The council in Korosten took place in the old city hall—the same one where, during the civil war, alliances had been forged, and the fates of entire districts decided. The stone walls held the cold despite the fire burning in wrought braziers. Tall, narrow windows overlooked the square, where crowds had gathered—no one dispersed, waiting for news. The air smelled of smoke, wax, and anxiety.

  Representatives from every settlement had been summoned—from Korosten itself all the way to Mosun. Rumors of a vast enemy army had spread faster than riders. They spoke of tens of thousands of dark banners, of monsters from the depths of the forest. No one knew anymore where truth ended, and panic began—so everyone came. Better a bitter truth than a sweet lie.

  The mayor of Mosun had arrived as well, with a full delegation. It was obvious he hadn’t slept. His people stood close together, whispering, trying not to show fear.

  Atrion stepped forward. He did not hurry. He waited for silence—that dull, strained silence in which the resin in the brazier could be heard cracking. He began at the beginning: how he had received orders from Serain, how the forces were assembled, what decisions had been made in the field. He spoke without embellishment—about the march, the clashes on the approaches to the Black Forest, about the battle at its edge. About the losses. About the fact that the enemy was neither legend nor exaggeration.

  When he described the clash with the Vishaps, the hall grew even quieter. Some crossed themselves. Others clenched their fists.

  The guests listened carefully. Their questions were restrained, to the point. No one shouted—everyone understood that panic would be worse than defeat. In the king’s absence, the mercenaries were holding the line and maintaining control. And that unsettled everyone: they were the shield, but not the authority.

  When Atrion finished his report, Olaf slowly rose. His voice was calm, but steel rang beneath it:

  “What actions do we plan next? Where will the enemy go? If, as you say, they lack the means to besiege Korosten, what will they do? Go around us? Burn everything nearby to draw us out?”

  All eyes turned automatically toward the mayor of Mosun.

  Atrion had expected that question. It was precisely why he had gathered them all here, beneath these cold vaults. Because the decisions he was about to voice were harsh. Unpleasant. And for someone—fatal.

  Especially for Mosun.

  Mosun was a large city, the third largest in the kingdom. Not merely a point on the map, but a node where rivers, roads, and ambitions converged. It had been built at the confluence of two full-flowing rivers, and by those waterways one could reach the capital, Korosten, and even Hariv.

  The rise of Hariv only increased its importance: streams of goods—grain, metal, timber, glass—flowed through Mosun. Merchants from the south and east never bypassed its docks. The harbor roared day and night, and the warehouses expanded faster than the suburbs.

  But Mosun’s strength was not only trade.

  The landscape around the city was almost treacherous in its logic. From Mosun, a convenient road opened deep into Ceredan and further toward the capital. But an advance from the capital toward Mosun ran into narrow crossings, marshy lowlands, and rises that gave defenders advantageous ground.

  That was what had once helped Serain win the civil war. And that was why, once he took the crown, he did not try to strangle the city with control. On the contrary, he left it broad autonomy, invested funds, and strengthened its fortifications. He understood perfectly: if Mosun were not made an ally, one day it would become an enemy.

  Its mayor, Iraktiy, was the de facto ruler of these lands. He had extended his influence far east of the Leshana River, bringing a few villages under his control. And he had not limited himself to administrative power—he ordered a fortress built outside the city to take the first blow before the enemy ever saw the city walls.

  In the hall, when Atrion rose to speak again, Iraktiy sat upright, not looking away.

  “Until recently,” Atrion began evenly, “we believed that the Rejected had only two options: either attempt a siege of Korosten or strike the mountain clans. But according to the latest intelligence, the marshes between Bila Varta and the villages near Mosun are no longer impassable.”

  The hall stirred.

  “What does that mean?” came at once from several sides.

  “After the destruction of Bila Varta, the marshes were our shield!” someone from Mosun’s delegation added.

  Atrion nodded.

  “That was true. But in recent years, the clans laid a road there for their own purposes. Quietly. Narrow—but passable for an army. If the Rejected find it, they’ll need no more than two days to reach the city.”

  The silence grew heavy, almost physical.

  “Then we must prepare,” one of Mosun’s representatives answered sharply. “Reinforce the defense of Korets. Move additional forces there from neighboring towns. If the blow comes, it must break there.”

  Korets was a fortress near Mosun. Ceredan’s stronghold in those lands is a node binding the surrounding villages under its authority. It had been built as the first barrier against the mountain clans. It was meant to take the first strike if they ever tried to break from the mountains into the valleys again.

  But now the threat was not coming from the mountains.

  The Mosun delegation rose to its feet. In their eyes was not only anger, but despair. Because if the road through the marshes existed, Mosun was no longer a fortress. It was a target.

  Atrion did not soften his words.

  “Unfortunately, Korets would be doomed. It was not built to withstand an army of that scale. Holding the line is not a strategy. It’s a delay of a few hours at the cost of the entire garrison.”

  A murmur swept through the hall.

  “Without Korets, our city is doomed!” someone from the delegation shouted. “Mosun is a trade city. It doesn’t have walls like Korosten! The Rejected won’t even need trebuchets to take it!”

  “You have a river,” Atrion shot back. “A great one. Deep. Fast. A natural barrier is better than any wall—if used properly.”

  The people of Mosun understood where he was leading. And it enraged them.

  “You want to abandon our eastern quarters?”

  “There are warehouses there! Craftsmen!”

  “And the villages? The fields?”

  Questions poured out without order. Voices overlapped. Some were no longer listening to answers—only speaking, shouting over one another. The council was sliding into chaos.

  When meaning began to drown in shouting, Iraktiy rose.

  “Silence!” His voice cracked across the hall like a whip. “You’re impossible to listen to!”

  The silence returned instantly.

  Iraktiy turned his gaze to Atrion.

  “So you’re proposing we abandon the eastern part of the city to the enemy and defend only the western bank?”

  “Yes,” Atrion replied without hesitation. “I see no other option.”

  “And our villages on that side?” The mayor’s voice turned cold. “We’ve invested in them for years. Bought loyalty. Built roads. Raised fortifications.”

  “Evacuate them,” Atrion said. “You’ll have three—maybe four—days. Take the people, the livestock, the supplies. Burn what you can’t move. My men will handle the city’s defense and assist with the crossings.”

  A wave of tension rolled through the hall again.

  Iraktiy narrowed his eyes.

  “And what will Serain say? You have no right to surrender part of the kingdom without his decision. This could be your last order.”

  Atrion did not look away.

  “I’ll deal with that myself. If we don’t stop the Rejected at Mosun, there won’t be anyone left to give orders.”

  There was no pathos in it. Just a fact.

  The pause stretched.

  “Very well,” Iraktiy finally said. “We’ll begin evacuation immediately.”

  “My men will be in your city by tomorrow evening,” Atrion nodded. “And for now—”

  The doors of the hall burst open so violently that several delegates flinched. A mercenary ran in, dust-covered, breathless.

  “Atrion! Atrion! Syra, Naelis, and Skeld have returned from captivity!”

  For a moment, Atrion simply stared at him, as if he hadn’t understood what he’d heard. The words refused to form meaning. Then—a sharp breath. All the mercenaries in the hall rose at once. Chairs scraped against stone. Balrek was already moving toward the exit.

  Atrion gave a brief nod to those present.

  “The session is over. Prepare your people.”

  And without adding anything more, he left the hall. The weight of war receded for a second.

  Because some news weighs more than cities.

  A few hours before.

  Morning at the edge of the Black Forest was damp and cold. Mist lay low, clinging to roots, sliding between trunks, as if the forest itself did not wish to witness what was about to happen.

  The Rejected and the Vishaps had taken their places for the duel before dawn. They formed a wide semicircle, leaving open ground in the center—an arena. No one stood too close to the cliff. Even they respected the depth that blackened beyond the edge.

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  The arena’s boundaries were crude and accidental: fallen logs, overturned carts, broken crates, debris dragged here by war. On the other side—the maw of the abyss. The ground sloped toward it, slick with morning dew. At the very edge stood an old wooden fence. Once, it might have saved an unwary traveler from falling. Now the boards were rotten, the posts leaning. It stood only because no one had touched it for years.

  Skeld, Syra, and Naelis sat nearby. They were allowed to watch. Allowed—but not freed. They were placed beneath a broad tree, in shadow, with several guards beside them. Formally—guests. In truth—hostages.

  Skeld was silent, staring at the arena. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, as if gripping the haft of an invisible axe. Syra kept her eyes on the cliff’s edge—measuring the slope, the distances, the weak points. Habit. Naelis watched the crowd. She was not interested in the warriors, but in their faces.

  The Oaken were there as well. They stood a little apart from the prisoners, not mixing with the Rejected, yet not distancing themselves too openly. Karasel studied the center of the arena carefully, as if trying to foresee each movement before it happened.

  On the opposite side, standing apart from everyone else, was Varek with his clan. His men did not hide their stance—hands on hilts, shoulders squared. It was clear who he supported.

  The Rejected and the Vishaps pretended not to notice.

  Today, rules mattered more than grudges.

  Today, the duel would be decided.

  Rianes already stood at the edge of the makeshift arena. Calm. Collected. His cloak stirred slightly in the morning wind. He did not study the crowd—he looked only ahead, into the mist from which Hukan would emerge.

  He was ready.

  In the tent, a few dozen steps from the cliff, Hukan silently tightened the straps of his armor. The metal clicked dully. The air inside was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and blood that hadn’t yet faded from earlier fights.

  Beside him stood Ranuver and Sivash.

  “All this noise over a handful of mercenaries,” Sivash sneered, watching Hukan adjust his bracers.

  “How many do you think they lost in that battle?” Ranuver asked calmly.

  “No idea. Two thousand?”

  Ranuver shook his head.

  “A bit less. Around nine hundred dead. And another four hundred severely or moderately wounded. Most of them are in our custody.”

  Sivash let out a low whistle.

  “For them, that’s serious. One more battle like that—and mercenary work as a profession simply disappears.”

  “And us?” Ranuver looked straight at him. “What do you think?”

  “No idea. Five thousand? I remind you—Suggestion is my trade. Numbers are yours.”

  Ranuver answered without pause.

  “Over eight thousand dead. Six thousand wounded. Of those, four thousand will never return to the battlefield.”

  Silence filled the tent.

  Hukan froze for a moment, his hand hovering over a buckle. The losses were too high—especially considering the small number of mercenaries they had faced. It didn’t fit the logic of strength.

  “So what does that make it?” Sivash said slowly. “One to ten? Impressive numbers.”

  “Those aren’t numbers,” Ranuver snapped. “They’re our brothers and sisters.”

  Sivash smiled coldly.

  “Yours. I’m not one of you.”

  A moment of tension hung between them. Even the air seemed thicker.

  Sivash turned sharply and headed for the exit. At the flap of the tent, he stopped and glanced back at Hukan.

  “I hope you deal with him. So we don’t have to have conversations like this again.”

  He stepped out into the cold of morning.

  Hukan remained inside for another second. Then he drew a deep breath, took off his helmet, and walked toward Rianes. Toward duty. And toward numbers that would no longer change.

  By the time Sivash vanished beyond the tent flap, Hukan had finished preparing. No unnecessary words. He picked up his helmet, tested his grip on his weapon, and, together with Ranuver, moved toward the arena.

  When they emerged from the mist, the fighters greeted them with a thunderous roar. Metal struck metal; swords and spears rose into the air. A dull rumble rolled along the edge of the Black Forest, as if the forest itself were answering the challenge.

  At the center stood Rianes.

  He was not looking at the crowd, nor at his opponent, but at the maw. As always, it was swallowed in thick fog. Impossible to see where the edge truly ended, or what waited below. Only white emptiness.

  The maw, like the Black Forest, was a boundary where the map of the world simply stopped. Beyond it—only conjecture, fear, and legend.

  Hukan raised his weapon, rallying his own. The roar intensified.

  Rianes, however, calmly shifted his gaze to Skeld, Syra, and Naelis beneath the tree. They looked as if they were watching an ordinary training bout. No shouting. No agitation. Only focus.

  That mattered more than any roar of the crowd.

  They took their positions.

  Hukan began to say something—perhaps formal words, perhaps a threat or an oath.

  Rianes didn’t listen. He moved first.

  The lunge was so sudden that the crowd didn’t even have time to react. The strike came with full force, no probing. Hukan managed to parry at the last instant—metal shrieked so sharply that several spectators flinched.

  Had he been less experienced, it would have ended in those first seconds.

  Hukan stepped back half a pace, absorbed the momentum, and answered with a series of blows. One. Two. Three. Four. He tried to crush him with tempo, with strength, with weight.

  Rianes didn’t retreat far. He caught the strikes on his blade, slipped aside, shortened the distance, and answered with sudden, sharp thrusts.

  For every four attacks from the Vishap, the mercenary returned one—but one that forced Hukan to twist his guard sharply to a new angle.

  Rianes constantly tried to get behind him. Step—turn—shift. His movements were economical, almost cold. No wasted swings. No pointless force.

  Hukan felt it. He refused to open himself. He withdrew only as much as necessary to keep the balance. Every step was measured. They circled closer to the sloping ground, to the old, rotten fence before the cliff.

  The mist behind them did not move.

  As if it were waiting.

  The fight had already lasted several minutes. The roar of the crowd faded. At first, everyone had been certain of their champion’s victory—but now that certainty dissolved into tension. It became clear: this was no staged execution. This was a real duel.

  Both had chosen small shields. The tempo was fast, but cautious. No wide swings—only short, precise movements. Most blows met steel. Metal rang, slid, and occasionally struck sparks.

  A rhythm settled.

  Hukan pressed forward—probing, testing, forcing reactions.

  Rianes absorbed the strikes, deflected them, and almost immediately answered with sharp, dangerous thrusts. Each counter was precise—not for spectacle, but to wound.

  Then a few seconds of distance. And again—Hukan attacked. It repeated, over and over.

  At some point, Hukan changed tactics. He deliberately surrendered the initiative. Took a step back. Allowed Rianes to lead. And quickly realized: the tempo was beginning to exhaust the mercenary.

  Rianes’s breathing grew deeper. His movements—just slightly heavier. Physical endurance was not his strongest trait. He fought with technique, calculation, and cold restraint.

  Hukan waited.

  When Rianes launched another sequence of strikes, the Vishap suddenly surged forward. The counterattack was crude, but powerful. A blow to the chest forced Rianes back a step—the armor held, but the sound was dull and heavy.

  Hukan didn’t stop. Second strike. Third. Fourth.

  Rianes slipped aside—and then, with a sudden motion of his sword, kicked up the earth. Dry, fine dust flew into the air and struck Hukan straight in the eyes.

  An instant—and sight vanished.

  Rianes did not hesitate. Step forward. Strike to the neck.

  Hukan managed to raise his shield—but too late. The blade glanced off the rim, shifted its line, and bit into his shoulder. Blood sprayed onto the dark ground.

  The Vishap cried out—short, sharp with pain—but answered at once. Blind fury is sometimes faster than calculation.

  But this time, Rianes was ready.

  He withdrew half a step, suddenly shifted his angle, and treacherously struck at the knee with his boot. Hukan staggered. In the same instant, the blade slid across his back.

  The wound ran along the very edge of the skin. A finger’s breadth deeper—and his spine might have been split.

  Hukan was lucky.

  He lurched forward, breaking the distance. Blood streamed down his shoulder, his arm beginning to numb. He stood there, breathing heavily, unable to commit at once to another charge.

  He had underestimated his opponent. Believed the rumor that Rianes was a poor fighter. A man who thought more than he fought. Now those rumors cost him blood. And the mist behind them remained motionless.

  The one thing in which Hukan truly held the advantage was endurance. And he decided to make it his weapon.

  Rianes stubbornly kept trying to circle behind him—step, shift, turn. It demanded more energy than a simple linear assault. Hukan saw it. And allowed it.

  Now, he did not resist the maneuver—he shaped it.

  Hukan deliberately struck at angles that forced Rianes to shift left, circling. After each attack, he retreated half a step—just enough to widen the mercenary’s arc of movement. To make every circle slightly broader than the last.

  It looked like an ordinary exchange of blows. But in truth, it was a trap.

  Within minutes, the difference showed. Rianes breathed harder. His steps lost some of their spring. The maneuver remained precise—but no longer effortless.

  Hukan had been waiting for this.

  Another exchange. Another sidestep. Rianes tried again to slip behind him.

  Hukan struck from the left—sharp, forcing him to guard. And in the same instant, without giving him time to recover, he pivoted and slammed his shield from the right. The blow was crude. Unexpected.

  Rianes staggered. One step back. Another. Toward the maw.

  His foot caught on a stone hidden in the grass. Balance vanished. His body tipped backward. He didn’t have time to fall properly. The slope was steep, slick with dew. Rianes rolled—once, twice, three times—trying to brace with his shield, to dig in with his blade, but the earth slid away beneath him.

  He was sliding toward the edge. The mist behind him opened like a white maw.

  Hukan stood motionless, watching his opponent roll toward death.

  Those who had formed the semicircle rushed to the brink. Even those who moments earlier had shouted about honor and victory now wanted only to see the fall—to see the enemy vanish into the fog.

  Skeld and Syra rose to their feet. Their guards turned as well, attention locked on the slope.

  Rianes rolled lower—and a single step from the edge, he stopped. His blade bit into the soil. His hand clenched the hilt until it hurt. Earth crumbled beneath his fingers, but he held.

  A heartbeat of silence. Then the movement. Rianes drew a knife and, without fully rising, hurled it. The blade flew in a low arc and sank into the upper muscle of Hukan’s leg—just before the hip.

  The scream was raw. Unfiltered. Hukan fell. The knife had gone in too deep. His attempt to rise brought another surge of pain.

  Everything became clear. The duel was over. One more second—and Rianes would finish him. The crowd erupted—this time in fury and disbelief. Rianes wrenched his sword free from the earth and surged up the slope. He made only a few steps.

  Then the ground gave way.

  At first, a dull crack. Then collapse. A massive section—dozens of meters wide—tore loose with a thunderous roar. Logs, debris, chunks of turf—and dozens of soldiers who had stood too close—plunged downward.

  They grabbed at one another. Screamed. Dragged neighbors with them. Someone tried to brace a spear against the edge—but the wood snapped. A few leapt back in time. Most did not.

  The collapse rolled almost to Hukan. Writhing in pain, he managed to roll aside at the last instant.

  Rianes had been closer to the brink.

  He fell first. He had won the duel—but lost the ground beneath his feet.

  A moment ago, he had stood against an army. Now, his story was finished.

  Yesterday’s cavalry maneuvers along the edge of the maw had loosened the soil. Hooves, weight, constant movement—the slope’s structure had been compromised. The earth had merely been waiting.

  And now it had come.

  The cries of Vishaps and Rejected merged into one chaotic roar. No one thought about the duel anymore. They dragged those still hanging from the edge, pulled back the wounded, shouted names into the mist.

  Amid the thunder of the collapse and the screams, Naelis’s voice could be heard. Loud. Piercing. Not an ordinary cry—it was a tear. She lunged forward, toward the edge, as if something could still be changed.

  Skeld grabbed her arm so sharply she nearly fell.

  “No.”

  One word. Hard.

  Near the arena, panic only grew. Vishaps and Rejected dragged the wounded, shouted, and called for those swallowed by the mist. The guards assigned to the prisoners abandoned their posts and ran to help their own.

  Beneath the tree, no one remained.

  Skeld was no longer looking at the abyss. A few dozen meters away stood the horses. The same ones that had once belonged to their brothers. Tethered. Startled by the noise, but still steady.

  He saw the chance instantly.

  “Run.”

  He pulled Naelis with him. Syra was already moving, asking no questions. They did not run—they slipped between the trees, using the chaos as cover. No one was watching them. All eyes were turned downward. The guards did not notice.

  But the Oaken did.

  Several of them raised their bows at once. Bowstrings drew tight. Arrows settled into wooden rests.

  And then Karasel placed a hand on the nearest bow. No words. He simply stopped it. His look was brief—but enough.

  The bows lowered slowly.

  Within seconds, the three were at the horses. Skeld cut the reins. One motion—and they were in the saddle. When the Vishap guards finally turned and realized what had happened, the horses were already lunging forward.

  “Prisoners!” someone shouted.

  Arrows flew wildly. A few thudded into the grass. One whistled overhead. Another struck the ground beside a hoof. Vishaps gave chase—but on foot, they could not catch mounted riders.

  The mist swallowed the riders as swiftly as it hadswallowed the collapse. It was too late.

  The Warriors rushed to Hukan. Carefully, they lifted him. The knife still jutted from his leg. Blood soaked into the earth. They carried him toward the healers.

  At one point, he turned his head. His gaze met Karasel’s. Brief. Clear. Conscious. Hukan saw that he had allowed them to escape.

  And he saw betrayal.