The tent flap opened, followed by the voice of Lucia. "Your highness, Clive’s condition is stable, but I would suggest keeping him bed-bound for a few more days. He is in no condition to fight for at least a month."

  She stopped, her eyes dropping to the blood-soaked floor.

  "Gods." Miranda pushed past her. "What happened here?"

  Prince Sion ducked into the tent, his gaze sweeping the scene. Fresh blood covered the floor, and at the center of it was Clive.

  “Clive,” Lucia ran up to him. “Are you ok?”

  "I'm fine," Clive said.

  "You're bleeding through your stitches." Lucia knelt beside him, fingers reaching for the bandages. "Let me see—"

  She peeled back the blood-spotted cloth. Her hand stilled. “These aren’t my stitches…” She leaned closer, examining the cross-hatching. “The thread is different, the technique is different…” She looked up at him. “Who did this?”

  Clive pulled back. "I said I'm fine. I stitched myself." He wasn’t in mood to explain to them that he had just met with two goddesses.

  Sion crouched down, examining the blood patterns. "You stitched yourself. While losing this much blood."

  "Yes."

  Sion raised his eyebrows. "The angle would have been difficult—"

  "I managed."

  Miranda snorted. "I've seen field surgeons with twenty years' experience botch battlefield sutures. You expect us to believe you performed emergency surgery on yourself in the dark?"

  "It wouldn't be surprising." Lucia's voice cut through the skepticism. "Clive is a fast learner. He’s capable of doing anything."

  Sion studied her, then turned his attention back to Clive. "I see…"

  Clive appreciated Lucia’s backing but he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Every second brought the full moon closer. "Where are the Humbert Mountains?"

  "Why do you need to know that?" Sion’s sceptical look intensified.

  "Just tell me."

  "They're deep in Vandiél territory," Miranda said. "Two days' hard ride from the northern border—"

  "Clive." Lucia grabbed his arm. "You're not still thinking of chasing the Moon Mother, are you?"

  "I have to."

  “You can barely stand.” Miranda gestured at the blood-soaked floor. “You’re in no condition to ride to the next camp. Let alone into enemy territory.”

  Clive pulled his arm free from Lucia's grip. "I'll find a way."

  "Absolutely not." Sion's voice boomed across the tent, drawing everyone’s attention to him. "You will stay here and rest. That is an order."

  Clive met his eyes. "Then I quit."

  Sion's jaw tightened. "I'm sorry?"

  "You heard me." Clive straightened despite the pain in his chest. "If you’re going to stop me then I'm resigning my commission. Effective immediately."

  "Clive—" Lucia started.

  "You can't quit," Miranda cut in. "You accepted military appointment. You've been briefed on classified intelligence. You don't just walk away from that."

  "Watch me."

  Sion exhaled through his nose, silently assessing the situation. When he turned back to Clive, his voice had turned cold. "I see."

  He snapped his fingers, and the tent flap opened. Three soldiers stepped inside.

  Clive's hand dropped to his belt. Empty. His weapons were still by his bed. "What are you doing?"

  "Protecting you." Sion said. "From yourself."

  The first soldier reached for Clive's arm.

  Clive twisted, driving his elbow into the man's throat. The soldier stumbled back, gagging. The second lunged forward. Clive caught his wrist, redirected the momentum, and sent him crashing into the tent pole.

  "Stand down!" Miranda's voice cracked.

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  The third soldier came in low, going for his legs. Clive brought his knee up, caught him in the shoulder. Not hard enough. The man wrapped around his waist, dragging him down.

  Clive's fist connected with something. Jaw or cheekbone, he couldn't tell. The soldier's grip loosened. He shoved free, tried to stand—

  His legs buckled as his chest exploded in pain.

  Sion moved.

  Fast. Faster than Clive could follow. One moment the prince stood by the entrance, the next his fist drove into Clive's solar plexus.

  Air left Clive's lungs in a rush. His knees hit the ground. Fresh blood soaked through his shirt. He could feel it, hot and sticky against his skin.

  "I'm sorry." Sion's voice came from somewhere above him. Distant. Muffled. "I'm truly sorry."

  Hands grabbed his arms. Pulled them behind his back. Rope bit into his wrists. He tried to pull free. His body wouldn't respond. Everything hurt. Everything bled.

  "Clive, stop." Lucia's voice, choked. "You're tearing them open. Stop struggling."

  He didn't stop.

  Two soldiers hauled him upright. Blood dripped onto the canvas floor.

  "Your Highness." The words came out ragged, breathless. "This won't stop me."

  Sion stood at the tent entrance, one hand pressed against the canvas to steady himself. "I know."

  "Then why—"

  "Because maybe—" Sion's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Maybe it'll buy you enough time to realize your mistake."

  Clive coughed. "Or it might make me more certain."

  Sion closed his eyes. "Then I've failed you. But at least you'll be alive to hate me for it."

  The soldiers pulled Clive toward the entrance. Miranda held the tent flap open. Her face was stone. "Medical supplies," she said quietly. "In the wagon. Make sure he doesn't bleed out."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  They dragged him into the night. Cool air hit his face. The camp spread before him—fires burning, soldiers watching. Lucia made a small sound. Half sob, half protest. She didn't move to stop them.

  They took him to the supply wagon, one with iron bars welded across the back. The lock clicked shut.

  Lucia stood outside the bars, her hands wrapped around them. "Clive, please. Just... wait. Think about this."

  "I have thought about it." He sat on the floor, back against the wagon wall. "For three days, I'll be thinking about nothing else."

  She opened her mouth. Nothing she could say would change his mind. They both knew it.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  "Don't be." His voice softened slightly. "You tried to help. That's more than I deserve."

  She stood there a moment longer, then walked away. Her shoulders curved inward like she was carrying something heavy.

  Hours passed. The camp settled into night rhythms—watch changes, dying fires, the soft sounds of sleeping soldiers. Clive sat with his back against the wagon's wooden wall, wrists still bound.

  He smirked.

  Just a few months ago, the Saintess had locked him in a similar cell. That couldn’t stop him. He'd walked out before dawn. Did they really think a wooden cage would hold him?

  The moon climbed overhead. Not quite full. Not yet. Clive tracked its arc through the bars, counting minutes, waiting.

  Midnight came.

  The camp went still. Even the watch had grown complacent. Guards leaned against posts, heads nodding. One snored softly from his position near the command tent.

  He didn’t have his tools with him, but he didn’t need them. Clive looked through the bars. A fire pit smoldered ten feet away. The guards had positioned the wagon close to the warmth—a small mercy that would be their undoing.

  He stretched his arm through the bars. His fingertips brushed the edge of the fire ring.

  Almost.

  He grabbed a loose splinter from the wagon floor, used it to extend his reach. The splinter hooked under a piece of charred wood. He dragged it toward the bars. Slowly.

  The charcoal reached his hand. He pulled it through the bars. Perfect.

  He crushed it between his palms, grinding it to powder. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work. Paint didn't need to be perfect. It needed to be to represent the artist’s intentions. Black was decay, entropy, the return to nothing. That truth existed whether in refined Ivory Black or charcoal ashes.

  Clive pressed his blackened palm against the wagon's rear wall. The makeshift paint spread across the wood grain, seeping into cracks.

  [Paint: Black Rot]

  The wood beneath his hand went soft. He pushed. The wall gave way. Cool night air rushed in. Freedom was close.

  Clive slipped through the gap, keeping low. His supplies would be near the command tent. He moved between shadows, using tents and wagons for cover.

  A guard coughed. Clive froze. The man shifted his spear, scratched his neck, then went still again.

  Three tents down. Two more. There—his pack, his weapons, piled near Sion's quarters under a canvas tarp.

  Clive retrieved his belongings with practiced efficiency. Sword, dagger, sketchbook, full paint set. Everything accounted for. He strapped the blade to his hip.

  Now for the hard part.

  He pulled out his sketchbook.

  [Draw: Camouflage Cloak]

  The garment materialized in his hands, mottled grays and blacks that would blend with night shadows. This brought back memories of the time they had to sneaked past a San Dioral blockade to enter the Shadowfen. Now he had to do it again.

  He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and moved.

  The perimeter loomed ahead. Guards were posted every thirty yards. He mapped their sight lines, found the gaps, slipped through like smoke. Almost there. The tree line waited just beyond—

  "Take me with you, rider."

  Clive's heart stopped.

  Azura stood between him and freedom. She was supposed to be in the dragon pen.

  "How did you—"

  "Did you think bars would hold me?" Her voice resonated in his mind, amused. "I am not so easily caged."

  "Azura." He kept his voice low, urgent. "I can't take you. It's too dangerous."

  "For you or for me?"

  "Both."

  "Then you will need a dragon."

  "No." He moved to step around her. She shifted, blocking his path. "I need you safe. I need—"

  "Take me." The command resonated through his chest. "We are bound. No matter where you go, we ride into death together."

  "Fine." He grabbed her saddle from where it leaned against the pen. "But if we don't make it back, Sion's going to be insufferable about this."

  "If we don't make it back, his opinion won't matter."

  Fair point.

  He strapped the saddle into place, checked the buckles twice. Azura lowered herself. Clive hauled himself onto her back.

  "Where do we fly, rider?"

  "North." He settled into the saddle, felt her warmth beneath him, her strength coiled and ready. "Toward Vandiél territory. Toward the Humbert Mountains."

  "Toward the Moon Mother."

  "Yes."

  Azura's wings spread wide. Moonlight caught them, turned them silver.

  "Then let us fly toward our doom with dignity."

  She launched.

  Wood rots. Iron rusts. Stone crumbles. Only certainty endures, and against certainty, no prison has ever held.

  —The Book of Certainty 3:8