- Icarus POV -

The sound of distant roars bled through the stone walls, a constant reminder that this land belonged to creatures born for war. From the tall, narrow window of the Thal'Zar war room, Icarus di Valtaron watched the Lycans move below like a living tide. Some were still in their humanoid form, weapons of mana shimmering around their arms; others had embraced their beast shapes entirely—towering figures of fur, muscle, and claw, tearing at training dummies with feral precision. Moonlight traced the edges of their movements, turning their shadows into long, restless silhouettes.

Icarus stood motionless, maroon coat brushing softly against the stone as the wind slipped inside. His lilac eyes reflected the battlefield-in-preparation with a calmness that did not belong in a place like this. To him, chaos and discipline looked the same—merely patterns waiting to be read.

Behind him, the heavy table of black iron groaned under the weight of maps, markers, and crude carvings of Lycans and elves. Kaedor du Thal'Zar sat there, one massive hand pressed against the map, the other drumming impatiently against the table. His aura, thick and wild, filled the chamber like hot breath fogging the air. He wasn't a man right now—not fully. He was a beast wearing human skin, thoughts clouded by instinct and pride, yet sharp enough to lead one of the Eight Great Families.

Every region marked on the map bled tension:

territories taken, territories lost, potential ambush points, and—boldest of all—the desecrated sanctuary where the war had truly begun. Even now, ashes from that place seemed to cling to the edge of Kaedor's memory.

Icarus exhaled, a quiet breath that drifted into the cold room. It was soft, barely audible, but it cracked the silence cleanly in half.

Kaedor lifted his gaze.

That was all the reaction he needed to speak.

Outside, a Lycan roared as another shifted forms mid-leap, claws raking sparks off training stone. Inside, the two leaders faced the weight of a coming storm—one with savage force, the other with clinical inevitability.

Kaedor's voice finally rumbled from deep in his chest, halfway between a growl and a declaration:

"In four days… the Ritefield ceremony begins. And we are not breaking tradition."

Icarus turned his head slightly toward him.

Kaedor pushed himself up from the chair, the legs scraping harshly against the stone floor. The faint vibration traveled through the room like a warning tremor. His amber eyes locked onto Icarus, demanding an explanation with their raw, beastlike intensity.

"You understand what this means, don't you?" he said, stepping closer. "Ritefield is in four days. We've kept that ceremony for centuries. We do not break it."

Icarus didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

He merely turned enough for the moonlight to catch the sharp curve of his cheek, as though Kaedor were little more than a voice drifting past him.

"I know you won't break it," Icarus replied softly. "And because you won't… that is exactly when they will attack."

Kaedor stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat, then scoffed and bared a hint of his teeth. It wasn't a smile—it was the beginning of a snarl.

"Are you sure of what you're saying?" he demanded.

"You think the elves have so little honor that they would strike during a sacred ritual?"

Icarus' lilac eyes slid toward him, slow and unimpressed.

"Honor?" A faint, humorless breath escaped him. "After the damage you dealt to their sanctuary? After scarring the roots of their sacred tree?"

He took a step toward the table, the hem of his coat whispering over the floor.

"Believe me, Kaedor. Even the 'refined' elves will cast aside honor if it means retribution."

The words hung in the air like cold steel.

Kaedor's jaw tensed. The beast within him paced just behind his skin, wanting to snap, wanting to deny it. But denial didn't change the truth. Elven pride, once wounded, turned vindictive—and everyone in the Eight Families knew it.

Finally, Kaedor muttered, voice lower, rougher:

"…We only struck the sanctuary because you told us to."

Icarus didn't hesitate.

"And you did so because of our agreement."

A shadow flickered across Kaedor's face—fear, frustration, and something painfully personal.

Icarus continued:

"You sought me out, Kaedor. You wanted help. You knew that you alone cannot protect what you care about."

Kaedor's fists tightened at his sides.

Both men knew exactly what they were referring to. Only one of them was willing to say it aloud.

Kaedor inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring as he forced his breathing into something closer to control. The tension between them felt dense enough to touch—an invisible rope pulled tight, holding war, tradition, and personal desperation all in the same knot.

He finally broke the silence.

"Fine," Kaedor muttered, voice gravel deep.

"Then tell me. How can you be so certain they'll attack during the Ritefield? You don't read minds. I know that you don't have foresight skills. So how?"

Icarus stepped away from the window at last, boots whispering across the stone. Each movement was deliberate, precise, as if even the act of walking was calculated for minimal waste.

He reached the table and traced a single finger across the route leading to the Ritefield grounds—down the mountain path, across the outer valley, straight into ceremonial territory.

"Because it is obvious," Icarus said. "You will be celebrating. Your guard will be lowered. Your movements will be predictable. Your forces split across ceremonial duties."

Kaedor narrowed his eyes.

He didn't like being spoken to as if he were a child… and yet, he didn't interrupt.

Icarus continued with quiet certainty:

"Your schedule never changes. Your ceremony never changes. Your numbers, your formations, the positioning of your warriors…"

He tapped a marked point on the edge of the map.

"…never change."

Kaedor clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"Traditions don't change," he growled. "That is the point."

Icarus glanced at him over his shoulder.

"Exactly. Which is why your enemies do not need to guess your behavior."

A faint smirk—not mocking, just factual—touched his lips.

"They already know it."

Kaedor stepped around the table, pacing like a wolf in a cage.

"Then what? You want us to sit like fools and wait to be attacked?"

Icarus lifted a brow, unfazed by the aggression.

"No. You will be prepared." He circled a small cluster of figures on the map. "But they must believe you are celebrating as always. Any alteration to the routine, any unusual deployment, and they will sense the trap."

Kaedor paused.

The idea was simple—too simple. Yet it struck him with unsettling clarity.

"You would attack us too, then?" Kaedor muttered.

"During Ritefield?"

Icarus' answer came without hesitation.

"If I were your enemy, yes." A heartbeat. "Someone like me can attack whenever they want… but most people aren't as strong as me."

Kaedor said nothing, but his expression shifted. He finally understood:

Icarus wasn't predicting the elven strike. He was stating the only rational move anyone with a functioning brain would make.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose.

"Perhaps you're right…" he muttered, every word grinding out like stone.

"Still—the Ritefield is where our strength should peak. Not where we look vulnerable."

Icarus didn't turn. He traced a finger lazily across the map, passing over clusters marked with Rank Four formations—elven battalions, Rosenthal units, smaller allied groups.

"Strength peaks only for the weaker ranks," he said calmly. "A thousand Flow Mana Ranks warriors may shout, may clash, may fill the battlefield with noise… but they are not a threat."

He tapped one of the wooden markers—an elven archer—and flicked it aside with effortless disdain.

"Someone like you can tear through them alone, Kaedor."

Then his voice dropped, almost bored:

"Someone like me does it without trying, just like you."

A cold truth settled between them.

Rank differences weren't steps.

They were cliffs.

Once a warrior reached the upper tiers—Kaedor's Paragon level, or Icarus' Apex Mana Core—the battlefield no longer measured opponents in hundreds. It measured them in how long they lasted before collapsing.

Kaedor grunted, part frustration, part acknowledgment.

Icarus continued. "The elves understand this. They know they cannot overpower you with numbers. Their Rank Four and Rank Five warriors will die before ever reaching you."

He pointed to the ritual grounds.

"So they will not aim for brute force. They will aim for timing."

Kaedor paced a slow circle around the table, beastlike tension rolling off him.

"You speak as if every commander in the world shares your mind."

Icarus turned slightly, lilac eyes catching the lamplight.

"I speak as someone who has studied them… and will defeat them."

Kaedor's lips curled, both impressed and irritated.

But then his expression tightened as another thought pushed forward.

"Fine. But remember our agreement." His voice dropped, rough and edged with something personal. "I've already risked everything for this—my house, my position… everything."

The air in the war room cooled.

Icarus' expression didn't shift, but his presence seemed to deepen—quiet, immense.

"You risked it because you chose to," he murmured. "And because you cannot protect what matters to you without me."

Kaedor braced his hands against the edge of the table, claws half-formed beneath his skin as tension rippled through his shoulders. His instincts screamed to take action, to reposition troops, to shift formations—to do something. Anything. Tradition or not, he hated the idea of standing still while danger crept toward them.

But Icarus merely adjusted his coat and turned toward the door, as if their conversation had already concluded the fate of the coming days.

Kaedor growled low.

"So that's it? We simply let them come?"

Icarus paused, one hand resting lightly against the stone doorway. He didn't turn back, but his voice carried through the war room like a whisper that belonged to a man who had lived far longer than either side of this conflict understood.

"Yes," he answered. "Let them walk into their own mistake."

Kaedor's jaw tightened.

"That sounds like doing nothing."

This time, Icarus did turn. Just slightly—enough for one lilac eye to meet Kaedor's glare.

And with the calmness of a man stating a universal truth, he said.

"Never interrupt your enemy when he is doing a mistake."

Kaedor hated it—hated how logical the statement was, hated how helpless it made him feel. Yet even he couldn't deny it. If the elves were foolish enough to strike during Ritefield, during a moment dictated by ancient tradition, then that foolishness was their downfall.

Kaedor let out a slow breath.

"Fine," he said at last. "We will keep everything the same."

Icarus inclined his head.

"Good. They must not sense the trap. If even one formation looks out of place, they will retreat. And you know they will bring enough Pulse Ranks even maybe some Prime ones to swarm your borders. We want them committed—fully committed—before we strike."

Kaedor crossed his arms, irritation simmering beneath his skin.

"I'll allow the prisoners out. Let them 'enjoy' the celebrations, as you suggested. The elves always assume we let our weak roam during the Ritefield."

A faint smile—thin, cold—touched Icarus' lips.

"Perfect."

He stepped into the corridor, letting the shadows swallow him.

Kaedor moved to the same window Icarus had been watching from earlier. Through it, he saw the SSS-rank walk away with calm, unhurried steps, as if the entire war were beneath him.

A muscle jumped in Kaedor's jaw.

"Son of a bitch…" he muttered under his breath. "Who does he think he is?"

He stared a moment longer, expression darkening.

"I only put up with this because I have to… for their sake."

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