The western edge of the kingdom.

  The forest here is dense and damp, the air heavy and stale — a borderland that resists control. This is where three kingdoms meet: Lugarn, Ceredan, and Solmar. Whenever two turn on each other, the third finds room to move. That was why the king sent his scouts here — to watch the flow between Lugarn and Solmar while he marched south with the army. The path is narrow, almost invisible, felt more by the feet than seen by the eyes.

  Stecepiy’s unit moves along it in silence. Six people.

  The commander — Stecepiy, a longsword across his back.

  Mativ — archer.

  One fighter in medium armor with a large shield.

  A suggestor.

  A medic.

  Ahead, at a distance, a scout with a short sword and a small shield.

  They move at the same pace. No hurry. No stops. Each man holds his sector. They don’t look at one another — they don’t need to. The team looks coordinated and professional. Not recruits. And not heroes.

  Suddenly, the scout raises a hand. The column stops instantly. Everyone crouches. The scout gestures Stecepiy forward.

  Ahead — a camp. Small. Carelessly laid out. Stecepiy and the scout crawl closer, checking the map. When they see the emblem, the tension shifts. Ceredan. Friendly.

  They quietly signal the rest of the unit and enter the camp.

  “What is our base?” Stecepiy says softly, but clearly.

  “Forest. River. Our place,” the camp commander replies — a password, and at the same time a description of Ceredan’s emblem. An old border tradition. The soldiers in the camp notice them only at the last moment. Some don’t even manage to reach for their weapons.

  Stecepiy looks around. “Commander. Where are your sentries?”

  “Sir Stecepiy…” The commander hesitates. “They’re rotating.”

  Stecepiy turns. No one. No rotation.

  “Did you forget you’re at war?” His voice stays calm, but turns cold. “Tomorrow, scouts will crawl right up to you. Again, you’ll be unarmed until the end. Your deaths will be pointless. And without honor.” He pauses. “And unpaid to your families.”

  The soldiers are tense.

  “Don’t think you’re deep in the rear. Enemy agents have already been spotted in villages near Sarholm.”

  That lands heavier than the rest. Sarholm lies far behind the lines — the second-largest city of the kingdom. If scouts are already there, there is no safe rear anymore.

  The camp commander nods. “Thank you for the warning. We’ll be more vigilant.”

  “Any contact with the enemy?” Stecepiy asks.

  “No direct contact. But… this camp stands where the enemy would have to be idiots to pass unnoticed. The terrain is too open for silent movement.”

  Mativ smiles faintly. They reached it completely unseen.

  “Not far from here, there are two more of our camps,” the commander continues. “Their positions are riskier, so we stationed more men there.” He points at the map. “The first is here. Large. Hidden by trees on a cliff. Follow the map exactly — otherwise you won’t find it.” His finger slides. “The second is smaller. By the river. Easier to spot. They monitor traffic on the water.” Another mark. “And here — a cave behind the waterfall. An intendant cache. You can resupply if you dive straight under the falls.”

  Stecepiy listens carefully, marking everything. The scout does the same. At one moment, the camp commander leans closer and looks at their maps. His expression changes.

  The unit says its farewells and leaves. They immediately reform into the same column and disappear into the forest — as quietly as they had arrived.

  The archer steps up to the camp commander. “Something wrong?”

  “Other than the fact that we just embarrassed ourselves in front of the kingdom’s chief scout?” he mutters.

  “I mean the map. Does it show the front line? Lost cities?”

  The commander looks toward the forest. “There’s… nothing there. There’s nothing on it.” He stays silent for a few seconds. “If the enemy gets hold of it, they’ll gain nothing.”

  Korosten. Morning

  Morning was clear. The air was clean, visibility nearly perfect — one of those rare days when it feels as if the world itself wants to be seen and judged. Three figures moved along the high city wall: Rianes, Feren, and Lenar. Rianes walked ahead, along the crest of the wall, toward the trebuchet towers.

  From the upper platform, the view opened wide. Everything was visible:

  the field before the city, the river, beyond it — the hills, and behind them — the mines. Farther still lay the wild lands, where the map simply ended, as if someone had deliberately chosen not to know what lay beyond.

  To the left, slightly away from the mines, dark ruins marked White Hold — the former city of the Angels. Behind it yawned the gorge known as the edge of the world. No one had ever seen where it ended. A dense mist always hung over it, thick and unmoving.

  Rianes inspected the trebuchet in silence. He walked around it, checking supports, joints, and mechanisms. Then he looked down at the field.

  Only then did he turn to Lenar.

  “So these are the famous long-range, high-precision trebuchets?”

  “Yes,” Lenar replied. “These are the ones.

  The best built — centuries ago, using technologies we can’t reproduce anymore. They were constructed together with the city.”

  Rianes nodded and addressed the guard assigned to the machine.

  “Show me how targeting works. And what gives it that kind of accuracy?”

  “Yes, sir. This way.”

  The guard turned an adjustment mechanism.

  A small marker began moving along an engraved diagram.

  The diagram wasn’t symbolic — it was the field itself: the river, the banks, the hills. It clearly showed that the trebuchet’s kill zone extended far beyond the river.

  Rianes leaned closer.

  “You’ve tested this. Not just on paper.”

  “Yes, sir. We conduct live firing periodically. As part of maintenance.”

  Rianes straightened.

  “And there are four trebuchets like this?”

  “Yes. Plus ballistae and catapults. They’re highly accurate as well.”

  Rianes moved to a ballista and examined its construction carefully.

  Even for him, it was something new.

  In Hariv, where The Compact maintained its highest level of technology, they even used explosive-tipped ballista bolts. But the range and precision of these machines were on an entirely different level.

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  “Balrek would love this,” he said to Feren.

  “Balrek?” Lenar asked.

  “Commander of the Red Breach,” Rianes replied. “Siege machines are his element. But even he’s never seen anything like this.”

  Rianes looked back out over the field.

  “You understand that with trebuchets like these, the city is almost untouchable? The enemy will start taking hits long before they can even attempt to cross the river.”

  “Yes,” Lenar agreed. “It looks impregnable.”

  “But the front wall is weak.”

  He gestured with his hand.

  “It’s poorly protected against assault troops with siege ladders.”

  They moved down the stairs — from the trebuchet tower to the main wall facing the field and the mines beyond.

  Rianes, Feren, and Lenar stepped onto the wall. And now they were looking at the city not as a symbol of strength. The wall turned out to be more complex than it had seemed from above. Inside were three levels of interconnected tunnels. Wide, passable, without narrow choke points or dead zones. But too wide. The wall itself leaned forward, toward the field. Its upper section jutted outward far more than the base, creating the impression that the structure loomed over the space before the city. Along the entire length of the tunnels ran smooth openings, flattened inward. They were set low above floor level and angled downward. From there, one could observe. But shooting was difficult. An archer would struggle to deliver accurate fire at targets far from the city. And atop the wall, where archers would normally stand, there was a smooth stone roof at a sharp angle. No crenellations. No cover. No angles. All the masonry was smooth, rounded, like stones polished by the sea. Nothing to grip — not for a rope, not for a hook, not for a man.

  Rianes and Feren examined the structure in silence.

  “High-tech siege engines,” Feren said at last, “and at the same time… such clumsy defensive choices.

  Did they not have archers? Who were these openings meant for?”

  Lenar shrugged.

  “No one knows how old this city really is. Or what sieges looked like back then. Maybe people themselves were different sizes.”

  After a pause, he added:

  “That was also when people took Luga however they pleased.”

  Rianes slowly ran his hand along the stone.

  “These choices…” he said quietly. “They aren’t random. But they aren’t clear either. This city was definitely not built to defend against humans.”

  “Some kind of Vishaps?” Lenar suggested cautiously.

  “No,” Rianes replied immediately. “I’ve seen their cities. They’re nothing like this.”

  Lenar nodded silently.

  “Then I hope,” he said, “we won’t need this wall.”

  Rianes straightened.

  “I’d like to see reconstructed schematics of these trebuchets.”

  “They don’t exist,” Lenar replied. “But there is one person who can explain the technology.

  The engineer who maintains them.”

  He sighed.

  “The only problem is, he’s constantly drunk.”

  “Where does he live?” Rianes asked. “Here in the city?”

  “Yes. About thirty minutes from here.”

  Rianes turned to Feren.

  “Tonight, I’ll speak with the witnesses to the mine attack. You, please, send someone with Lenar. Get the engineer into shape. I need him sober and clear-headed tomorrow.”

  Feren smiled faintly.

  “Done. If necessary, I’ll tie him up and carry him to the baths.”

  Rianes nodded.

  He thanked Lenar and the guard for the tour, then headed down.

  The wall remained behind them.

  And the longer they looked at it, the less it resembled a defense at all.

  Korosten. Industrial Quarter. Evening

  The district lived by its own rhythm.

  The smell of hot metal, smoke, and food blended in the air until it stopped being noticeable.

  The tavern stood slightly off the main road. This was where the meeting with the witnesses to the mine attack was supposed to take place.

  Inside, Skeld was already there with two infantrymen from the Blue Cohort. They sat at a table, quietly discussing patrol routes and guard rotations in the area.

  Skeld listened carefully. No unnecessary questions. He remembered.

  A little later, Rianes joined them. He nodded silently, sat down, and ordered food from one of the girls. The tavern was a family business. The father behind the counter. The mother is in the kitchen. иTwo daughters in the hall. And despite being in the industrial quarter, the place was popular with every layer of the city.

  That alone was suspicious.

  The fact that Kesh and the miner had chosen this exact place for the meeting only confirmed Lenar’s suspicions. The tavern was well known among the criminal element. They didn’t ask unnecessary questions here, and they knew how not to hear conversations. That was why Lenar had advised Skeld to bring two brothers and not involve the city guard. Rianes didn’t know how to talk to people like that. And he knew it perfectly well.

  Skeld did.

  Not because he had learned. But because he had been one of them. He didn’t just understand how they thought — he had once led such people. And everyone knew it.

  In the east, in the forests, the Forest Brotherhood had kept neighboring cities on edge for years. Attacks without warning. Vanishing caravans. Burned outposts. No logic beyond survival.

  Until Skeld left.

  With him, the structure itself disappeared. The forest grew quieter. So when Skeld sat in the tavern, calmly eating and silently watching the door,

  people from the city’s darker side felt his presence. He wasn’t playing a role. He had simply returned to a familiar environment.

  And that was why he was the one who should speak to the witnesses, not Rianes.

  Because truth from people like that isn’t extracted with questions. It’s obtained through recognition. There was still an hour before the meeting.

  Rianes and Skeld had arrived much earlier — to see who came and went, and to eat.

  The food really was good. The waitresses worked quickly and without lingering looks.

  All four wore cloaks, no bright armor. Nothing marked them as mercenaries.

  “See those strange gates up there, in the mountains?” Skeld asked between bites.

  “Yeah,” one of the infantrymen replied. “Protection from bears?”

  “The guard says that if they’re opened,” Skeld smiled faintly,

  “The wind blows straight through the whole city, end to end.

  And the city’s stretched out like a river.

  Looks like they were built specifically to prevent drafts.”

  “This whole city is strange,” Rianes said.

  “You should see their defensive wall.”

  “At least the food’s good,” another mercenary snorted. “And the waitresses are pretty.”

  Skeld nodded toward the ceiling.

  “Somewhere up north right now, a certain Balrek is miserable.”

  They chuckled.

  No malice. No bravado. Just people who knew that someone always ends up stuck where nothing interesting happens.

  The laughter dissolved into the tavern’s noise. The hour hadn’t passed yet. But Rianes could already feel it: the witnesses would come. And the conversation would not be pleasant.

  At the other end of the hall sat a group of six young men.

  They were already well drunk, but they didn’t behave like street trash. The one in the center did most of the talking. The others laughed, echoed him, and nodded along. He never raised his voice — he made others speak for him.

  When they started harassing the waitresses, it didn’t look like drunken boldness. It looked like a habit. Routine. Entitlement.

  The girls’ father stepped out from behind the counter and spoke calmly. They didn’t answer. They simply looked at him the way one looks at a man who has forgotten his place. One guest tried to object, saw their faces — and fell silent.

  The Compact didn’t like this. Skeld clenched his jaw.

  “I’ll walk up to the one in the middle,” he said quietly, “and break the table with his face.”

  There were thirty minutes left before the meeting. In this noise, talking was impossible. The witnesses might not come at all. Suggesting another location would only make them run. The mercenaries understood this. The witnesses didn’t trust them.

  Rianes stood up. “I’ll shut them up.”

  Skeld cut him off. “Wait. Let me.”

  He rose and walked calmly to their table. The group turned. Skeld was too big to ignore.

  “You shut up. Now. Pay and leave. Otherwise, you won’t be walking tonight.”

  The man in the center didn’t stand. He slowly raised his head and looked Skeld up and down — without fear, without hurry.

  “Learn how to talk first, meat,” he said calmly.

  “Soldier,” someone added from the side. “Rear-line.”

  “Even the king didn’t take him to war.”

  “Because the king,” another grinned, “takes care of his dogs.”

  They had mistaken Skeld for the royal police. The cloak and hood were the same colors. Skeld didn’t know that. He was sure they understood exactly who stood before them.

  The mistake lasted a second.

  Skeld grabbed the nearest one by the neck, dragged him over the table, and hurled him into the wall. He smashed another’s head into the wood — the man dropped unconscious. The rest started to rise. That was when Rianes stepped in with two infantrymen of the Blue Cohort. Within seconds, all six were on the floor. Rianes and Skeld threw back their hoods. The tavern froze.

  “Now you’ll forget how to walk,” Skeld said.

  “Don’t break anything,” Rianes added calmly. “Except their will.”

  The ones being beaten finally understood who this was. They tried to run. Too late.

  A few minutes passed. The group lay in the filth, spitting blood, unable to get up — all except one, the man who had sat in the center. He hadn’t been beaten yet.

  Rianes twisted his arm. The man lay face-down, speaking fast, words tumbling over each other:

  “This won’t end like this… You’ll answer for this…”

  The tavern owner rushed over. “Sir… this isn’t the right man…” The words rang false — obligation, not plea. Rianes froze for a moment, then twisted harder.

  “You think money will save you? You think someone’s coming?”

  He drew a knife.

  “Money not helping? Where’s the one who decides things for you? Why hasn’t he come?”

  Rianes leaned closer. “He’s not here. But I am.”

  He struck with the hilt — calves, thighs — then open-handed across the face.

  At that moment, Kesh and the miner entered the tavern. They saw mercenaries beating patrons, a waitress crying, her father pushing his family back inside. They exchanged a glance, turned, and left quickly.

  Groans replaced the laughter. When the man could no longer stand, Rianes let him fall into the filth. He cried, clutching his legs, unable to rise. Rianes returned to the table, sat down, and continued eating. The group crawled away, limping.

  The remaining guests paid quickly and vanished.

  Groans replaced the laughter of the noisy group. When the man could no longer stand, Rianes released him into the filth. He cried, clutching his legs. Unable to rise. Rianes turned back to the table. Sat down. Continued eating. The group crawled away, limping.

  The remaining guests paid quickly and vanished.

  Upper City. A balcony by the artificial lake.

  Olaf smoked his pipe.

  He watched as people stepped aside for a figure limping down the street: dirty, beaten, half-dressed. As the man drew closer, Olaf froze.

  He recognized the boy. It was his son.