Chapter 248: Chapter 248: Positions

Hendrik did not dignify that with an answer.

He only looked between them with the long-suffering expression of a man who had spent years managing dominant alphas, court politics, infected beasts, and now Dean’s private war against terminology.

“The convoy leaves in eight,” he said. “West gate first. Then south, north, and central ridge.”

Dean looked at the tablet again. “And the other teams?”

“Already moving.”

Across the operation map, the field unfolded in layered routes and disciplined colors.

South marked Saha’s position.

Nero’s unit was already outside the palace perimeter, green markers sliding along the lower ridge with frightening efficiency. Hale’s marker sat beside his, close enough to look like supervision and far enough to look like trust. Third Sahan Spear had not waited for the ceremony. They were hunting already, pushing toward the first corrupted movement reports along the eastern trench line, fast enough that the red clusters began thinning on the map before the Alaminan convoy had fully cleared the inner road.

Dean stared at the movement. “Nero is enjoying this.”

Hendrik’s face did not change. “Nero of Saha is effective.”

“That was not a denial.”

“It was the part the command cares about.”

Arion’s gaze lingered briefly on the southern line. “Hale will keep him contained.”

“Hale will keep him useful,” Hendrik corrected. “Contained is optimistic.”

Dean muttered, “Sahan child warfare. Terrible.”

The northern route glowed next.

Sebastian’s team had taken position along the advance line, pale blue markers spreading into a clean defensive fan. His flank moved slower than Nero’s, but with severe precision. No wasted angle. No theatrical speed. Every unit kept distance from the drainage cuts and dead groves, every scout layered behind a dominant screen.

Dean’s expression tightened.

No dominant omega marker sat beside his brother’s designation.

Arion noticed.

“Sebastian knows what he is doing,” he said quietly.

Dean’s mouth curved without humor. “Everyone keeps saying that right before making his route look like a punishment.”

Hendrik looked at him. “It is not punishment.”

“No?”

“It is pressure.”

Dean gave him a flat look. “Do commanders attend special schools where they learn to make worse words sound more professional?”

“Yes,” Hendrik said.

Arion’s mouth twitched.

Dean did not laugh.

The central ridge showed Thomas Lancaster’s team with Andrea’s marker close to the command core, their route cutting along the broken quarry line. Andrea’s dominant omega field had already been marked as an anchor point, the map showing soft stabilizing pulses around Thomas’s unit. Two other Alaminan teams were moving east and southeast, one under Commander Veyr and another under Captain Solan, both placed near suspected corrupted beast paths but farther from civilian routes.

Dean looked at the western marker again and felt his heartbeat settle into something sharper than nerves.

Hendrik closed the tablet. “Move.”

The palace had already changed by the time they reached the west gate.

Last night’s chandeliers, birthday music, silk, wine, and weaponized family affection had vanished as if the palace had swallowed them. In their place came sealed corridors, armored personnel, the sharp scent of disinfectant, field medics checking straps and injector cases, soldiers moving in quiet lines beneath old stone arches that hid modern scanners in their carved ribs.

Dean walked beside Arion, feeling the weight of his coat; the ammunition potential in every pebble underfoot once they reached open ground; and the strange, contained quiet of his own pheromones.

At the gate, the convoy waited: armored field vehicles with reinforced tires, sealed transport vans, drone crates, burn unit equipment, and containment squads in dark gear marked with West Flank bands.

Beyond the open gate, morning spread thin and cold over Alamina’s outer districts.

Dean first smelled smoke, then wet earth, and finally something sour underneath it, which was far away but not far enough.

His stomach tightened.

Arion stepped closer, not touching him. “Breathe.”

Dean gave him a look. “Do not start.”

“You stopped.”

“I paused aggressively.”

“Breathe aggressively, then.”

Dean hated that it worked. He inhaled.

The air was worse than in the palace but real. No curated perfume, no polished wood, and no court breath held under jewels. Just mud, metal, a pheromonal barrier, vehicle exhaust, and the distant rot of the infected zone.

A west-flank officer saluted. “Your Highnesses. West Point 2 is active. Pheromone wall holding at eighty-seven percent density.”

Dean’s gaze sharpened. “Where is the thinning?”

“Drainage cuts and orchard edge.”

“Of course.”

Arion pulled on his gloves. “Large beast movement?”

“Two corrupted clusters outside the restricted line. Scouts say one is moving south. The other is circling west.”

“Hunting the wall,” Dean said.

The officer looked at him.

Dean stared back. “What? They are.”

Hendrik’s voice came through the comm. “West team, depart.”

The convoy moved.

Dean sat in the armored vehicle beside Arion, hands resting on his knees, watching the city change through reinforced glass. Civilians stood behind temporary barriers and sealed checkpoints, faces turned toward the military road. Some held children. Some held bags. Some held nothing and looked like they had run out of things to carry before they ran out of fear.

Dean looked away first.

Arion did not.

His expression had gone still in the way Dean had learned meant the prince was placing every visible person into the part of his mind where duty became personal.

“Do not make that face,” Dean said.

Arion’s eyes shifted to him. “What face?”

“The face where you decide to carry the entire district on your spine.”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. “You recognized it?”

“I am suffering from exposure.”

The vehicle crossed the last civilian barrier.

The pheromone wall rose ahead.

It was not visible in the way that people imagined walls to be: stone, light, or a grand shining arc of power. It shimmered in the air like a thin layer of heat distortion stretched across the road and fields, pressing against Dean’s skin as they approached. Dominant pheromones woven into a barrier pattern, reinforced by emitters and field anchors, designed to repel corrupted beasts and confuse infected scent trails.

Dean’s neutralization ability stirred under his skin, recognizing the pressure like a hand hovering over a flame.

Arion’s gaze snapped to him. “Dean.”

“I know.”

The vehicle stopped at West Point two.

Doors opened.

The field hit him.

Cold air. Rot. Wet grass. Metal. Pheromone pressure thick enough to taste.

In the distance, beyond the shimmering wall, something moved between the dead trees of the orchard line.

Large shapes, wrong at the joints, dark fur matted with pale fungal growth. They paced outside the barrier, heads low, as if listening.

Above the drainage cuts, tiny black specks moved in uneven clouds.

Dean’s mouth went dry.

Zombie mosquitoes.

A containment officer cursed softly.

Arion stepped out first.

The field changed around him at once.

Not because he unleashed power wildly, but because every soldier nearby sensed the presence of a dominant alpha who belonged to command. His pheromones stayed leashed, but his presence settled over the west flank like a drawn blade.

Dean stepped out after him.

For one second, no one moved.

Then the western team adjusted around him, not quite looking, but aware.

The dominant omega on his first field deployment.

The one-meter failsafe.

The plug in the hole.

Dean lifted his chin.

“Readings,” Arion ordered.

A technician answered immediately. “Wall density at eighty-four. Insect movement increasing at the drainage cut.”

Dean looked down.

Pebbles lay scattered near his boots. Broken concrete. Glass dust from an old shattered road sign. Dry splinters from the barricade repairs.

His fingers flexed once.

The nearest pebble lifted from the ground.

Then it compressed with a sharp crack into something darker, denser, and lethal enough to punch through bone.

Arion saw it.

His mouth curved faintly.

Dean did not look at him. “Do not praise me.”

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