Chương 254

The days leading up to the ambush were not spent in idle waiting. The northern command center, already a sprawling hub of military activity, swelled as reinforcements poured in. Orion stood near the edge of a suspended platform, resting his hands on the enchanted vine railing as he watched the new arrivals. A full company of one hundred battle-witches flew through the Ironwood Forest, a veil of silver light vanishing as the last of them passed through, having moved in complete stealth to avoid alerting the enemy.

These, he knew, were veterans of the War on the Belt, redeployed by the High Priestess to shore up the critical northern front as soon as they had enough time to regain their strength. Mere hours after them came two dozen Collegium mages, their arcane magic allowing them to brave the high reaches of the sky and descend at the very last moment. Upon docking their sky ship, they unloaded rune-carved staves and floating pallets loaded with all sorts of magical weapons.

The alliance was committing a substantial amount of magical artillery to this single operation. If the trap at the Shattered Basin failed, the northern front would likely collapse, leaving the road to the Sanctum's territories wide open. In that case, the High Priestess herself will have to take the field, and we still do not know the scope of the powers the Iron State keeps in reserve.

In the best of all possible outcomes, the damage from such a battle would be contained to the lower reaches of the Ironwood Forest and perhaps the northernmost peaks. But that was more akin to wishful thinking than he'd like. Having seen two Tier Five mages duke it out when his father had fought and won his claim to the Speakership, Orion suspected the spillout would involve entire regions. No, if it were at all possible, they needed to avoid such a thing.

"They must have hurried to arrive so soon," Jonatan noted from beside Orion. He held a sealed parchment cylinder in his hand, bearing the Collegium's official wax crest, though not one that denoted urgency, if his interpretation of the various kinds was correct.

"We are finally doing something instead of just responding," Orion replied, shrugging.

"This whole ordeal has gone on far too long, if you ask me. As soon as we can get rid of the enemy in the north, we'll be able to purge them elsewhere, too. What is the dispatch?" Jonatan offered a bright smile, a rare expression given the past week's tension.

"News from the south. The Iron State's naval fleet attempted a landing operation." Orion turned, his full attention instantly captured.

"They engaged the elves in the Greenwood, then?"

"They tried," Jonatan corrected, tapping the cylinder against his palm with a satisfying twack.

"According to our observer's report, the enemy commanders seemed prepared for token resistance. The general consensus, even among us, was that the elven domains were entirely depleted. They've spent the better part of the last decade fighting a brutal war of attrition against the necromancer, so it wasn't all that far-fetched."

"I would have chosen the same target," Orion agreed.

"The Enclave has been fighting since I was a toddler. They likely calculated that the elves couldn't field an army large enough to repel a naval assault."

"Well, their calculations were wrong," Jonatan said, his smile widening.

"The elves were apparently holding several veteran companies in reserve. When the Iron State transports hit the desolate beaches near the southernmost border, they walked into a barrage of armor-piercing arrows and high-tier nature magic. The landing force was forced to retreat after losing a third of its strength in the failed attempt and was completely stalled. They are now caught in a grinding state of warfare on the beaches, entirely unable to push into the tree line, yet apparently unwilling to give up."

Orion grinned back. This was the first genuinely good news since the war began. The Iron State was not invincible. Their logistics were strained, and their commanders were making flawed assumptions about the continent's resilience. With the Sunken Hold holding fiercely in the west and the elves defending the southern shores, the enemy's resources were divided. What should have been an overwhelming pincer attack that would have granted the enemy access to Cyril almost unopposed had turned into a much slower ordeal.

If they were successful in the next operation, things would turn around.

"If we break their army here," Orion murmured, "it will send ripples down the entire line, forcing them to divert more resources from the other theaters and weakening their entire structure."

"Exactly," Jonatan agreed.

"The Archmage is briefing your mother and Elder Candra on this. Things are changing, Orion. We have a chance to win." He wasn't as convinced that everything would go so smoothly, perhaps because he'd grown used to problems popping up when he least expected them, but he couldn't deny that a bit of optimism was growing within him as well.

That tenuous optimism held as the combined army moved out, leaving a skeleton crew to maintain the illusions at the command camp, and traversed the secret roads toward the Shattered Basin. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Orion traveled with his mother and arrived at the canyon by the end of the last day. The Basin was a geographical anomaly, a wide, bowl-shaped depression bounded by sheer cliffs. The ironwood trees within the canyon were stunted and sparse.

A rushing river cut through the center, providing water mages with an abundance of ammunition. By listening in on the various meetings his mother attended, Orion knew it had once been home to a lake. Then an elemental was born within it and grew strong enough to begin expanding its reach, forcing an ancient druid to put it down before it could destroy the ecosystem.

The Shattered Basin was the result of that titanic battle and had remained as a lesson for every generation of druids that followed, a reminder that just as they were beholden to the forest, nature required them to prune its worst excesses. While Archmage Valentia and Elder Candra coordinated the artillery emplacements along the basin, Orion descended to the floor with his mother, Pauline, and an escort of witches.

Waiting for them at the edge of the rushing river were Tasmeos and several members of his druidic circle. There were only twelve of them, all old and in the third tier. They wore armor woven from living bark and carried staves of twisted root. To Orion's eyes, their bearing had a solemnity that reminded him more of religious ceremonies than of soldiers preparing for battle, but he supposed there was an intersection between the two at play here. There is something more to it, though. Almost as if… Hm.

Yes, I think that's it. They don't believe they will survive this and have made their peace with it. I guess that's why they didn't bring any younger druids.

"The area is secure," Asteria announced over the rushing water.

"The cliffs are warded, and our scouts report no Iron State patrols within twenty miles. You may begin the weaving whenever you like." Tasmeos offered a slow nod, exchanging a glance with his fellows. He stepped out of his circle and walked to the exact center of the basin floor, where he knelt in the damp earth, placing a small seed on the ground before him.

"You may observe, but do not interfere," Tasmeos rasped, casting a sharp glance at Orion.

"The Song is a delicate current. Your magic would only create discordant ripples, and we won't be able to repeat this for a moon."

"I am merely a student today, elder," Orion promised, taking a seat on a smooth river stone at a respectful distance, ignoring the mildly exasperated look his mother shot him. He channeled a flow of mana into his glasses, eager to analyze a branch of magic he had never truly seen in practice. The Arcane Overlay flared to life, parsing the ambient life mana saturating the canyon.

The twelve druids formed a wide circle around Tasmeos, standing there for several minutes, breathing deeply as their feet rooted into the ground. Then, they began to hum. It was a low sound that vibrated deep in the chest, echoing the rushing river and the rustling leaves, creating a new harmony he could never have imagined. Through his HUD, Orion watched the Field react with bathed breath. Soon, the low hum shifted into a haunting, wordless melody.

Life mana began to flow toward the center of the circle, drawn by the song like water down a gentle incline, harmonizing with the sound through a dimension of the Field Orion had not considered before, at least not from this angle. It is frequency matching, much in the same way I link my spells together to build something greater, but whereas I alter the output manually to achieve this, they are doing it through their senses alone.

Once, he might have called this a primitive method, but he had to admit there was something to it, given that they were achieving a level of synchronization that would have required vast resources and power, even among the witches of the Sanctum, who were known for their collaborative casting, and that they were doing so pretty easily. In truth, even that description was reductive. The more he studied the process, the more he saw that the druids were acting as conduits, coaxing the Field to express itself.

Tasmeos placed his hands flat against the earth as he took up the melody, his raspy voice adding a deep bassline to the chorus. The seed flared. It had once been perfectly mundane, but now emerald light shone from it, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of the druids' song. Orion's glasses struggled to process the sheer volume of data cascading across his vision as thousands, then millions, of interactions unfolded, chaotic and seemingly without rhyme or reason, yet working together.

It took him a while to realize that he was seeing the results of every form of life within the Shattered Basin, except the witches and wizards, joining in the casting. The druids were carefully layering the frequencies, weaving the raw energy of the earth, water, insects, mammals, and ancient trees into a complex working. Gradually, the air grew heavy. The scent of blooming flowers, rich loam, and untouched nature filled the basin, so potent it was almost intoxicating.

The sparse trees surrounding the circle began to shift, their branches creaking as they strained toward the source of the overwhelming vitality. It was so powerful that Orion didn't need his glasses to sense the ghost of the mighty lake that had once been here, imposing itself upon reality and slowly shifting to take the shape the druids desired as its power was funneled into the seed.

The ritual continued for hours, but the druids did not falter, no matter how intense the casting had to be, maintaining the delicate equilibrium required to grow the faux-Crucible. Orion sat in silence, watching nature's math unfold before him. It was a beautiful, alien equation, a reminder that physics and biology were merely different dialects of the same universal language. By the time the moonlight began to fade, signaling the sixth dawn's approach, the Song of False Dawn was complete.

Tasmeos slowly lowered his head, his chest heaving with exertion. The other druids sank to their knees, utterly drained, but the emerald seed had grown thanks to their misdeeds, becoming a tree that reached a hundred feet high and broadcasting an overwhelming presence in the Field, warping it with its mere presence, mimicking that of the Heartwood.

"It is done," Tasmeos whispered, his voice barely audible. He looked up at Asteria.

"The beacon is lit. If they have eyes to see, they will come."

"Rest now, elder," Asteria commanded gently, signaling her witches to help the exhausted druids.

"You have done your part. Now let us do ours." They left the basin floor, using a series of enchanted vines to climb the sheer cliffs. Orion felt awe lingering in his chest. Witnessing the druids' magic broadened his understanding of the Field in ways he had not anticipated. He found a secluded vantage point and settled in beside Pauline and Jonatan. The trap was set. The Collegium artillery was primed, the Sanctum wards were cast, and the False Heartwood screamed its presence into the ether.

All that remained was the waiting. The morning passed in agonizingly slow increments. The sun climbed higher, fighting to pierce the thick canopy of the Ironwood, though it had little impediment in the Shattered Basin. Orion kept his glasses active, scanning the northern horizon. The data streams were quiet, showing only the forest's natural ebb and flow, though more vividly than usual because of the new tree's presence.

"Do you think they'll take the bait?" Jonatan whispered, his fingers tapping anxiously against his staff.

"If their sensors weren't actually looking for this tree, but only for the druids, we just wasted a week." But just as he finished speaking, one of the witches tasked with divining the enemy's position gasped, recoiling from whatever she'd seen. It's time.