The midnight swamp air gradually cooled, dropping to its lowest temperature of the day. Even the wind blowing through the hollow had grown much cooler.
Veylin handed Ola a small vial of pale green liquid.
"[Glimmer Potion]. Hold it under your tongue, and for the next hour, you'll be able to see like a cat."
Ora Stonebeard took the vial, his thick fingers making it look especially slender.
He pulled out the wooden stopper and poured the potion into his mouth. A bitter, metallic taste immediately spread across his tongue.
The darkness before his eyes receded, and the world became a black-and-white drawing composed of sharp lines.
Yet his unease only grew.
He leaned toward Veylin, his lowered voice rumbling like a rolling millstone. "Veylin, I have to say, something's wrong with your plan. These two hundred Baldur Dung Beetles are elite, heavily armored units, and you're using them as a sideshow? That's like trying to blow a construction hammer like a whistle! The right way to use them is to concentrate all our forces, follow me, and smash straight through a single point! We'll only have a chance if we tear open a breach!"
In his philosophy of war, elite troops belonged at the heart of the decisive assault, like a red-hot blade plunged into the enemy's softest underbelly.
Veylin did not turn around. His monocular remained trained on the entrance to the valley.
"Ola, all you need to do is trust my judgment. Then, when it's time to swing your Warhammer, give it everything you have."
Those calm words shut down all of Ola's complaints.
He could only turn his gaze toward the darkness, inwardly cursing. If the plan failed, he swore he would crack Veylin's skull open with his Warhammer and see whether it held wisdom or