By morning, the illusion camp was already glowing like a beacon of dread.
I stared down from a ridge as tendrils of smoke rose in perfect choreography, cooked up by alchemists, not fire. Dummy soldiers moved thanks to enchanted ropes. The banners we hoisted? Old ones from a now-extinct human battalion.
To anyone watching, it screamed, "Reinforcements".
To the Holy Alliance, it screamed something else entirely.
"Why would dead troops be rising again?" General Thalor asked, arms folded.
"Because", I said, eyes narrowing, "we're going to convince them that someone from their own side is summoning them."
Thalor blinked.
Even Veris, who normally smiled at everything short of decapitation, looked mildly unsettled. "You're suggesting we frame their own commander… for necromancy?"
I nodded.
"And not just any commander", I pointed to the scroll beside me. "General Corvelle."
Veris whistled. "Oh. The one with the shining reputation. Unshakeable moral code. The 'hero in silver'. That Corvelle."
"Exactly. We break their spine by snapping their pride."
The plan had several moving parts.
First: Forged letters "discovered" on a captured scout. Written in a style eerily similar to Corvelle's hand. They hinted at dark dealings with sorcery and doubt in the Alliance's cause.
Second: Spread rumors. My spies, disguised as desperate refugees, would whisper truths and lies in equal measure, targeting soldier camps, not commanders.
Third: Conjure one undead knight, draped in a corrupted version of Corvelle's sigil, and send it limping across their front line under the illusion of being "uncontrolled."
Let paranoia do the rest.
By dusk, my shadows were at work.
In the east, one of my scouts returned from a nearby hamlet where an Alliance patrol had camped.
"They're fighting", she said. "Loudly. Some believe the rumors. Others say it's demon lies."
"Perfect", I murmured. "Now we just tip the scale."
A soldier beside her, one of the beastkin twins, tilted her head. "Why not just kill Corvelle?"
"Because", I said slowly, "a dead man is mourned. A traitor is feared."
Later, in my tent, I sat cross-legged before a worn book of war theory. Its pages were stained from slum smoke and the blood of men who thought me weak.
I traced one underlined passage.
"The greatest victory is not defeating your enemy's body, but possessing their mind before the first blade is drawn."
It was from Old Hen. My teacher. The first to see my worth.
I remembered his gnarly hands fixing a broken board for my game set. His voice like gravel dragged through honey. "Power isn't about louder armies, girl. It's about who walks into battle thinking they're already lost."
Now, here I was.
The Alliance was walking.
Veris barged in, mid-sip of a bubbling mug. "News!"
"Of?"
"They're calling Corvelle 'The White Shade' now. Some soldiers believe he's been undead for years. One tried to stab his reflection."
"That's not how mirrors work", I deadpanned.
"His sword bounced off the puddle."
Even Thalor chuckled at that.
I allowed myself a rare smile. Just a small one. Then I looked at the map again.
Lines were shifting. Loyalties fraying.
The flames I lit last week were turning into wildfires.
Later that night, I sat alone by a low lantern, writing.
My letter wasn't for the Alliance.
It was for Valekhar.
He would want updates. He would want results.
But as my pen scratched paper, I found myself adding a single, unnecessary line.
"Their fear tastes sweeter than I imagined."
Then I paused.
My fingers, ink-stained and trembling ever so slightly, tapped the side of my jaw.
Was this what power felt like?
No… not yet.
This was just the beginning.