.

"No trumpets," he said. "No declarations. Just movement."

He turned, walking toward the flap of the tent, voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

"Let them think we're slow. Let them think we're scared."

Outside, the wind howled faintly.

"They won't see us coming," Kael whispered.

There were no horns. No clanging of armor. No marching drums. Emberleaf's forces moved like fire through dry roots—quiet, hungry, precise.

The March of Flame had begun.

Instead of a singular army cutting across the land like a blade, Kael ordered his divisions to split into small units. Cells of five to twelve marched under cloaks dyed in earthen tones, traveling merchant roads, river paths, and forest trails used only by raveni traders and old smugglers.

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Each detachment carried the same three things: a flame-linked signal bead etched with Kael's crest, one upgraded mana repeater tuned to their squad's elemental affinity, and a sealed set of fallback coordinates in case of ambush.

From a bluff overlooking the twin valleys, Kael watched the first group vanish beneath a canopy of early morning mist.

Behind him, Rimuru hovered over a flattened forge plate—her slime body shifting shapes as she projected blueprints from within her core.

"These are the final v2s," she said, voice cheerful but focused. "Squad-linked casting range is increased by 43%, mana rebound is down, and I made the trigger buttons squishier."

Nyaro blinked.

"They're less likely to backfire," Rimuru clarified. "Probably."

Kael ran his fingers over the smooth surface of a repeater laid across a rock. It looked like a weapon born from the world's bones—obsidian-lined barrel, pulse chamber glowing dimly with stabilized cores, and an inscription only visible when touched by flame: Emberleaf does not strike blindly.

"We don't outnumber them," Kael said. "So we out-think them."

He turned to Rimuru. "Have your clones handle comms with the northern divisions. No flare signals—we stay low until Phase Two."

Rimuru flicked a tendril in a salute. "Deploying whispers. One shadow courier coming right up."

Great Sage: "Linked illusions deployed. Signal ghost projections en route to enemy territory. Seeding false presence trails across five ridgelines and two empty towns."

Kael crossed his arms, watching as another unit disappeared down a slope beyond the hill. He could almost feel the tension in the land—the way the air held its breath.

"They'll look for banners," he murmured. "They'll find shadows."

He looked up.

"They'll chase ghosts."

The canyon known as Ragelink Pass was carved by centuries of wind, water, and whispered warnings. It stretched like a jagged scar between two cliff systems—a natural choke point used by Virelion for centuries, now fortified with fresh stone walls, mana lamps, and a central watchpost pulsing with artificial warmth.

But tonight, the wind howled alone.

Nyaro crouched low on the outer ridge, her shadow indistinguishable from the broken terrain. Her team—six Flame Scouts and two Ashguard—waited beside her, each positioned with predator stillness. Their armor didn't clink. Their breath didn't fog.

Only the soft click of soot-charms chiming against her wrist signaled the beginning.

She raised two fingers. Waited. Dropped them.

They moved.

The first pair scaled the outer cliff face using soot-anchored hooks. A trail of mana dust shimmered for a heartbeat—then vanished as one scout threw a decoy ward into the air. It fizzled against the nearest torch ward and rerouted the detection glyph outward—projecting false movement toward the eastern hill.

The guards at the post grunted and turned their heads.

Which meant they didn't see the second group emerge from the fog behind them.

Nyaro herself landed with feline grace on the back wall, then dropped into the watchtower. Her dagger glinted once, then not at all.

No sound.

No alarm.

Just silence.

Great Sage: "Sigil interference successful. Detection grid misaligned. Local mana perception warped."

One scout slipped beneath the central wardstone and tapped it with an iron stylus laced in raveni sap. The magic curled like smoke—and then broke, disarmed from within.

Thirty-seven seconds later, the entire operation was done.

No bodies. No alerts. No marks left behind.

Except for one.

Nyaro turned to the base of the canyon wall. She reached into her side pouch, pulled out a rune-branding stone, and pressed it against the rock. It hissed with soft flame, leaving behind a clean burn-mark in curling script:

"The flame does not knock. It enters."

By the time the watchpost guards blinked and resumed their patrol, nothing had changed.

At least, nothing they could see.

The morning was gray with mist, and the road was quiet but alive.

Kael rode at the front of a small detachment, no banners flying, no armor gleaming—just plain travel gear dusted with soot and trail-wear. Emberleaf's colors were absent, save for the faint glimmer of the flame emblem etched into the hem of his cloak, visible only when the wind hit just right.

Around him, Ember Guard squads moved in scattered cells, weaving through the countryside like threads in a living tapestry. To the outside eye, they were caravans, traders, pilgrims.

To Kael, they were fire—contained, controlled, and ready to spread.

They passed through the outer towns without ceremony. No calls, no parades. Just watchful eyes peeking from behind shutters, merchants lowering their heads in recognition, farmers pausing mid-swing to nod.

In one village square, a baker stood outside her oven with flour on her apron and something warm in her hands.

Rimuru floated closer, uncertain.

The baker held out a cinnamon roll with both hands.

"For luck," she said.

Rimuru blinked, took it reverently with a tiny pseudopod, and whispered, "Luck is sticky… and delicious."

Kael smiled but didn't speak.

He saw it in their faces—trust, but also fear. Not of him, but of the silence. The quiet before the thunder. The knowing look that passed from adult to child when footsteps approached too fast.

They knew war wasn't far. But they also knew who walked at its edge.

As they rode further along the river path, Kael's thoughts drifted—not to glory or conquest, but to burden. Each step forward was another step away from the boy who once studied flame like a secret. Another step toward a man asked to wield it like a blade.

Kael (inner thought): They see more than a prince now. They see fire that doesn't burn them. I can't fail them.

At the next ridge, the River Spine came into view.

Distant smoke curled on the horizon—controlled, deliberate, too even to be anything but a signal. Not yet battle. But a warning.

Kael drew in a slow breath and whispered:

"Begin Phase Two."

The March of Flame had officially arrived.

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