Chapter 244: Chapter 244: Battlefield

Nero’s purple eyes lifted.

The smile remained.

“I will make sure the world wears him down to the point his only chance is to be my mate.”

Hale wasn’t surprised. He had been in rooms where Dax smiled before violence. He had watched Chris brought to Saha under circumstances no saint would have survived with clean hands. He knew kings did not build countries by being soft, and he knew love did not always arrive dressed as mercy.

So Hale did not recoil.

He only studied Nero with the calm of a man measuring how much time until the explosion was left.

“That is a dangerous plan,” he said.

Nero shrugged. “It can be. But Sebastian would become wary and recoil the moment we were placed in the same division or team.”

Hale said nothing.

That, from him, was agreement enough.

Nero looked down at the map again, the thin blue lines of the northern route and the red infection clusters blinking beneath the glass. “Hendrik asked this year for one dominant alpha in each team. Arion had to deal with three separate incidents of infected beasts outside the peak of the season, and if that pattern holds, we may be looking at a larger number of corrupted beasts than expected.”

Hale’s expression sharpened. “Confirmed?”

“Not fully.” Nero moved his gaze to the window, as if the glass had become terrain and the morning light had turned into the field itself. “But enough to plan for it.”

The room went quieter.

There were different types of silence, some caused by wounds, others by war. This one was the second.

Nero’s voice lost the last decorative edge of the gala. “There are also indications that the infection may now transmit through insects.”

Hale’s face changed.

“It won’t affect dominants or strong secondary genders in the same way,” Nero continued. “Their pheromone systems burn through the exposure before it can root properly, or at least that is the current theory. But beta soldiers in that area are out of the question. Auxiliary personnel too, unless they’re placed behind sealed perimeters with filtered routes.”

Hale stepped closer to the map. “Who knows?”

“Hendrik. Otto. Arion. Saha’s field science team. Alamina’s biological containment unit.” Nero’s mouth curved without humor. “And whatever poor people have been awake for the last five nights trying to decide whether insects count as an act of war, a natural mutation, or the gods developing a worse sense of humor.”

Hale did not smile.

Nero had not expected him to.

“Countermeasures?” Hale asked.

“Still ugly.” Nero tapped the southern ridge. “Dominant-led units remain viable. Strong omegas can stabilize pheromone saturation, but we do not have enough of them to scatter across every camp. Containment curtains work in base camps, not during field movement. Burning the infected clusters helps, but if insects are involved, fire only solves the visible part.”

“And Dean?”

Nero’s eyes flicked up.

“Scientists from Saha and Alamina are working with strands of Dean’s DNA,” Nero said. “Trying to isolate the mechanism behind that neutralizing radius of his.”

“One meter,” Hale said.

“One meter,” Nero confirmed. “Limited, but ridiculous. His ability can flatten pheromone activity inside that radius without destroying the person producing it. If they can mimic even a fraction of it, field containment changes.”

“Timeline?”

“Next year, at best. And only in controlled situations.” Nero’s gaze returned to the map. “No battlefield deployment. No broad aerosol. No miracle.”

Hale exhaled once through his nose.

The insect transmission theory made the season uglier. Not because dominant units would collapse first, but because logistics would. The cooks, drivers, field mechanics, medics, relay staff, carriers, handlers, and runners. The people wars were forgotten until they vanished and everything stopped working.

A beast could be killed.

A supply chain eaten from the inside by tiny infected wings was another matter.

Nero turned back to Hale fully.

“I might be revengeful and want my mate,” he said. “But these fights are still depending on us.”

Hale held his gaze.

For once, he did not correct the word mate.

Perhaps because it was ugly.

Perhaps because it was true.

Perhaps because Hale had stood beside Dax long enough to know there were men who chose with their teeth first and their conscience later, and that did not always make them useless. Sometimes it only meant they needed a better map.

“I know,” Hale said.

Nero’s smile returned faintly. “Good. I was beginning to worry you thought I came to Alamina only to suffer artistically.”

“You do enjoy suffering artistically.”

“I enjoy multitasking.”

“This season will not tolerate distraction.”

“I know.”

“No,” Hale said, his voice hardening. “You know the facts. I need you to understand the priority.”

Nero’s expression cooled.

Hale touched the map. “If insect transmission is confirmed, the southern line becomes a containment problem before it becomes a combat problem. We cannot rely on beta support. We cannot rotate weak secondary genders into exposed zones. We cannot allow supply teams to move without dominant escort or sealed transport.”

Nero nodded once. “Which means dominant alphas become the skeleton of the field.”

“Yes.”

“And dominant omegas become strategic anchors.”

“Yes.”

“And Sebastian being unpaired is no longer only politically ugly. It is operationally stupid.”

Hale did not answer.

Nero laughed softly. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The part where politics did half my work before I arrived.”

Hale’s eyes narrowed. “Do not enjoy this too much.”

“I am not enjoying the infection.”

“I know.”

“I am enjoying the fact that every person who treated dominant omegas like hoarded jewels and bargaining chips now has to explain why their battlefield structure is full of holes.”

“That enjoyment is allowed,” Hale said. “Briefly.”

“How generous.”

“Then you return to work.”

Nero leaned over the map, the white-blond fall of his hair sliding forward as he studied the relay lines. “Strengthen the southern ridge. Keep Sahan units mobile. No beta auxiliaries past the second perimeter. Sealed movement for supplies. Fire control near insect clusters, but no broad burn until Alamina confirms wind direction and secondary exposure risk.”

Hale’s mouth curved.

“Good,” he said.

Nero looked at him. “That sounded like approval.”

“It was.”

“I feel uncomfortable.”

“Endure it.”

Nero smiled, but his gaze had already moved back to the northern line.

Sebastian’s marker sat pale and distant.

Nero’s smile thinned.

“I won’t cross the line,” he said.

Hale watched him.

“But I will make sure the line around him does not collapse,” Nero continued. “Not for him. For the campaign.”

“For the campaign,” Hale repeated.

They both knew that was only partly true.

They also both knew it was true enough to stand.

Nero tapped the relay node between the southern and northern corridors. “Show me what resources we can move here without making Hendrik ask why Saha is suddenly so generous.”

Hale adjusted the projection.

The map widened, revealing supply reserves, mobile filtration units, reinforced tents, aerial scouts, and two Sahan burn teams currently marked as optional support.

Nero’s eyes sharpened.

“There,” he said. “Move one burn team near the relay.”

“That will be noticed.”

“Good. Let them notice preparedness.”

“And the second?”

“Hold south. If insects are confirmed, we need rapid response before panic reaches camp.”

Hale nodded.

Nero studied the map for another moment, then pointed toward a thin gray line running between two low ridges. “That path. Is it used?”

“Old maintenance route.”

“Seal it.”

“It leads toward northern support.”

“Exactly. If insects are traveling low and following scent activity or heat, abandoned paths become conduits. Seal it or burn the brush before the first rotation.”

Hale made a note.

Nero’s expression settled into something almost calm.

Only the ugly, necessary work of making sure fewer people died than the season intended to take.

Hale glanced at him. “You are focused now.”

Nero did not look away from the map. “I was always focused.”

“No. You were angry.”

“I am still angry.”

“Good,” Hale said. “Use it properly.”

Nero’s mouth curved.

“You know,” Nero said, “for a man guarding my birthing father, you are surprisingly tolerant of questionable motives.”

Hale’s gaze stayed on the map. “Questionable motives win wars if disciplined. Pure motives kill people when unmanaged.”

Nero laughed, low and genuine this time.

“I like you.”

“I will survive.”

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