Three Questions

The heavy tent flap fell shut, cutting off the hurried footsteps of Kevin and the others as they departed into the damp, cold morning mist.

The vast command tent fell deathly silent once more.

Only two people remained: Bishop Castian in the seat of honor, and Sheen standing straight below the dais.

After a long while, Castian's face, habitually hard as iron, softened a fraction.

He tugged at his thin lips, forcing something like an elder's smile. It looked painfully stiff, like a crudely stitched mask.

"Sheen Greenwood, in light of your aid to the Holy City Army last night, I'll grant you a privilege. You may ask me three questions."

Shien stood below him, lashes lowered. Not a trace of flattered surprise showed in his eyes. Instead, a glimmer of clarity flashed through them.

This was no reward. It was a test.

If he asked something trivial now, or tried to flatter the bishop, Castian would immediately judge him an expendable resource.

He had only three questions. He had to use them to pry loose something that might keep him alive.

His thoughts raced. Funding, weapons, troops... He discarded those obvious choices one by one.

Seconds later, Sheen raised his head, silver hair falling across his forehead. Without probing or preamble, he asked his first question.

"Set aside the polished battle reports. I need to know what the Graymist Defense Zone is really like. What's the real threat?"

The faint warmth Castian had struggled to maintain vanished. He narrowed his sharp eyes, as though taking a fresh measure of the silver-haired boy before him.

"Years of Blood Mist have eaten into the soil and formed a dark-red crust of poison. Without sustained purification by a high-ranking Life Priest, seeds from any kingdom would rot within three days of being sown.

"As for the threat, the Ghouls roaming beyond the defensive line are nothing but carrion-eating trash. The real trouble is the Werewolf Tribe."

Castian leaned forward slightly, his shadow swallowing the entire table.

"During last year's Blood Moon Season, the previous overseer of the Graymist Defense Zone died a spectacularly stupid death. He thought a few walls and several thousand warriors wielding battle aura would be enough to hold the line.

"But under the direct light of the red moon, those werewolves didn't merely go berserk. They began to organize. They drove ghouls into the trenches to fill them in and sent their elites around the flanks to cut off supplies."

Castian continued, his mockery undisguised. "The night the line collapsed, the overseer of Graymist and more than a dozen Long Night Lords had their heads torn off while they were still alive. Their heads were hung from broken flagpoles.

"That Werewolf Tribe still hasn't withdrawn. They prowl beyond the defense zone and raid it from time to time at night."

The air in the tent was terrifyingly still. A tiny spark cracked in the incense burner.

"The Graymist Defense Zone has become their hunting ground. They lurk in the shadows beyond the line, gnawing on human bones and sharpening their teeth for the next Blood Moon Season."

Shien listened without so much as a hitch in his breathing. If anything, his ice-blue eyes grew calmer. Picking up on the bishop's words, he went straight to his second question.

"Then has the Church already given up on the Graymist Defense Zone in its overall plans for the war?

"Are we really just a buffer thrown out there to buy time during the Blood Moon Season?"

The smoke rising from the incense burner seemed to hang motionless in the air.

The creases at the corners of Castian's eyes twitched. As he stared at the boy, something shifted visibly in his gaze.

A fourteen-year-old boy had dared to tear away the Most Holy Church's glorious mantle right to its face.

After a brief silence, Castian spoke no more of faith or glory.

"In the Church's Sand Table projections, it has always been assumed that some defense zones will be swallowed. As long as the entire wall doesn't collapse at once, losing a few positions and a few Long Night Lords falls within acceptable losses.

"And right now, the Graymist Defense Zone is a rag stuffed into a hole."

The bishop's voice was calm to the point of cruelty.

"The Church won't station elite forces there for long. When the Blood Moon Season erupts in full and the werewolves tear open your camp gates, even if you write your plea for help in blood, the Church will do the sums first.

"How much Holy Oil will it take to save you? How many high-ranking knights? Are you worth it? If the answer is yes, only then will the Holy Knights' iron-shod hooves appear. If not...

"That letter will go into the hearth. Your only value will be to hold a few more monsters back before the Long Night swallows you."

With that, any fantasy of certain rescue by the Holy City Army was shattered.

Eric or Thomas would probably have crumbled by now. But Sheen still stood straight. In the face of that cold reality, he felt a rare clarity.

Now that the cards were on the table, Sheen no longer concealed the chill in his eyes.

"If this chess piece is destined to be discarded..." He looked Castian in the eye and asked his final question:

"How do I stay alive?"

Castian froze for an instant. A moment later, the old bishop, cold as he usually was, suddenly laughed.

"Hahaha... Hahaha!"

His laughter was rough, echoing through the spacious tent with a rare note of exhilaration.

When it finally faded, Castian's expression hardened again. He slowly raised the Holy Silver Scepter and pointed its tip at Sheen's chest.

"At the Eternal Night Wall, you could smash your forehead against the altar of holy fire, and you still wouldn't get a single knight from the Church.

"If you want to live, prove one thing to the governor: you're worth more alive than dead."

He paused before continuing. "I expect this year's Blood Moon Season to unfold in three stages.

"Early on, the packs will test us. The werewolves will send lesser monsters against the line to find its weakest points. Hold your position through that, and you'll earn attention.

"The middle stage is when the real war begins. The werewolves' main forces will move, and the tribes will fight one another over hunting grounds.

"If you can still hold Blackpine Fief then, with your flag still flying from its walls, your name will appear on the Holy City Army's list of battlefield reports."

Castian fixed Sheen with a cold, direct stare. "Only in the late stage will the Holy City Army be able to free forces from the core defense zones.

"Defense zones that have proved worth preserving will receive support from the knightly orders. They may even prompt a redeployment of forces along the entire line.

"So your goal is simple. Survive the early Blood Moon Season, then keep the werewolves from tearing you apart in the middle stage.

And in that time, create enough value for the Eternal Night Wall. Once what you contribute outweighs the cost of using you as cannon fodder, the Holy City Army will naturally appear.

"Make yourself a piece they can't easily throw away, and you'll survive."

The conversation was over. Castian waved a hand, dismissing Sheen.

Yet the bishop, who had always looked down on others, had already reassessed that name in his mind.

Sheen Greenwood.

Both the importance he placed on Sheen and the value he saw in using him had quietly risen several levels.

The tent's heavy flap was lifted, then fell shut again.

The morning wind swept across the wasteland and struck Sheen with bone-deep cold, instantly scattering the lingering warmth of the tent.

Shien stopped and looked back at the vast tent that symbolized the Church's power.

His path was clear now. In this world, being pitiable meant nothing. Only those with value could survive.

He had to seize every resource he could on this mad wasteland and carve out a path to survival by sheer force.

Whatever it took, he had to survive this year's Blood Moon Season.