Kai's arrival stirred whispers. Some in reverence. Others in doubt.
A king born of trees and legend. Now walking among them.
That night, Anya called a war council in the Hall of Stone, a cavern veined with quartz, lit by crystal fire and torchlight.
Maps lay across a stone table, marked with charcoal and blood: rebel camps, corrupted lands, warlord outposts.
Anya pointed to one red circle.
"Eldermoor. Trade hub turned fortress. If we take it, the realm will stir."
"We barely held the Peaks," growled a scarred man. "And we're sending our strength into open war?"
Lyra cut in. "Fear has kept the people frozen. They need fire. A symbol."
All eyes turned to Kai.
He stepped forward, gaze on the map. "We don't need to strike everywhere. Just once. Just strong enough to remind them we're still alive."
He tapped Eldermoor.
A long silence.
"Spoken like a forest wolf," the scarred man said. "Quick bite. Cities aren't rabbit warrens."
Kai looked him in the eye. "And fear isn't a battle plan."
Something shifted in the room. Postures straightened. Whispers stilled.
Anya studied Kai. "We strike Eldermoor," she said. "But with precision. Diversions. Timed incursions. This won't be a brawl, it'll be a spark."
Later, Lyra found Kai standing on a cliff's edge, staring into the valley below.
"You surprised them," she said.
"I surprised myself," he admitted.
"You don't have to know everything," Lyra replied. "You just have to care enough to fight. The rest comes."
He looked at her, really looked, and for a moment, the wind carried nothing but the weight of understanding.
Neither of them said a word.