Parallel Memory

Chapter 592: The Next Move

The camp’s command fire burned low, its glow swallowed by the ridge’s shadow. Soldiers gave the circle of SS-rankers a wide berth, instinctively sensing the gravity of the discussion about to unfold. The air was heavy with tension—victory had been tasted that day, but so had the iron bite of the palace’s guardians.

Valen crouched before the map scratched into the dirt, its crude lines marking the palace gates, the ridges, and the battlefield where so much blood had been shed. His silver hair caught faint traces of firelight as he gestured, his voice clipped, measured.

"We lost momentum today. That was intentional. Aamon showed us just enough of his strength to force a retreat. Tomorrow, he’ll aim to crush us outright. If we march the full army against those gates, we will bleed to death on the threshold."

Nock leaned on his shield, the golden chains of his magic flickering faintly at his shoulders even in stillness. "Then what do you suggest? That we skulk in the shadows like thieves? The gates are where he will expect us, yes, but they are also where his strongest defenders lie. We must breach, one way or another."

Mia’s gaze swept the circle, her frostmist curling faintly at her boots. Her tone was calm but absolute. "Charging blindly is suicide. The guardians were not the peak of what he has prepared. You all know it. He will have more waiting inside. We cannot walk into his jaws."

Seraphine struck her spear butt against the earth, sparks flickering at the contact. "Then we carve another path. If the front is too fortified, then we strike at the veins around it. Supply routes. Flanking trails. Anything to bleed them without ramming the door."

Kaelion Thorne, who had remained silent until then, lifted his head. His presence was like a coiled storm—restrained, but unmistakably dangerous. "Supply lines can be severed, but the palace is not fed like a normal fortress. Its heart is self-sustaining. We could cut their reinforcements, yes, but it won’t starve Aamon. He’ll fight with what’s inside, and that is already more than enough."

Ilyra Voss’s eyes narrowed, her voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. "He expects fear. He expects hesitation. If we scatter our strength, he’ll devour us piecemeal. We must commit—but with precision. A spearpoint strike, nothing less. The question is where to place the tip."

All eyes turned toward Valen. His hands rested above the map, fingers steady, his expression unreadable. "There are weaknesses. He wants us to believe the gates are the only way in, but every fortress has passages unseen. Drainage channels, escape routes, cracks in the foundation. The palace is no exception. I propose we use the bulk of our forces to feint at the gates—loudly, violently—while a smaller, deadlier wedge seeks another entry."

A murmur swept the gathered leaders.

"And who," Seraphine asked, "do you intend to trust with such a task?"

Valen’s eyes flicked across the circle. They lingered on Mia, on Nock, on Seraphine herself, and then on the S-rank captains sitting just beyond. Finally, he spoke. "The wedge must be those who can fight without reliance on numbers. Those who can withstand being cut off. Mia, Nock, Seraphine—you three will lead the thrust. Hiro’s group has proven their mettle and coordination; they go as well. We select only the strongest S-rank squads to join you. The rest will anchor here, keeping the devils’ eyes fixed on the gates."

Mia inclined her head slightly, frost swirling around her as if in assent. "But won’t Aamon notice the frontliners missing,"

"It might be a problem if he sees the difference in frontlines," Valen replied simply.

Nock tapped his Shield once against the earth. "Then how about we send Mia and Hiro’s group to find another way and secure the entrance from the inside."

Seraphine’s smirk was faint but real. "At least this time we’ll be the knife, not the shield."

The others nodded in agreement. The map was redrawn, lines marked for feints and flanking squads. The plan was not foolproof—it depended on speed, deception, and precision—but it was the best hope they had.

As the meeting broke apart, Valen remained by the fire, staring at the palace’s jagged outline against the horizon. He said nothing, but the weight in his gaze was unmistakable. He knew Aamon was watching, waiting. And he knew this was only the beginning.

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Within the Devil King’s palace, in the grand hall veiled by shadow, Aamon stood at the heart of his designs.

The floor was a lattice of runes, glowing faintly as his claw traced their lines. Each stroke twisted the air, bending it into snares unseen, layers of death hidden beneath the stone. His smile was a razor’s edge, his voice low but dripping with amusement.

"They plan. They scheme. And they think strategy will save them." He chuckled, a sound without mirth. "Let them believe it."

His eyes narrowed, recalling the faces from afar—the frost-bound woman, the thunder-speared warrior, the priest who dared bind his kin, the strategist whose eyes saw too clearly.

"Mia Frostine," he murmured first, lingering on her name. "Cold as the north winds, but predictable. Always forward, always pressing. Freeze the battlefield, anchor her to it—and then burn the ice beneath her feet. She will shatter herself."

He moved his hand, weaving another lattice into the air. "Seraphine. Proud. Reckless. Lightning strikes brightest before it fades. I will give her targets that demand her fury—illusions layered upon illusions—until she spends herself blind and broken."

Aamon’s gaze darkened, settling on the memory of golden chains. "Nock Fletcher. The light-bearer. Pious, rigid, convinced his faith shields him. I will give him faith tested—phantoms of innocents crying out, chains binding shadows that do not exist. He will waste his sanctity on smoke while my blades cut the flesh."

And then, finally, his lips curled with sharper delight. "Valen Drazmir. Ah. A mind worth playing with. You see through tricks, strategist. But even the sharpest eye cannot pierce every veil. I will lay layers upon layers, truths tangled with lies, until you choke on your own certainty. Let us see whose wit survives."

The room flared brighter, the palace itself humming faintly with Aamon’s enchantments. The walls seemed to breathe, the corridors shifting with unseen malice. The fortress was no longer stone and iron—it was a living labyrinth, a trap waiting to spring.

Aamon lowered his hand at last, his smile cold. "Come then, humans. Step into my palace. Your plans will carry you to the threshold—but past it? Past it, you are mine."

The hall echoed with his laughter, hollow and endless, as the night deepened outside.