Verdwood, at dawn, isn't the same world I was born in.
The sleepy, green, magic-soaked village of my childhood is gone. It's a memory, buried under tons of new, gray stone. What stands in its place is a fortress-city. The walls are forty feet high, angled, and laced with the dull, faint shimmer of void-dampening metals. Guard towers punctuate the perimeter every hundred yards, their observers silent, watchful silhouettes against the pale morning light. There's a constant, low hum in the air now. It's the sound of the new defensive wards, a steady pulse of magical energy that's become the settlement's heartbeat. You get used to it. You sleep with it. And on the rare moments it falters for maintenance, the sudden silence is terrifying.
The entire northern quarter is now the convergence-marked training complex. It's a sprawling, purpose-built campus of void-dampening chambers, massive resonance halls for group practice, and medical wings specifically designed to handle curse-related injuries. It's larger than the original village center ever was. A cold, stone testament to what we've become.
I walk the training yards as the sun breaks over the eastern mountains, the air cold and sharp. The morning drills have already begun. Twenty-three marked children are in residence, their ages ranging from a terrified eight-year-old we rescued last month to a seventeen-year-old who's seen too much. They're not all ours. The continental network... the web that Lysara dreamed of... it's real. Children are sent here now, from all the allied settlements, for the specialized, dangerous training that only Verdwood can provide.
"Commander," a voice says, formal and crisp.
I turn. Torren. He's twelve, but he looks older. He's shot up two inches, his shoulders broadening, his voice finally deepening. He's standing at the edge of a training circle, his prosthetic leg—Elara's masterpiece of shadow-weave and steel—planted firmly on the ground. His integration has, through sheer, relentless effort, stabilized at 79%. It's high, but it's manageable. He's become one of our best instructors, his patience with the younger, terrified kids a thing of quiet strength.
"Just Ren," I correct, the words automatic, a daily ritual. "We've known each other too long for that, Torren."
"Master Dren insists on protocol during training hours," Torren replies, a slight smile touching his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes. None of our smiles do anymore. "Says it maintains discipline. Prevents... familiarity... from undermining authority."
I just nod. I understand the logic. I hate the distance it creates, but Dren's right. I watch the group he's teaching—five of the youngest—as they practice basic shadow coordination. They're clumsy. Their movements are jerky, uncoordinated, their shadows flickering like nervous flames, lashing out when they don't mean to. But they're learning. A year ago, most of them would have been killed, or caged, or taken by the cult. Now, they're learning techniques pulled directly from Lysara's blood-stained journal.
Three of them are from the bridge. Survivors.
They struggle more than the others. Their integration is... damaged. Scarred. It's erratic, and the fight for control is a constant, visible thing. But they're here. They're trying. That has to count for something.
"How are the bridge survivors... integrating? Overall?" I ask him, my voice low, keeping my gaze on a nine-year-old girl who is biting her lip, her little shadow-construct collapsing into mist for the third time.
Torren's expression darkens. "Nine... nine are stable enough for this. Basic training. They'll... they'll probably achieve full integration. Eventually. Three... three are still in Miren's intensive medical wing." He lowers his voice even more. "Their levels... they won't stabilize, Ren. They fluctuate... 60% one hour, 85% the next. No pattern. Miren... she thinks they might never... be functional. And... and two..."
He trails off. He doesn't have to finish. I've read the reports.
"Two aren't going to make it," I finish for him. My voice is level, hollow. "Their... their time as anchors... it broke something. Something fundamental. Even with resonance support... they're... they're deteriorating."
"Miren gives them weeks," Torren confirms, his voice a tight, pained whisper. "Maybe a month. Their curse integration... it's just... rising. Uncontrollably. They'll... they'll either transform... or... or their bodies will just... fail. Trying to... to resist."
I just absorb it. Another piece of weight. Another... failure. We "saved" nine. But we only saved four. The rest... we just... postponed.
"Document everything," I say, falling back into the cold, safe, empty space of the Commander. It's easier than feeling it. "Their symptoms. Their progression. We... we need to understand void bridge damage better. In case... in case we see it again."
"Already doing it," Torren says, his jaw tight. "Elara... Elara is coordinating with Miren on the medical documentation. She... she said... if we can't save them... at least we can learn enough from them... to... to maybe save someone else. In the future."
It's a practical, logical, brutal calculus. It's exactly what Lysara would have recommended. And it feels like cold comfort to the two kids who are dying, slowly, while we take notes.
I continue my rounds. Elara is in the next yard, working with the older teenagers. Advanced integration protocols. Her own movements are a study in careful, precise control. Her integration remains a razor's edge—92% on a good day, spiking to 94% under any stress. But she's achieved a stability, a mastery, that is breathtaking. She's become our expert on the high-level-integration that I, with my 89%, can't even touch. She teaches the techniques she developed through her own, desperate, terrified necessity.
The children trust her. They... they respond to her in a way they don't with me. She's closer to them. She is them. She understands their fears in a way I, their 'Commander,' their 'Butcher,' their 'Anchor,'... no longer can.
Near the practice arena, I find Kael. He's one of the bridge survivors, a quiet fourteen-year-old boy whose integration hovers at a functional 83%. He's working with the absolute youngest, the new arrivals, teaching them basic shadow manipulation. He's patient. He's kind. He demonstrates a technique, a small shadow-construct of a bird, and offers quiet, calm encouragement when they fail. He survived that bridge. And he's making that survival mean something. It's... it's a kind of redemption.
The continental coordination meeting convenes at mid-morning. We don't meet in the old council chamber. We meet in the relay chamber. It's Lysara's final, posthumous gift. Built from her notes. It's a circular, stone room, magically shielded, with eight stations arranged around a central, crystal focus point. It's impressive, a work of genius, and it requires a constant, massive drain on our resources to maintain. But... it's worth it. It allows real-time, face-to-face coordination across hundreds of miles.
"Verdwood reporting," I say, my voice flat, formal, as my image flickers into existence on the other seven crystals. "Training complex is operational at 87% capacity. Twenty-three convergence-marked are currently in residence. Three more are scheduled to arrive next month from the western settlements. Integration levels are stable across 91% of residents. We... we have medical concerns with five of the bridge survivors. The detailed reports were sent by courier this morning."
"Riverholt reporting," Councilor Aldrich's image responds. His face, like all of ours, looks ten years older. "Four marked children in training. Stable. We've identified two more potentials in the surrounding territories. We're... coordinating extraction with the local authorities. Gently."
The reports continue. Brookhaven. Six children. Their program is growing. Saltmere. Four, all young. The network... it was forty-one identified, marked children. Forty-one. It wasn't... it wasn't enough to feel safe. But... it was a foundation. It was progress.
"Cult activity assessment?" Elder Stoneheart's voice prompts, and the mood in the relay chamber darkens.
Mira's image flickers to life. She's based in Riverholt now, coordinating our entire, fractured intelligence network. "They've gone quiet," she says, her voice tight. "No major operations since the stronghold. No... no large-scale recruitment. But... silence isn't inactivity. My sources... the few I have left... they say the cult is regrouping. Adapting. They... they lost. They lost their primary weapon. They're... they're angry. And they're rebuilding."
"Strongholds?" Kaela asks. She's sitting beside me, a silent, grounding presence, her arms crossed.
"Estimated three," Mira responds. "Far north. Southern coasts. And... one somewhere in the central ranges. All... all heavily fortified. All... all likely developing their own void bridge projects."
"Recruitment?" I ask.
"Ongoing," Mira confirms, her expression grim. "And... aggressive. It's... it's a race, Ren. Whoever... whoever reaches the new-marked children first... they... they gain the asset. They've... they've adapted, too. After... after us. It's... it's more subtle now. Less... less kidnapping. More... 'psychological manipulation.' More... 'family pressure.' "
"Then we need to be faster," Kaela says, leaning forward. "Better intel. We're... we're still... we're too reactive."
"That requires predictive modeling," I say, the old, familiar argument rising. "Based on ley line patterns. It means... it means more research. More resources. More... more time. Time we... we just... don't have. Lysara's... Lysara's notes... they... they give us the theory. But... but the implementation..."
The meeting drags on. Logistics. Infrastructure. The business of war. It's exhausting. When it finally ends, I just... slump in my chair. I feel... I feel every one of my fourteen years, and all of Takeshi's twenty-eight, and then some.
"You look terrible," Kaela observes. The relay lights are down. It's just us in the dark, quiet room.
"Thank you for that assessment," I say, my voice dry.
"I mean it," she says. Her voice... it's soft. Worried. "You're not sleeping. I... I see the lights on, in your quarters. You're... you're not eating. You're... you're driving yourself into the ground, Ren. We... everyone... can see it."
"There's too much to do," I say. It's true. It's also a lie.
"There's always too much to do," she counters, standing up, walking over. "But... but you can't... you can't do any of it... if you... if you collapse. Dren is worried. Miren is worried. I'm... I'm worried."
"I'm fine," I lie.
"You're not," she says, her voice flat. "But... we'll... we'll talk about it later. Dren... Dren wants to see you. About... about the 'Codex' project."
I find him in the archive. The new archive. A fireproof, flood-proof, magically-warded bunker. It's... it's Lysara's real memorial. It's designed to survive us. To survive everything. A... a repository of... of everything we've... we've learned. At such a terrible, terrible cost.
He's sitting at a large, oaken table, surrounded by her journals, by our own field reports, by... by manuscripts. He's... he's compiling The Convergence Codex. A... a manual. How to train. How to integrate. How... how to fight. How... how to survive.
"How's the writing?" I ask, my voice quiet.
"Slow," Dren admits, not looking up. He looks... so much older. The Harvest, the... the battle... it... it broke him. He'll... he'll never... never fight... again. His body... it's... it's a wreck. But his... his mind... "Her... her research... it's... it's the foundation. But... but... translating it... into... into something... something teachable... it's... it's... it's a challenge. I... I keep... I keep wanting... to... to ask... her... 'what did you mean by this?' "
"I know the feeling," I whisper. We share a look. A... a moment. Of... of shared, unending absence.
He slides a... a stack of... of pages... across the table. "The... the 'Advanced Resonance'... section," he says. "I... I need... I need your input. You... you... you developed... these... these techniques. In... in the... in the field. The... the inverse resonance... pattern. Lysara's... Lysara's notes... they're... they're math. You... you... you executed... it. That... that... that practical... knowledge. It... it... it needs... to be... preserved."
I sit. I read. His... his writing... it's... it's good. Clear. Precise. I... I make... I make notes. In... in the... in the margins. Adding... adding clarifications. What... what it... what it felt... like. Not... not just... just the... the theory.
"There's... there's a... a section," Dren says, his voice careful, "on... on 'Leadership... Psychology.' I'm... I'm struggling... with it. How... how to... to prepare... these... these kids. For... for... for command. Without... without... breaking... them. I'd... I'd... I'd value... your... your perspective."
I look at him. His... his face... it's... it's... it's sincere. "My... my 'perspective'?" I say, my voice blunt. "Is... is that... it's impossible. Command... it... it... it breaks... you. Regardless. That's... that's... that's the job. You... you... you just... you manage... the... the damage. You... you... you hope... you... you... you stay... functional. Long... long... long enough... to... to win."
"That's... that's... that's remarkably cynical... for... for fourteen," he observes, his voice soft.
"That's... that's remarkably accurate... for... for someone... who's... who's been... commanding... since... since thirteen," I counter. The... the harshness... in... in my... my own... voice... it... it... it surprises... me.
Dren... Dren just... studies... me. With... with that... look. The... the 'concerned... old... man'... look. "You're... you're showing... the... the signs, Ren. 'Commander's... Erosion.' I've... I've seen... it... before. In... in long... wars. Emotional... flattening. Reduced... reduced empathy. Tactical... thinking... that... that overrides... everything. It's... it's... it's a... a... a pattern."
"You've... you've mentioned this," I say, trying... trying to... to keep... the... the defensiveness... out... of... of my... my voice.
"Because... because it concerns... me. Deeply," he says. "You're... you're a... you're a child. Processing... processing adult... trauma. While... while making... life-and-death... decisions. For... for other... children. That... that... that isn't... sustainable. Eventually... something... breaks. Either... either you... as... as a... a leader. Or... or you... as... as a... a person."
"Does... does it... does it need... to be... sustainable?" I ask, the... the question... it... it... it comes... out... of... of nowhere. It... it... it surprises... me... as... as much... as... as him. "Or... or... or just... functional? Functional... enough? To... to... to get... the... the job... done? Before... before... before I... do... break?"
The... the honesty. It... it... it hangs... in... in the... in the air. He... he... he... he doesn't... know... how... how to... to answer... that.
"Lysara..." he says finally, his... his voice... soft. "She... she worried... about... about this, too. She... she wrote... me... letters. Before... before the... the stronghold. Worried... worried about... your... your resilience. She... she... she wanted... me... me to... to... to make sure... you... you... you had... support. People... people around... you. Who... who weren't... just... soldiers. People... people to... to... to help... you... stay... human."
"She's not here," I point out. The... the words... they... they... they come out... hard. Cold. Edged... edged with... with a... a grief... so... so deep... it's... it's... it's still... raw.
"No," Dren agrees, his... his voice... gentle. "She's... she's not. But... others... are. Kaela. Torren. Elara. Me. You're... you're... you're not... as... as isolated... as... as you're... acting, Ren. Don't... don't... don't let... the... the command... create... an... an isolation... that... that doesn't... need... to... to exist."
He's... he's right. Logically. He's... he's always... right. But... but logic... and... and feeling... they're... they're... they're not... the... the same... thing. I... I... I carry... this. I... I made... the... the choice. I... I... I am... the... the Butcher. That... that... that creates... a... a... a distance. A... a... a chasm. That... that no one... else... can... can cross.
I leave the archive. Evening is falling. The... the hum... of... of the... the wards... it... it... it feels... louder... in... in the... in the dark.
Tomorrow. Another... another meeting. More... more reports. More... more children... to... to train. More... more impossible... choices.
But... but tonight. Tonight... I... I... I need... to... to think. About... about what... Dren... said. Am... am... am I... managing... this... this burden? Or... or... or am... am I... letting... it... consume... me?
The... the distinction. It... it... it might... matter. More... more... more than... I... I... I want... to... to admit.