The flickering oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows across the campaign tent, illuminating maps littered with troop positions marked in charcoal and reports weighted down with polished river stones. Outside, the cold, sharp wind of the northern borderlands howled a mournful dirge around the tightly pegged canvas walls, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the ever-present, faint metallic tang that clung to regions bordering the Infernal Dominion – the lingering aftertaste of old battles and ambient dread.

General Tiberius Valerius, commander of the Third Legion of the Aurelian Empire, rubbed his weary eyes. The lines etched around them weren't just from age; they were drawn by years spent staring across blighted landscapes, anticipating the next chaotic surge from the darkness to the south. He’d fought demons since he was a young tribune, seen their mindless fury, their predictable brutality, their utter disregard for self-preservation or tactical sense. They were a force of nature, a tide of violence to be weathered, broken, and driven back, usually at great cost.

He picked up the report again, its crisp parchment feeling incongruous amidst the rougher materials of the field command. It was from Captain Matthias, commander of the Griffin Cohort, currently stationed at Observation Post Kestrel overlooking the treacherous Ash Fields – a frequent staging ground for demonic raiding parties. Matthias was a solid officer. Experienced, level-headed, not prone to exaggeration or panic. Which made the contents of his report all the more… perplexing.

Valerius read it for the third time, his brow furrowed deeper with each pass.

“To General Tiberius Valerius, Commander, Third Legion,” it began formally. “Subject: Encounter Report, Ash Fields Skirmish, Cycle commencing seventh moon, third watch.”

Standard enough. Matthias’s script was neat, precise, even under field conditions.

“At approximately 0300 hours,” the report continued, “long-range scryers detected movement consistent with a mid-sized demonic raiding party – estimated two hundred units, primarily Orcish brutes and Goblin skirmishers, typical composition – advancing towards the foothills near the abandoned village of Oakhaven. Standard intercept protocols initiated. Griffin Cohort dispatched, comprising two centuries heavy infantry, one century archers, attached battle-mage cadre (reduced strength due to recent rotations).”

Again, standard. Textbook demonic raid, textbook Imperial response. Oakhaven was strategically insignificant, burned out years ago, but letting demons advance uncontested emboldened them.

“Contact established dawn cycle, fourth watch. Initial engagement followed expected patterns: chaotic demonic charge, infantry forming shield wall, archers providing suppressing fire, mages disrupting formations with elemental bursts. Enemy casualties mounted predictably under disciplined Imperial volleys.”

Valerius nodded grimly. This was the familiar script. The initial wave would break against the shields, taking heavy losses, relying on brute force and numbers.

Then came the part that made Valerius pause, the part that felt dissonant, wrong.

“Approximately thirty minutes into engagement, noticeable shift in enemy behavior observed. Goblin skirmishers, instead of continuing frontal assault into shield wall or scattering randomly, executed coordinated flanking maneuver – crude, yet effective – targeting archer positions on the western ridge. Simultaneously, Orcish brutes ceased headlong charges, forming semi-organized shield clusters to absorb missile fire while maintaining pressure on infantry center.”

Valerius frowned. Coordinated flanking? From goblins? They usually just swarmed or fled. Orcs forming shield clusters? They were known for berserker rages, not disciplined defense.

“Most unusually,” Matthias wrote, his script seeming slightly less steady here, “upon Griffin Cohort reinforcing the western ridge and repelling the goblin flankers with focused mage support, the remaining demonic force did not break into disorganized rout as anticipated. Instead, under apparent signal – possibly horn blasts, difficult to discern amidst battle noise – the Orcish center executed a phased withdrawal. Repeat: Withdrawal. Orderly. Maintaining rear-guard discipline, recovering some wounded (previously unobserved behavior), and retreating back towards the Ash Fields boundary. Pursuit was deemed inadvisable due to potential ambush in broken terrain and depleted mana reserves of mage cadre.”

An orderly withdrawal? Recovering wounded? Demons didn't do orderly withdrawals. They fought until broken or victorious, often fighting amongst themselves over spoils or perceived slights even mid-battle. They certainly didn't prioritize recovering wounded cannon fodder.

“Further anomalies noted:” Matthias continued, clearly troubled. “Damage to Oakhaven ruins minimal, inconsistent with typical wanton destruction. Enemy focus appeared directed towards intercepting two supply wagons en route to Post Kestrel, which were successfully defended. Captured demonic equipment appears standard issue, no indication of unusual leadership figures observed among the slain. Griffin Cohort casualties: 7 killed, 23 wounded (light to moderate). Estimated enemy casualties: 60-70 killed, unknown wounded withdrawn. Report concludes. Awaiting further orders. Captain Matthias, Griffin Cohort.”

Valerius lowered the parchment, staring unseeingly at the flickering lamp flame. Coordinated flanking. Shield clusters. Phased withdrawal. Recovering wounded. Targeted objectives (supply wagons?) over pointless destruction. It flew in the face of every established doctrine, every hard-won lesson from centuries of border warfare.

His first instinct was dismissal. Matthias was tired. The stress of command, the constant tension of the border. Maybe the mist played tricks with his eyes. Maybe it was a fluke, a random confluence of terrified goblins accidentally stumbling into a flanking position, or a few Orcs instinctively bunching together. The withdrawal? Perhaps just a lull misinterpreted as discipline. Recovering wounded? Maybe they were just dragging bodies back for later consumption – a gruesome thought, but more in line with known demonic behavior than battlefield succor.

He spread the map flat, tracing the reported movements near Oakhaven. The terrain allowed for flanking, yes, but required a degree of coordination rarely, if ever, displayed by such a force. Targeting supply wagons made a kind of brutal sense – denying resources to the enemy – but demons usually prioritized slaughter and terror. Why ignore the chance to raze the ruins further, instill fear, take easy kills among scattered defenders, just to hit some wagons?

Could it be a new commander? Some previously unknown demon lieutenant with an actual grasp of tactics? Possible, but Matthias reported standard composition, no obvious leaders. Could it be magic? Some kind of compulsion spell forcing coordination? Zaltar, the infamous Demon Lord Valthor’s chief sorcerer, was capable of terrifying feats, but large-scale mind control over hundreds of chaotic demons simultaneously seemed unlikely, inefficient, and prone to catastrophic failure. Zaltar favored grand, reality-bending gestures, not subtle battlefield management.

No, the simplest explanation remained the most likely: anomaly. A statistical outlier. A weird day on the Ash Fields. Matthias saw patterns where there was only chaos momentarily resembling order.

Yet… the report nagged at him. Matthias wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. Orderly withdrawal. Recovering wounded. These phrases echoed, dissonant chords in the familiar symphony of demonic warfare. It felt… efficient. Calculated, even. And demons were many things – terrifying, powerful, destructive – but they were rarely efficient or calculated in their violence. Their evil was typically as wasteful and chaotic as it was horrifying.

Valerius thought back over other recent reports. Minor skirmishes, patrols clashing in the gloom. Had there been other subtle shifts he'd dismissed? A raid hitting a granary instead of just slaughtering peasants? A scouting party probing defenses methodically instead of charging blindly? Nothing concrete sprang to mind, nothing that hadn't been easily explained away by circumstance or desperation. But Matthias's detailed account cast those memories in a slightly different, more unsettling light.

Was something changing across the border? Was Valthor, mad and unpredictable as he was known to be, trying something new? It seemed improbable. The Demon Lord was famed for his impulsive rages and grandiose, impractical schemes, not for drilling discipline into goblin fodder.

He sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet tent. Alarmism wouldn't serve anyone. Raising concerns based on one perplexing skirmish report would invite ridicule from the strategists back in the capital, cosy in their marble halls, far from the stench of brimstone and the screams of the dying. They’d talk about field commander stress, recommend Matthias be rotated out for 'rest.' No, he needed more. Corroborating evidence. A pattern.

Until then, it was an anomaly. A data point to be filed, noted, but not acted upon.

He picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkpot, and began drafting his summary report for Imperial Command. He described the skirmish briefly, noted the successful defense of the supply wagons, highlighted the acceptable casualty ratio. He mentioned Captain Matthias’s observations regarding "unusual enemy cohesion" but framed it cautiously – "possible isolated incident," "requires further observation," "likely attributable to localized conditions." He downplayed the withdrawal, emphasized the enemy casualties. Standard procedure. Maintain confidence, avoid unnecessary panic.

He finished writing, sanded the ink dry, and sealed the report with his signet ring pressed into cooling wax. He handed it to the waiting aide, instructing it be sent via the fastest courier hawk at first light.

The aide departed, leaving Valerius alone once more with the maps, the flickering lamp, and the howling wind. He picked up Matthias's report again, his gaze lingering on the phrases: coordinated flanking maneuver… executed a phased withdrawal… recovering some wounded…

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the unease. Anomaly. It had to be. Demons didn't learn tactics. They didn't value efficiency. They didn't care about logistics or wounded soldiers.

He filed Matthias's report carefully into a chest marked "Field Intelligence – Pending Verification." But as he turned back to the endless task of planning defenses against the familiar, chaotic evil he understood, a small, cold seed of doubt remained. What if this wasn't an anomaly? What if something fundamental, something deeply unnatural, was beginning to stir within the heart of the Infernal Dominion? What if the slaughter, the endless, wasteful slaughter, was somehow… streamlining?

The thought was absurd.

And deeply, profoundly unsettling.