The Runic Alchemist

"A Waygate without the runic metal rings... Just as we suspected," said the old veteran woman.

"At least now we know what we are dealing with," added another veteran man, holding his wine cup.

"The attacks have been going on for weeks, and we've only just discovered the source of their speed. At this rate, who knows what strange strategies they might come up with? We don't even know if the bloody thing is a spell or some runic item," another added.

"The range couldn't be great; it requires too much mana and doesn't seem continuously reusable. Each attack has been spaced two to three days apart," analyzed the foreign second-ranker.

"Maybe they are also figuring it out as they go. Giving them time might prove to be a heavily paid mistake," said Lord Aramis, sending a wave of murmurs among the people present.

Lady Vidalia, seated at the head of the grand table, let her fingers gently caress the rim of her empty goblet—a subtle signal only the most attentive would catch. Without lifting her gaze from the conversation, she gracefully extended her hand slightly to the side.

Her fingertips, lightly resting on the cool surface of the goblet, tapped it once, a soft sound that barely disturbed the ornately decorated room. The gesture was elegant, unhurried, and perfectly timed—a silent command for the cupbearer, Damian, to serve her. Of course, this was lost on Damian, the trainee cupbearer, until the maid responsible for him signaled him to do his job.

With a quiet sigh, Damian approached the commander and, using the graceful yet overly fancy technique he had been taught for a full day, refilled her goblet with a smile as fake as a three-dollar bill.

As Damian observed, the important figures discussed their hard-won battle, detailing their next steps or simply exchanging information they had gathered in the heat of the battle. One of them had finally noticed a wormhole-like portal opening for the first time, hidden from the enemy's eyes, confirming their theory.

Ashenvale had a means—a spell, a runic tool, or a rare Esper—that could open Waygates much further than should have been possible and allow large numbers of people to cross. Damian wanted to see it so badly, even though he was barely in a situation to care about such things right now.

'That was pretty good, kid. You need to work on that ugly smile of yours, though...'

And Damian also had to endure her random comments in his head, unable to reply as he was supposed to remain quiet and efficient, like a shadow, ensuring a seamless experience for the honored f*cking guests. Annoying as it was, he did not want another lecture from the pretty maid, so he suffered in silence.

"Thredripper's last attack was a bit too much, I have to admit. Doesn't look like Highmore will make it," Lord Tristan said, his voice more subdued than his usual amusing tone.

"Even if he does, it will take at least a week, even with the best healers and potions, before he's back to his previous fighting condition," added the foreigner woman.

"It was already hard enough to stop him with us six. How will we manage with only five?" asked another high-tier second-ranker.

"We need Bonecrusher, and soon, if we are to defend this as it is. Otherwise, attacking is our only choice, but with our numbers, it will be an uphill battle," Aramis concluded.

Damian noticed another veteran knight gesturing with his glass, so he quietly approached and poured wine into his cup. Some of them followed him with their eyes, observing all his minute actions.

"Even if we attack, the problem remains the same. They have two third-rankers. Moondancer's ability, combined with her surroundings, makes her a menace to fight with others around. I will have no choice but to confront her alone, and as usual, she will run away as soon as she feels cornered.

Thredripper is devious; he would laden the wraith's passage with so many traps we wouldn't even reach their army in one piece. Their scouts keep watch on our camps at all times, and they will see us coming from the very entrance of the Wraith's Passage," the commander finally broke the silence, laying out the challenges of attacking a well-equipped host with far more people.

"It's a wonder why they didn't come at us with full force from the start and only began moving now," the old veteran woman added.

"They are afraid of our commander here. If we were certain they were coming, spells and royal runic items would give us too much of an advantage. That's why they are chipping away at our strength, one unit at a time. Even the marching army seems like a lull to force us to act against our will," Lord Tristan answered.

"There has to be something we can do besides waiting to be attacked again and again at ungodly hours," said one of them, irritated.

"We could fall back," suggested the foreigner warrior, instantly becoming the center of hard criticism.

"And let them pass the Dreaded Lands?"

"That would spell doom for us all."

"No, we cannot lose even an inch of our homeland."

"Not to mention, showing our backs to the enemy will lower the morale of our troops."

And the discussion went in circles like that. It was clear they had no choice here, either they could charge and fight a battle that was very ill advised or wait for them to come and lay the entrance with traps that would most likely be found out by Ashenvale way before they could show their usage. Damian was tired of their bickering, and the pitcher in his hands felt annoying to hold.

He considered throwing it at Aramis's face but he knew it would do nothing to improve his situation except provide momentary satisfaction. He was still debating whether to act on this impulse or not.

'Is that boredom I see on your face? What kind of spy are you?'

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