The stench of damp earth and stale magic clung to Robin’s tunic, a grim souvenir from the skirmish. Rain had ceased hours ago, but the ground beneath their boots remained a slick, treacherous mud, churned by frantic retreats and desperate charges. Frederick, ever the pragmatist, had called for camp as the last rays of a weary sun bled into the horizon. They were still too close to Plegian territory, the air thick with an unspoken tension that made every rustle of leaves sound like an approaching enemy. Robin watched as Lissa and Sully worked on pitching a tent, their movements efficient despite their evident exhaustion. Gaius was already sifting through their meager rations, probably eyeing the honey. Everyone moved with a quiet weariness, the kind that follows a battle fought and lost, even if it wasn't a total rout. Frederick approached Robin, his armor still splattered with mud, his expression grave. “He’s over there,” the knight said, his voice a low rumble. He gestured with his chin towards a jagged outcrop of rock a short distance from the nascent camp. Chrom sat hunched, his elbows on his knees, head bowed. Even from here, the slump of his shoulders spoke volumes. “He hasn’t moved since we stopped,” Frederick continued, a sigh escaping him. “The losses… they weigh heavily. More than they should have, considering the objective.” Robin’s stomach tightened. The objective. The intelligence had been flawed, the Plegian defenses far stronger than predicted. He had accounted for variables, run simulations in his mind countless times, but some unknown factor, some shadow in the data, had led them astray. His strategy had failed. “He trusts your counsel, Robin,” Frederick said, his gaze firm. “Perhaps a word from you.” Robin nodded, the gesture feeling heavy. He adjusted the satchel on his hip, the familiar weight of his tome offering no comfort tonight. His mind already replayed the day's events, searching for the exact moment his carefully constructed plan had unraveled. He walked towards Chrom, each step sinking slightly into the mud, a mirror to the sinking feeling in his gut. The chill of the evening wind did little to clear his head, only making the fatigue more pronounced. Chrom did not look up as Robin approached, not even when the mud squelched a foot from him. The silence was thick, heavier than any armor. Robin settled onto a patch of drier ground near him, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. He searched for the right words, the ones that might ease the chieftain’s burden, or at least share it. He found none. --- “The attack on the supply lines,” Chrom finally spoke, his voice rough, devoid of its usual warmth. “It was supposed to be swift. Surgical.” He lifted his head, and the disappointment carved into his features was a physical blow. “We lost three good men. And for what? A handful of spoiled grain and a cart that was already broken.” The words were precise, each one landing with the brutal accuracy of a well-aimed arrow. Robin’s breath hitched. He felt a sharp, sudden pain behind his eyes, a dull throb that pulsed with Chrom’s every word. He closed them for a moment, trying to re-center himself, to push past the sudden discomfort. “The intelligence was faulty, Chrom,” Robin managed, his voice sounding thinner than he intended. “My projections were based on the Plegian garrison reports. They must have reinforced without our knowledge, or perhaps deliberately misled us.” Chrom scoffed, a bitter sound. “Or perhaps the strategy itself was… complacent. We walked right into an ambush, Robin. A textbook Plegian trap. How did we not see it?” His gaze was unwavering, piercing. It felt like an accusation, not a question. The implied failure of his intellect, his core worth. Robin’s mind spun, replaying the maps, the troop movements, the terrain. He had considered every angle, every contingency. Hadn’t he? He prided himself on his foresight, his ability to anticipate, to outmaneuver. To be caught so flat-footed… it gnawed at him, a relentless rodent in his skull. The pain behind his eyes intensified, spreading through his temples like hairline fractures. “I… I miscalculated,” Robin admitted, the words a raw confession. He knew the risks. He knew the costs. Yet, he had still failed. The weight of those three lost lives settled on his chest, pressing down, suffocating him. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, digging his nails into his palms as if to anchor himself. His vision blurred at the edges, the muddy ground seeming to swim before him. “A miscalculation we couldn’t afford,” Chrom said, his voice dropping, heavy with fatigue and sorrow. “Three families will mourn tonight because of it.” The blame settled, heavy and undeniable. Robin felt a sudden, dizzying lurch. The world tilted. He tried to focus on a loose stone near Chrom’s boot, but it danced and wavered. A wave of nausea swept over him, cold sweat blooming on his forehead despite the chill in the air. He tasted something metallic, coppery and warm, at the back of his throat. He swallowed, trying to clear it, but the taste lingered, growing stronger. --- The metallic taste became a torrent. Robin’s hand flew to his nose as a sudden, violent gush erupted, hot and sticky, staining his fingers crimson. He choked, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his head swam. The world around him spun violently, a kaleidoscope of blurred mud and flickering campfires. “Robin?” Chrom’s voice was distant, laced with alarm, suddenly cutting through the fog of pain. He rose to his feet, a hand reaching out, but Robin was already tipping. The ground rushed up to meet him with terrifying speed, a dizzying ascent into darkness. The fall was less of a crash and more of a crumple. His knees buckled, sending him sprawling face-first into the cold, damp earth. The impact jarred his teeth, a dull ache reverberating through his skull. He tried to push himself up, to force his limbs to obey, but his muscles felt like lead. A tremor ran through him, a violent shiver that had nothing to do with the evening chill. His vision narrowed to a pinprick, the light fading rapidly. He heard shouts, indistinct and muffled, as if from a great distance. He felt hands on him, shaking him, but his body refused to respond. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, thick and cloying. Then, the darkness consumed him entirely. Chrom knelt beside him, shouting his name, his voice strained with panic. Frederick was there too, his usually stoic face etched with concern. Lissa, her healing staff clutched tight, pushed through the small crowd that had gathered. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear as she saw the blood smeared across Robin’s face, soaking into the mud around him. Frederick checked Robin’s pulse, his brow furrowed. “He’s unconscious, Chrom. What happened?” Chrom shook his head, looking helplessly at Robin’s limp form. “He just… collapsed. After he started bleeding from his nose. He was talking about miscalculations…” His voice trailed off, guilt shadowing his features. He had been harsh, too harsh. But this… this was beyond any emotional wound. --- Lissa’s hands trembled as she pressed her staff against Robin’s chest, a soft, ethereal light blooming from the head of the ornate wood. The familiar warmth of her magic usually spread quickly, soothing wounds, mending bones, chasing away fever. But tonight, it felt… wrong. The light pulsed weakly, struggling to penetrate the strange, heavy darkness that seemed to cling to Robin. It was like trying to shine a torch into a bottomless well. She chanted the healing incantations, her voice a frantic whisper, but the words felt hollow. The light flared brighter, then flickered, barely illuminating the blood-streaked mud on Robin’s face. His skin was unnaturally cold, his breathing shallow and ragged. She felt no outward wound, no obvious injury that her staff could mend. Yet, something was profoundly wrong, something deep within him, beyond the reach of her most potent spells. Frederick knelt beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Lissa? Is he… will he be alright?” Her lower lip trembled. She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I… I don’t understand it. My magic… it’s not taking. It’s like there’s nothing for it to heal, but he’s fading. The darkness… it’s inside him.” Her voice broke, a small sob escaping her. She pressed harder, pouring every ounce of her aether into the spell, willing it to work, to break through whatever invisible barrier held Robin captive. The staff pulsed again, a last, desperate surge of golden light that shimmered, then died, leaving the scene shrouded in deeper shadows. Lissa stared at Robin’s still face, her own reflection mirrored in the pooling blood, utterly helpless. The familiar comfort of her healing power had deserted her, leaving only a cold, gnawing fear. A figure stepped from the deeper shadows beyond the circle of concern. Tharja. She moved with her characteristic silent glide, her dark robes seeming to drink the dim light. Her eyes, usually hidden beneath her hood, were visible now, glinting with an unnerving, knowing glint. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk twisted her lips as she surveyed Robin’s unconscious form, the blood, and Lissa’s failing magic. She knelt, not touching him, but hovering inches away, her gaze intense. Her voice, a low, sibilant whisper, cut through the panicked silence. “The Llanto de Sombra. It begins.”

A Strategist's Collapse