Something had changed.
The fog around Ysera wasn't just thick—it had grown. Expanded beyond its usual reach, curling in unnatural patterns, pressing harder against the palisade like a living thing testing the boundary. Where once the mist drifted like a sleepy veil, it now watched—patient, suffocating, and precise.
"Anyone else feel like it's breathing?" muttered one of the stablehands, shifting nervously by the gate.
Kael stood on the northern ridge, arms crossed. "That's not weather. That's pressure. Tactical."
Renard stood beside him, unreadable.
"You think it's the enemy?" Kael asked.
Renard said nothing. But he didn't correct him either.
Night came early. The fog thickened until torchlight bounced back in halos. Patrol lines were scrambled. Someone swore they saw a figure just beyond the wall.
Then Corin—a greenhorn from Support Squad C—vanished from post.
He was found hours later in the mud, breathing, but out cold. Three lines of white chalk across his armor.
No one laughed.
By morning, the full garrison of forty soldiers—Alpha, Omega, and support—were pulled into the mess hall.
Alpha sat rigidly at their benches. Twelve strong. Branley stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. Sera flexed her fire-gloved fingers. Darek sat like a coiled spring.
Omega huddled like a bar brawl waiting to happen. Thorn polished a blade with the flat of her warhound's paw. Silva scowled, mana flickering in her palm. Garrick flipped a dagger through his fingers, bored.
Support squads stood awkwardly near the back, eyes darting.
Renard stood at the command board.
"Last night," he said calmly, "we lost field control. No injuries, but three patrol routes were compromised."
Kael added, "Chalk marks. Knockouts. No footprints."
Lysara, arms folded beside him, sipped tea. "One of the boys said he heard a whisper before it happened. 'Tagged.'"
Darek stood. "Then send us. Alpha's been trained for recon."
Sera nodded. "Let us handle it."
Renard raised a brow. "You want point?"
Branley answered for all of them. "We insist."
Renard nodded once. "Granted."
Dusk fell.
Alpha marched into the fog—perfect formation, blades gleaming.
Ten minutes later, it unraveled.
Branley went down first, slammed into the mud. Chalk across his heart.
Sera flared her gauntlet—only to have it slapped off-line mid-cast. She screamed, stumbling back.
Darek tried to rally them, but a staff hooked his leg, flipping him hard. Two more were tagged in quick succession.
"Where are they—?!" someone shouted.
No answer.
Omega went next.
They didn't march. They stalked.
Thorn led the charge, Garrick and Silva flanking. Kael followed, a side formation from support.
They fared better.
But only just.
Silva was tripped and tagged mid-cast. Garrick went down laughing before the third strike hit him. Thorn's warhound managed to catch one attacker—only to vanish into the gray with a yelp.
Kael landed one blow. Then chalk across his throat.
Only Lysara made it back untouched—because she never fought. She watched.
From the tower above, Renard stood still.
[S-Class Trait: Predictive Mapping — Active]
[Monitoring 9 Fireteams | 3 Disrupt Units in Play]
[Engagement Probability: 96% | Phantom Synchronization: 100%]
[Alpha Effectiveness: 22% | Omega Effectiveness: 41%]
"Poor."
He closed the interface.
By morning, the yard was quiet.
Alpha returned battered and ashamed. Omega, bitter but breathing.
No one spoke.
Then movement near the ruined arch.
Three shadows stepped from the fog.
Maera, cloak torn, knelt. "Training complete, Commander."
Elric grinned. "Thirty-four tagged. No deaths. Not even close."
Tarn nodded silently. A fresh scroll of logs in hand.
Renard's system flickered:
[Phantom Unit Update: Command Synchronization – Perfect]
[Maera – Rank Up: D → C+]
[Elric – Rank Up: D+ → C]
[Tarn – Rank Up: C → C+]
[Unit Trait Unlocked: Shadow Drill – Coordination +12%, Fog Terrain Mastery +20%]
One more figure stepped forward—Venn, a scout Renard had pulled from logistics. He dropped to one knee beside them.
"Status: support fireteam elevated. Fog tactics replicated from Wraithpine Doctrine."
Renard nodded.
"They think they were ambushed."
"But this wasn't the enemy."
"This was us."
The fog pressed around them like a living net.
"If they adapt…"
He turned, eyes sharp as razors.
"They'll become soldiers."
"If they don't…"
His voice dipped into something cruel, gleaming with control.
"Then I'll come out myself."
"And I'll remind them why phantoms don't knock."
The Phantom Unit vanished back into the mist.
And Renard stood alone.
Still watching.
Still planning.
Already setting the board for the next game.