Alkaris walked out of the Generals' tent with a smug look on his face.
Honestly... he had no interest in these meetings. To him, they were just polished excuses— strategies crafted by those in power to efficiently spend the lives of men on the battlefield. Plans made from a safe distance, far from the blood and chaos they were meant to navigate.
But important strategies... Real decisions... they belonged on the battlefields.
In the fire. In the moment.
Only then could one make accurate analyses of the war at hand, feel the pulse of battle, and act accordingly.
To the others, he was a rebellious, immature brat who won wars on nothing but luck and brutality. A wild card who barked out impulsive orders—sometimes aligned with the council's plans, other times completely off-course.
But for Alkaris, it was never about rebellion. It was about results.
And more than that—it was about keeping his men alive.
These planing rooms where nowhere for him, especially plans made after victory, they bored him. They definitely didn't need him there.
Alkaris strolled down the rocky ridge, as a genuine smile crept onto his face. He had waited all day for this. Aside from rattling old fuggies, nothing thrilled him more than this —messing with the enemy.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small transparent vial. It contained a light red liquid, with what looked like strands of hair swirling inside.
"Fashis lise," he muttered, before drank it.
His steps slowed as a wave of pain quickly swept across his face. He stopped for a moment... Gripping his face, as a slight shudder carved its way across his features that began to change — His height shrank slightly, his frame narrowed, his broad shoulders softened, his stance shifted.
He chuckled... slightly, low at first, then again, louder, more unhinged –wild and mad, until he erupted in wild bouts of laughter under the night sky, as his lifted his head toward the moonless heavens.
But at the end of that laugh, his voice had changed.
It was less wild.
More… Deeper. Rougher.
He sighed, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were no longer black... but blue. He looked down at his hands; they were thicker, rougher, a stark contrast to what they originally were, their once sharp, elegant features were now rugged, aged, an seemiy unfamiliar. Strands of raven-black hair began falling away, as a wave of golden blond took their place
Fashis lise — the body stealing spell.
It was an ancient spell, a type of body modification magic, born long before Sidoria ever became an empire. It was the perfect tool for infiltration. It couldn't be dispelled, traced, or undone, and It didn't wear off unless the antidote was taken in addition to the user's 'will' to return to their true form.
It was flawless. But it came with a cost.
The spell rewrote everything—bones, blood, organs, scars and even deformities. Everything was rebuilt, transforming the user into an exact replica of the person from whom the hair was taken, as at the time the hair was taken .
But The pain was unbearable. So much so, that even swordmasters had either died or gone mad from the excruciating agony. No human could handle it. Swordmasters went mad, soldiers and mages died instantly. It was deemed impractical, and later discarded by the world... But not by the Budenmore Duchy.
The Budenmore Duchy kept it for generations, using it secretly, out of sight from even the Empire's Throne. Most in their bloodline could endure such pain—and in Alkaris' case, even laugh through it.
And now, under the moonless night, Alkaris stood reborn in another man's flesh.
Only his soul— and his madness— remained.
"Well, that was exhilarating..." Alkaris muttered with a grin, his new voice rougher, deeper. He continued walking, humming faintly to himself.
**************************************************
Far from the Sidorian camp, four figures huddled around a low-burning fire. The air was heavy... quiet— too quiet. They were waiting.
A woman with red, wavy hair and eyes to match sat closest to the flames. Her gaze was fixed on the fire, worry tugging at her brows.
"Do you think Elim's okay?" she finally asked.
"He should be. No word of any captured spies," came the calm reply from a cloaked man leaning against a tree.
"Then why isn't he here?" she pressed, more impatient now.
"What if..." the youngest among them began, hesitating. Blond hair framed his anxious blue eyes.
"What if he betrayed us?" the fourth snapped. His voice was sharp, irritated. A long scar ran across his cheek, and his light brown hair was tied back loosely. "Wouldn't be the first time an old man sold out for coin."
"Shut up, Dikil," the redhead snapped. "You know Elim would never do that."
"And how would you know, Phera?" He shot back, his tone biting.
Phera turned toward the cloaked man. "Tell him, Irel. You know Elim would never."
Irel was silent for a moment, then sighed. "It's not about trust. Not now. Our situation doesn't allow such a luxury."
The fire crackled in the pause that followed.
"Still... we wait," Irel added. "Because he's our comrade. And we owe him that much."
"But—" Dikil began, but a sharp rustling cut through the night.
All four snapped to alert.
Without a word, they stepped closer to the fire.
"Obick" Irel whispered.
A pulse shimmered silently into the air— an invisible dome, cloaked them, the fire, and every trace of their presence.
They stood motionless, weapons drawn, barely breathing.
Irel knelt, drawing swift sigils into the dirt, his fingers quick and precise as the sound of movement grew closer.
Then, from the underbrush, a man stumbled forward— average height, blond hair, blue eyes. His hand pressed against his side, blood soaking through his shirt.
"Guys?" he called out weakly before collapsing to his knees, his breath was ragged, face contorted in pain.
"Elim!" Phera shouted, lunging forward.
Dikil grabbed her arm. "How do you know it's really him?" he asked sharply.
"And what if it is him?" she snapped. "Should we just stand here and watch him die? Do you honestly think the Grand Duke would bother with such an elaborate trap? He'd torch the whole forest in flames before wasting time like that!"
Dikil stared at her— into the fire in her eyes— and knew there was no stopping her. He glanced at the sigils Irel had drawn; the setup was complete.
With a frustrated sigh, he let her go.
The moment she crossed the boundary, the barrier unraveled in a ripple of translucent light, revealing the hidden group.
Phera dropped to her knees beside the man, cradling him, pressing her hands over his wound.
"Elim…" she whispered.
He stirred faintly, eyes fluttering open. "Phera…" he breathed— before going limp in her arms.