The Reluctant Strategist

Rain pounded on the ancient wooden door, a ceaseless rhythm against the background of the roaring wind. A form draped in a faded gray cloak, its hood drawn down, lingered on the doorstep, the rain flowing over it like a tiny waterfall. The phoenix emblem embroidered on the chest, once bright crimson and gold, had now become a blurred mark, barely visible in the pouring rain.

The person lifted a gloved hand, with white knuckles against the damp leather, and rapped on the door. The storm swallowed the sound, engulfing it in the symphony of wind and rain. A short pause, followed by another knock, this time stronger and more urgent.

Within the house, the wavering light of a lone candle created elongated, moving shadows on the walls. A man, with his receding dark hair at the temples and black spectacles resting on his nose, glanced through a gap in the door. With suspicion, he scanned the figure on the porch through narrowed eyes.

"Who is that?" His tired and rough voice cut through the wind.

The person on the porch stayed quiet for a moment, then pushed the hood back a little, showing a tired face marked with stress, the skin creased with worry lines that grew more pronounced because of the heavy storm. Rain flowed down his untidy face, blending with the smudges of dirt covering his cheeks.

"The figure croaked, his voice hoarse and tense, "It's Corvus." Corvus from the Tenth Legion.

The man standing by the door became still. He quickly scanned the figure with his eyes, looking for any possible threats hiding in the shadows. The storm appeared to be silent, with only the constant patter of rain breaking the stillness.

Eventually, following a nervous moment, the door slowly opened a bit more, exposing a glimpse of the poorly lit room beyond.

"Corvus?" The man's voice was barely a whisper, laced with disbelief. "What brings you here in this weather?"

Corvus met his gaze, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. "I need your help, Silas. It's urgent."

A sudden burst of wind forcefully closed the door as Corvus walked into Silas's house. The atmosphere within was heavy with the aroma of aged books and a subtle herbal scent that teased Corvus's nostrils. Looking tired, he glanced around the room and noticed the messy desk filled with scrolls, the old tapestries showing battles, and the only candle providing light in the small area.

"Silas," Corvus rasped, his voice hoarse from the journey. "Thank you for seeing me on such a night."

Silas frowned while keeping the door slightly open. He guided Corvus deeper into the chamber, his eyes fixed on the emblem adorning the warton cloak. "Corvus," he said again, with a careful curiosity evident in his voice. "It has been some time." Why has a Phoenix Legionnaire come to my simple home, particularly in this dreadful storm?

Corvus collapsed into a wobbly chair next to the table, his cloak gathering around his feet like a puddle of rainwater. Running his hand through his sweaty hair, he left a dark streak on his forehead. "Its the state of Decaoria, Silas," he spoke in a low and deep voice. "Three cycles have gone by since the Vor'talons arrived. Three cycles filled with oppression and hardship. There are people who are hungry and a rebellion is starting to form-"

"And you think I can fix it?" Silas interrupted, his voice sharp. "I'm a scholar, Corvus, not a soldier. My battles are fought with ink and quill, not steel and blood."

Corvus slammed the desk with his fist, causing the sound to reverberate in the room. The flame of the candle danced unsteadily. "Silas, leadership is a necessity! We require a planner, a strategist who can combat the chaos brought about by the Vor'talons". He leaned in closer, his eyes filled with intense desperation. "That is the reason I've come." I have gathered what remains of the Tenth Legion. We're getting ready. However, Silas, your mind is the kind we require. We require your presence."

Silas gazed at him with an expression on his face was indecipherable. A lengthy and uneasy silence lingered between them, broken only by the steady beat of rain on the roof.

In the end, Silas firmly shook his head, speaking with determination. "No, Corvus. I appreciate the offer, but I've seen enough bloodshed. I won't contribute to it anymore."

Corvus's spirits dropped as his shoulders sagged in surrender. His face showed deeper lines of disappointment compared to those caused by tiredness. "But Silas," he begged, "innocent people are losing their lives. We require a source of hope, someone to lead us out of this darkness."

Silas's expression became gentler, showing a mix of empathy and determination. "Corvus, there are always alternative methods of combat. Methods that do not involve shedding blood."

Corvus laughed derisively. "What use does strategy have without action? The Vor'talons cannot be overcome by words written on paper!"

Silas sighed upon noticing the simmering frustration in Corvus's eyes. He understood the man's suffering, the urgent urge to defend what was just. However, Silas was unable to muster the courage to return to the battlefield. He had already lost too many things.

Corvus stood up from the chair with a feeling of sadness. "Very well, Silas," he whispered, with a hint of defeat in his voice. However, bear in mind that the storm will not cease on its own. A spark is required to start the change."

Turning to the door, his cloak fluttered out behind him. He stopped and glanced at Silas before touching the doorknob. "Silas, there are others who recall your brilliance. Others who may be more open to your... approaches."

After that, Corvus opened the door and retreated back into the storm. The wind howled loudly, grabbing his words and carrying them off.

Silas observed his departure, feeling a rush of sadness come over him. He was aware that Corvus was correct. The storm would not cease by itself. Returning to the conflict was not the solution for him.

Silas made his way to a small, wooden cage that was nestled in the corner of the room. Within, a dark crow squawked restlessly. Silas carefully reached out and caressed its feathers. He skillfully attached a small scroll to the crow's leg and softly spoke a message into its ear.

After ruffling its feathers, the crow flew out of the window and vanished into the stormy night. Silas observed as it departed, a small glimmer of hope flickering in his dark gaze. He considered that maybe there was still a possible method to help in the conflict, a method that didn't require being on the battlefield. Perhaps the raging storm could be calmed, not with flames, but with a carefully spoken word.