Soulbound: Dual Cultivation-Chapter 397: Fear changes loyalties

Patrick had not yet moved when Lucas stopped him with a raised hand.

"Not yet," Lucas said quietly.

He reopened the alchemical box and reached beneath the padded lining, withdrawing a small velvet pouch. From it, he poured a cluster of dull metal spheres into his palm. They were no larger than plums, seamless and matte, each etched faintly with sigils so fine they were almost invisible unless the light struck them at an angle.

Patrick studied them without touching.

"And these?" he asked.

Lucas weighed one in his hand before passing it over. "About ten in total. Scatter them around their base encampment. Near cook fires. Between supply stacks. Along the inner perimeter where men gather before formation."

Tom frowned slightly. "What do they do?"

Lucas’ expression hardened, not with cruelty, but with grim necessity.

"They will activate on their own once exposed to open air for long enough," he said. "They release a vapor that cannot be seen and cannot be smelled in any obvious way. It will not kill. That is not the purpose. But it will sap strength. It will turn stomachs. It will cloud focus and tighten chests." 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Nyx looked at the spheres with unease. "You mean to make them ill."

"I mean to tilt the scale," Lucas replied.

Patrick rolled one gently between his fingers. "How long before it takes effect?"

"Not immediately," Lucas answered. "Gradual. By the time they form ranks, many will feel it but will not yet understand why. They will blame poor rations. Bad water. Nerves. By the time the battle begins, their bodies will betray them."

Tom exhaled slowly. "You are certain it will not drift back to us?"

Lucas nodded. "The wind favors us today. And the concentration disperses with distance. It is contained enough to weaken a clustered camp, not an open field."

Nyx’s gaze shifted from Lucas to Patrick. "This is dangerous," she said softly. "If they discover these on you..."

"They will not," Patrick replied calmly.

Lucas stepped closer to him.

"This will give us grace," Lucas said, echoing the thought forming in his mind since the king had finally halted the march. "Not overwhelming advantage. Not certainty. But grace. Their ambush depends on precision and endurance. Archers must hold steady. Infantry must descend the slopes with coordination. If nausea bends them, if dizziness steals their breath, if their limbs feel heavier than they should, that moment of weakness becomes ours."

Patrick’s eyes held Lucas’ for a long second.

"You walk a narrow line," Patrick said quietly. "There is a difference between defeating an enemy and poisoning him."

Lucas did not look away.

"I know the difference," he said. "If I wished them dead before battle, I would have prepared something far worse. This will fade within a day. It will not linger in soil or stream. It is a temporary strike against their strength, nothing more."

Nyx studied him carefully, searching for doubt.

"War does not offer clean choices," Lucas continued, his voice lower now. "If we fight them at full force inside that valley, thousands of our own will fall within minutes. This spares lives on our side and leaves theirs alive to surrender if they choose."

Patrick closed his fingers around the spheres and slipped them into the satchel beside the smoke devices.

"You trust me greatly," he said.

Lucas allowed a faint, humorless smile. "I have no choice."

Tom placed a steady hand on Patrick’s shoulder. "Scatter them and withdraw. Do not linger to measure their suffering."

"I do not intend to," Patrick replied.

For a brief moment, the four of them stood in shared understanding. The halted army behind them murmured with confusion, unaware of the silent war already unfolding in strategy and conscience.

Nyx stepped closer to Patrick. "Come back," she said simply.

Patrick inclined his head. "I will."

He adjusted his armor, ensuring nothing clinked or shifted unnaturally. With the practiced ease of someone accustomed to moving between loyalties, he turned toward the distant line of trees concealing the enemy’s hidden preparations.

Lucas watched him go, the metal spheres now invisible within canvas and shadow.

Tom broke the silence first. "If this works, their ambush collapses before it begins."

Lucas’ gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "If this works," he said quietly, "we fight men already doubting their own strength. And doubt is more contagious than any vapor."

Nyx folded her arms against the chill that had nothing to do with wind.

"Let us hope," she murmured, "that when this is over, we still recognize ourselves."

No one answered her.

Beyond the trees, Patrick disappeared into enemy territory carrying smoke, hidden weakness, and the fragile hope that strategy might succeed where sheer force never could.

The king remained inside the command tent long after Nyx had left, staring at the campaign map spread across the central table. Small carved markers represented battalions, supply lines, cavalry wings, and the narrow valley that threatened to become their grave.

At last, he straightened and called to the guard outside.

"Summon Commander Alexander and Captain Varran immediately."

Moments later, the tent flap parted and two figures entered.

Commander Alexander moved with the rigid discipline of a man forged by decades of war. His silver-streaked hair was bound tightly at the nape of his neck, his armor polished but scarred. Captain Varran followed a step behind, younger, sharp-eyed, with the restless energy of someone who had risen through merit rather than lineage.

Both bowed.

"You called for us, Your Majesty," Alexander said.

The king did not waste time.

"Have we received any word from our allies in the western provinces?" he asked, his voice steady but strained beneath the surface. "Any riders. Any signal fires. Any confirmation of movement."

Alexander glanced briefly at Varran before answering.

"No, Your Majesty."

The king’s gaze hardened. "None at all?"

Varran stepped forward slightly. "Our scouts have maintained watch on the western road since dawn yesterday. No banners. No messengers. No sign of mobilization."

The king’s hand tightened against the edge of the table.

"They pledged reinforcements," he said slowly. "Two thousand infantry and five hundred horse. They swore it before witnesses."

Alexander’s jaw clenched. "They did."

"And yet," the king pressed, "we stand alone."

Silence settled heavily inside the tent.

Varran spoke carefully. "It may be delay, Your Majesty. Perhaps they were intercepted. Perhaps their own borders..."

Alexander cut in gently but firmly. "If they were marching, we would have seen dust on the horizon by now. Even a forced march would have reached us."

The king turned away, staring at the tent wall as though he could see through it to the distant provinces.

"Say it plainly," he ordered.

Varran hesitated only a fraction of a second.

"We have heard nothing," he said. "Which likely means they will not intervene."

The words hung like a verdict.

Alexander stepped closer to the map. "Their absence weakens our left flank considerably. Without their cavalry, we cannot attempt a wide encirclement. We are constrained to frontal engagement or strategic withdrawal."

"Withdrawal," the king repeated, tasting the word as though it were poison.

"It would preserve the core of the army," Alexander replied. "But it would concede territory."

"And embolden the usurpers," Varran added quietly.

The king exhaled slowly, a sound closer to weariness than anger.

"They promised unity," he murmured. "When rebellion rose, they sent assurances. When I called the banners, they sent oaths. And now, when steel is drawn, they send silence."

Alexander’s expression darkened. "Fear changes loyalties, Your Majesty."

"Or reveals them," the king replied.

Varran shifted his weight. "If they have chosen neutrality, they may be waiting to see who survives this conflict before committing themselves."

The king’s eyes flashed. "Vultures."

Neither officer contradicted him.

After a long pause, Alexander spoke again, his tone measured.

"Whether betrayal or cowardice, their absence clarifies one thing. We cannot rely on rescue. Whatever course we choose must assume we stand alone."

The king turned back to the table.

"Xavier believes the enemy intends to lure us into the valley," he said.

Alexander nodded once. "A sound tactic. Elevated archers, narrow descent, restricted maneuverability. It would devastate our numbers."

"And without allied reinforcement," Varran added, "we cannot absorb such losses."

The king studied the carved markers representing his soldiers, men who trusted him with their lives.

"If we retreat," he said slowly, "the usurpers will claim momentum. More lords may defect."

"If we charge blindly," Alexander countered, "we lose the army outright."

Silence returned, heavier than before.

Finally, the king straightened, his posture regaining a measure of the authority that had momentarily faltered.

"Then we do neither blindly," he said. "We hold position. We adjust. We force them to reveal themselves."

Alexander inclined his head. "As you command."

Varran’s voice softened slightly. "And the allies, Your Majesty?"

The king’s expression hardened into something colder.

"We remember," he said. "If we survive this day, their silence will not be forgotten."