CHAPTER 775: THE REASON OF WARS (2)

He noticed that some soldiers gave them a brief glance as they passed, but no one stopped, no one spoke. Their gazes were sharp and guarded—eyes filled with the weight of their duty, and perhaps a quiet unease that hadn’t been there before. The war had changed them. Mikhailis could see it clearly. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion—it was the emotional strain, the slow erosion of their spirits. Fear flickered in their eyes, a fear that had never been there in their previous campaigns. This was different. This wasn’t just a battle; it was a war that seemed to have no end in sight.

His gaze shifted back to Elowen, walking beside him. Her posture was as regal as always, her back straight, her chin lifted with the quiet confidence of a queen. But even Mikhailis could see the subtle strain in her. Her eyes darted from soldier to soldier, from camp to camp, scanning, always analyzing. Her movements were graceful, but there was a sharpness to them now—a tautness that hadn’t been there before. The weight of everything—the kingdom, the war, the lives of all the people who depended on her—was wearing on her. You’re carrying too much, Elowen, he thought, watching the way her gaze flitted between the soldiers, taking in details only a leader like her would notice.

Even in the chaos, she was always a step ahead. But Mikhailis could feel the fatigue in her—how every decision, every move, seemed to take more effort than the last. It was in the way her shoulders held a little too much weight, how her eyes sometimes lingered on certain faces, as if searching for something she feared wouldn’t be there when she looked away.

Rodion’s voice slipped into his thoughts, breaking the silence between them: I’m sure there’s still time for a wonderful night. The voice was dry, almost teasing, and despite everything, Mikhailis couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Seriously? Right now?

"Shut up, Rodion," Mikhailis muttered quietly, though he couldn’t quite suppress a smirk. The AI was relentless, always finding some way to distract him when the world felt too heavy.

But as his gaze flickered back to Elowen, he noticed something. Just for a second, as she walked, there was a slight shift in her expression—a quick flicker in her eyes that spoke volumes. It was there and gone in an instant, but Mikhailis saw it. Something in her, some quiet weight she carried, had shifted for just a moment when the AI’s words pierced the air. Maybe it was just a fleeting moment of her trying to suppress her own burdens, or perhaps it was a deeper, more honest reflection of what had been building up inside her.

They approached the royal tent, the massive structure standing as the nerve center of the army’s operations. A handful of royal guards stood watch around it, their eyes sharp, their vigilance unwavering. Mikhailis couldn’t help but notice how the atmosphere around the tent was heavy—not just with the presence of the guards, but with the weight of whatever decisions had been made within. The stillness of the soldiers guarding the entrance wasn’t simply a display of duty—it was a sign of the emotional toll this camp had taken. They stood still, almost statuesque, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. It wasn’t just their physical readiness; it was their unspoken worry that something, anything, could go wrong.

As Mikhailis and Elowen moved closer, he caught sight of a few familiar faces among the soldiers—men who had fought alongside him in the past. Their faces were the same, but the weariness in their eyes, the hard lines etched across their faces, was unmistakable. They’d seen too much. Too many deaths. Too much destruction. Their bodies were still strong, still trained for combat, but their spirits had started to fade. They’d been holding up the front for so long, and Mikhailis knew the strain had become unbearable for many of them.

When they reached the entrance to the royal tent, the royal guard captain stood with an air of stoic determination. His tall frame cast a shadow over the doorway, his eyes sharp as he surveyed the surroundings. Mikhailis met his gaze for a moment before the captain gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. There was no welcome in it, just the solemn acknowledgment of their arrival. It was a reminder that, while the outside world might have felt quieter, inside the camp, things were anything but calm. Every move they made, every action they took, was a step toward a decision that would change the course of everything.

As the tent flaps were pulled aside, Mikhailis stepped into the dim interior. The large space, designed to provide both comfort and functionality, was filled with maps, scattered papers, and the tense murmur of strategizing. The weight of the atmosphere inside hit him immediately. It wasn’t just a war room; it was a space that carried the echoes of too many decisions, too many lives hanging in the balance.

Vyrelda was standing by the table, her sharp eyes flicking over the papers, her fingers tapping a rhythm against the edge of the map. She was poised, as always, but Mikhailis could see the thin layer of tension beneath the surface—her posture was too rigid, her eyes too focused. It was clear she wasn’t just reading the reports; she was living each line, each calculation.

Cerys stood near Vyrelda, her arms crossed in her usual defensive stance. Her face was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes that spoke of exhaustion. Her usual stoicism was still present, but there was a flicker of concern that Mikhailis could read from a mile away. She was tired, physically and mentally. He knew her well enough to see it—the weight of the war was sinking in, and even Cerys, the lone wolf, couldn’t escape it.

Serelith, ever the mysterious figure, stood near the window, her usual calmness replaced by a barely contained anxiety. She watched as Mikhailis entered, her gaze flicking toward him before her face lit up for just a moment, a flash of relief that was almost imperceptible. Her usual mask of control fell away just enough for him to see the edge of worry behind her cool demeanor.

And then, as if the weight of the world had lifted, Serelith and Cerys both moved toward him at the same time. They didn’t say anything, not at first. But the way their faces lit up, the way they rushed forward to pull him into a hug, spoke volumes. There was no hesitation in their movements, no guardedness. They were just... relieved.

"We’re glad you’re okay," Cerys murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she embraced him tightly. Mikhailis could feel the tension in her body, but the warmth in her touch was undeniable.

Serelith followed closely behind, her arms wrapping around him as well. "I could’ve sworn you’d gotten yourself killed already," she said with a forced chuckle, but there was something in her voice that told him she wasn’t joking.

For a moment, Mikhailis stood there, arms around both of them, letting them hold him. It wasn’t a moment of grand gestures—it was just them, letting the relief of his return settle between them. But it was enough. Just enough.

After a moment, they pulled away, their faces still carrying the marks of exhaustion. Cerys’ gaze lingered on him for just a second longer before she crossed her arms again, her usual stoicism returning. But Mikhailis could see the weariness in her eyes. The war wasn’t just something that affected the battlefield—it was wearing on everyone, even those who were trained for this. He could see it in her, in Serelith, in Vyrelda—everyone was carrying a burden that was too heavy to ignore.

Mikhailis cleared his throat, a small smile on his face despite the heaviness in his chest. "Alright," he said, pulling back slightly to sit down beside Elowen at the table. His tone shifted, more serious now. "What’s the situation?" Mikhailis said softly, trying to make his voice carry some of that casual ease he always tried to maintain, even in times of chaos. He gave Elowen a final, lingering glance before pulling back slightly, sitting down next to her at the table. His fingers brushed the edge of the wood, feeling the smoothness, but the weight of the moment didn’t let him rest. He couldn’t relax yet—not now.