CHAPTER 57: The Cracking Shield
Imperial Grand Command – Fields of Judgment, Dawn of Despair
The vast Imperial encampment, once a symbol of unyielding power, now felt less like an army and more like a collection of desperate souls huddled against an unseen enemy. Smoke from scattered, dispirited fires mingled with the chilling whispers that swept through the ranks. Lord Marshal Daegarn stood rigidly in his command tent, the air thick with the scent of stale wine and the palpable tension of impending disaster. Archlector Malgrad, Lady Edraya, and Lord Tervan sat or stood in grim silence, their faces illuminated by the flickering map lights, each etched with a new, deeper layer of despair.
The silence was shattered when Major Vargus, commander of the Black Legates who had swept the Blackwood, entered. He was a man accustomed to horrors, but his eyes, usually cold and unreadable, were wide with a barely suppressed terror. He laid a blood-stained piece of uniform, clutched in his trembling hand, onto the map table. It was from Captain Boran, the officer found displayed at the camp's edge.
"Report, Major," Daegarn commanded, his voice flat, devoid of its usual authority. He already knew.
Vargus swallowed hard, his voice raspy. "The eastern flank, Lord Marshal. The camp… it was breached. Not by force. By ghosts. Officers found… displayed. With grain in their mouths. A message." He pushed the piece of parchment forward, its blood-scrawled words stark against the polished map: "The Serpent's Veins flow. The Capital bleeds. The North belongs to Ash. And the Emperor's hunger… is only beginning."
A collective gasp swept through the tent. Lord Tervan, the Quartermaster General, buried his face in his hands, muttering. Lady Edraya's rigid composure finally shattered; she slammed her gauntleted fist on the table. "Blasphemy! They defile our dead! This is a trick! Where were the guards? Where were the sentries?"
"They were there, Lady Minister!" Vargus retorted, his voice rising, raw with frustration. "But they saw nothing! They heard nothing! My own Legates are reporting whispers, apparitions. Men turning on each other in the dark. Private Tyrus… he was raving, screaming about 'red eyes in the smoke.' Father Belmor himself is convinced they are demons! They're not just attacking our bodies, Lord Marshal! They're attacking our minds!" His voice broke with a raw, desperate fear. "My men… the Black Legates… they are afraid of the dark, Lord Marshal."
Archlector Malgrad, surprisingly, did not immediately condemn Vargus's report as superstition. His eyes burned with a terrible, dawning understanding. "This is the Serpent Witch's work. Seyda. She twists the very fabric of reality! She traffics in profane magic, turning fear into a weapon! This is an assault on the soul, Lord Marshal! An abomination that must be cleansed!" He clutched his staff, his chants rising in a frantic, almost unhinged, crescendo.
Tervan finally looked up, his face pale and sweating. "The supplies, Lord Marshal! The Legates in the Spine reported their blockade was broken! The rebels are moving supplies again! And my southern network is reporting that the capital's purification is causing massive civilian unrest. Our requisitions are drying up! The roads are choked with refugees fleeing the Purifiers! This is unraveling!"
Daegarn stood motionless, his gaze distant, seeing the full, terrifying tapestry of Kael's war unfold. He had known Kael was cunning. He had known he was brutal. But this… this was beyond anything he had conceived. Kael was indeed turning them into monsters, and now he was turning their own might into a slow, agonizing descent into madness. The high-minded "judgment" had become a desperate, desperate crawl through a nightmare.
He thought of the Emperor, enraged in Highcourt, demanding a faster advance. He thought of the endless ranks of his hungry, terrified men outside. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the grand delusion of Imperial invincibility was shattering.
He slammed his own fist on the map, rattling the entire table. "Enough! We are losing this war, not on the battlefield, but in the shadows! Lord Tervan, you will do whatever it takes! Whatever! Starve every city in the south if you must, but feed my legions! Edraya!" he barked, his voice raw, turning to the Minister of War. "Your legions are too slow! They are bogged down! We cannot afford this! We must force them into open battle! Now!"
Edraya, her eyes wide with a mix of despair and desperation, snapped a salute. "How, Lord Marshal? They refuse to fight us directly! They vanish! They haunt! They poison!"
Daegarn turned to Archlector Malgrad. "Archlector! Your Purifiers! The Rebel King's supply lines are flowing from the south, through the Serpent's Spine, into Ravencair! They are moving refugees out of the Blackwood to the mountain holds! Find these routes! Flood the tunnels with your zealots! Burn the mountain if you must! But cut that artery! Again! And bring me that witch's head!"
Malgrad's eyes burned with renewed, terrifying fervor. "The Flame will cleanse the mountain, Lord Marshal. We will find her. And when we do… her final agony will be a testament to the Emperor's divine wrath."
Daegarn knew this was a gamble. A desperate, terrifying, perhaps suicidal gamble. But they had no other choice. The Empire's shield, once impregnable, was cracking. The psychological warfare, the logistical nightmare, the utter terror – it was working. The brutal realism of the Empire's unraveling, their descent into desperate, self-destructive tactics, was sealing their fate. The vast Imperial host, once a symbol of glory, was now marching towards a future paved in madness and despair.