The two-day rest period revealed cracks that constant movement had hidden.

Soldiers who'd maintained discipline during march collapsed into exhausted sleep the moment they were allowed. Equipment that had seemed functional revealed stress fractures and wear that required immediate repair. Supply wagons that had kept pace through sheer determination needed maintenance that couldn't be delayed further.

And the wounded—those who'd been traveling with medical support, pushing through pain because stopping meant being left behind—finally admitted the extent of their injuries.

"Medical teams are overwhelmed," reported Surgeon-Commander Vex'rail, a demon whose centuries of battlefield medicine showed in every precise movement. "We've been treating acute injuries during march. Now we're discovering chronic damage that soldiers hid to avoid being left behind. Infections that developed untreated. Wounds that never properly healed."

"How many are unfit for continued combat?" Liam asked.

"Define unfit. Can't march another step? Three hundred seventeen. Shouldn't fight but probably will anyway? Another eight hundred." Vex'rail's voice carried professional frustration. "Demons are remarkably stubborn about admitting physical limitations. I've had soldiers with broken bones argue they're fine to continue."

"That's..." Liam searched for appropriate response.

"That's why you're winning," Vex'rail interrupted. "Soldiers willing to march on broken bones don't quit easily. But it means medical assessment is complicated by patients who lie about their condition."

The surgeon departed to continue overwhelming work, leaving Liam with updated casualty projections that were worse than preliminary reports had suggested.

Seventeen days of forced march hadn't just cost the dead and obviously wounded. It had accumulated damage across the entire army that rest period was revealing with uncomfortable clarity.

---

Liam spent the first rest day walking through encampments, observing what two weeks of campaign had done to his army.

Legion One—which had led the bridge assault—showed visible exhaustion despite demon resilience. Soldiers slept in positions that suggested they'd collapsed where they stood. Equipment was being repaired with materials scavenged from damaged gear. The atmosphere was one of grim determination mixed with relief at temporary respite.

"My lord." A group of soldiers noticed his approach, started to stand despite obvious fatigue.

"Stay seated," Liam commanded. "Rest period means actually resting, not performing formalities."

They settled back, though their attention remained fixed on him with mixture of devotion and curiosity. One—a female demon with burns scarring her left arm—spoke hesitantly.

"My lord, is it true you'll fight at Valengard? That the Primordial will lead assault personally?"

"I'll be present for the assault. Whether I lead personally depends on tactical requirements." He noted her burns—probably from the bridge assault, treated but not fully healed. "Your arm. That's from artillery fire?"

"Yes, my lord. Blessed ordinance. Burns don't heal quickly." She flexed her hand experimentally. "But it's functional. I can still fight."

"Surgeon-Commander says you shouldn't."

"Surgeon-Commander is cautious. I've fought through worse." Her voice carried conviction born from years of warfare. "We didn't march seventeen days to sit out the real fighting because of burns that sting."

Similar sentiments echoed across the encampment. Wounded who insisted they were functional. Exhausted soldiers who claimed they just needed one good night's sleep. Demons whose equipment was barely held together who swore it would last through Valengard assault.

The determination was admirable. Also concerning. An army that refused to admit limitations was dangerous to itself.

"Commander Torven," Liam found the Legion One commander reviewing casualty reports. "How many of your soldiers are actually combat-ready versus willing to claim they're combat-ready?"

Torven's expression suggested he'd been wrestling with same question. "Honestly? Maybe sixty percent are genuinely ready. Another thirty percent are functional but compromised. The last ten percent shouldn't fight but will refuse to stay behind."

"That's substantial degradation from starting strength."

"That's what seventeen days of forced march followed by major engagement produces." Torven's voice was matter-of-fact. "We're not broken. But we're not fresh either. Valengard assault will be harder than it should be because we're attacking with army that's already been fighting for two weeks."

The tactical implications were clear. They'd gained speed at cost of combat effectiveness. Whether that trade was worthwhile would be determined at Valengard.

---

The Fourth Order had established separate encampment—smaller, more isolated, with security that suggested they preferred privacy over integration with main army.

Liam found Kael'thra organizing memorial service for the forty-three warriors lost at the observation post. The militant faithful had arranged their dead with ceremonial precision that spoke to religious significance.

"The fallen served divine will," Kael'thra said when she noticed his approach. "Their sacrifice advances your purpose. That's highest honor Fourth Order can achieve."

"Forty-three warriors lost eliminating observation post that delayed us six hours." Liam studied the arranged bodies. "Was the trade worthwhile?"

"Yes." Her certainty was absolute. "Six hours multiplied across entire campaign becomes days. Days become weeks. Strategic timeline serves divine purpose. Individual lives are acceptable cost for temporal advantage."

The cold calculus was accurate. Also deeply uncomfortable coming from someone discussing her own dead warriors with such detachment.

"You grieve them," Liam observed. Not a question. He could see it in the careful arrangement of bodies, the precision of memorial preparation. "You're just not showing it."

"Grief is luxury. Expression of personal loss over strategic necessity." Kael'thra's voice was steady but something in her posture suggested strain. "The Fourth Order serves without emotional compromise. We process loss through continued service rather than mourning that serves no purpose."

"That's..." Liam paused, recognizing familiar pattern. "That's what I've been doing. Processing casualties through continued command rather than grief that might paralyze tactical decision-making."

"Then you understand why the Fourth Order functions as it does." She looked at him directly. "We mirror divine will. Process sacrifice through purpose rather than emotion. Serve absolutely because absolute service is what prevents extinction."

She wasn't wrong. But standing among forty-three dead zealots who'd served without question, Liam couldn't shake feeling that absolute service came at psychological cost that wasn't fully captured in casualty statistics.

"The Fourth Order will be ready for Valengard assault," Kael'thra continued. "We've integrated replacements, reorganized formations, prepared covert operations that will support main attack. Our effectiveness isn't compromised by losses."

"Because you replace dead warriors and continue functioning without processing the loss."

"Because we understand that processing requires time we don't have and emotional investment that undermines efficiency." Her voice was firm.

"The Fourth Order exists to serve divine will. Everything else—grief, doubt, personal attachment—is distraction from that purpose."

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