Evening came in a veil of darkened grey; the sun’s rays dimmed of strength by a crown of sullen clouds.

  No stars broke through the gloom, nor did the moon offer its silver.

  A low fog had settled where the foothills became valleys, softening every sound into murmur.

  The camp stirred like a thing alive, vast and breathing in soft hushes.

  Braziers were snuffed one by one.

  Tents collapsed in rhythm, reduced into simple wood and hide.

  Tools disappeared in saddlebags and crates alike, as though war itself had been packed away.

  Canvas flapped against poles, and fires crackled in scattered pits where silhouettes hunched over what passed for supper.

  Those who did not, moved in ordered silence, the discipline of ten-thousand marches stitched into their every step.

  The Hekatons, commanders of thousands, stood watch as their units formed into a marching column.

  Its heart burdened by the spoils of grain and gold lashed to the backs of reinforced wagons.

  At the head of the host, stood Alric’s personal retinue, three hundred men clad in his colours: blackened bronze and silver grey.

  None stood idle. Some checked their reins, others passed water skins in silence. A few offered a prayer beneath their breath as they adjusted their armour straps.

  They had marched before. They would do it again.

  Regulus held the left flank. Veracles the right.

  And at the center, near the main road where the fog pooled deepest, Klethiar watched, awating Alric’s arrival.

  Outside the Lord Commander’s tent, Vargo remained still, a statue carved from shadow.

  He had stopped just short of entering, wary of causing offense.

  He was there to oversee the final preparations before departure, of which, the woman was foremost.

  She was a strange mishap in the otherwise spotless execution of Khal-Drathir.

  A Drathiri woman spared by Alric’s whim?

  Surely a scandal waited back home. The commander knew how to conduct himself both in battle and beyond it, but this time… this time was different.

  It seemed empathy had moved him. No cunning plan, no veiled strategy. Just a decision made from the gut.

  And that could prove dangerous.

  The court would not take kindly to a botched extermination.

  Not after all they had done to appear righteous in front of the other continental sovereignties.

  He exhaled slowly, letting the thoughts pass him.

  Politics could rot, he simply needed a target to aim for, and a blade to execute it.

  The canvas behind him barely moved, yet he could hear quiet movement inside.

  Footsteps, soft and deliberate.

  The faint creak of leather underboot.

  Voices, indistinct and low.

  He did not intrude, he wouldn’t dare.

  Whatever passed within that tent would end in its own time, and not a moment sooner.

  “Vargo,” Alric called, his voice measured and steady.

  The man entered.

  The tent had always been bare, presenting only armour stands, weapons and a simple cot.

  But now it stood nearly empty, save for the cot, and the woman sitting upon it—a silent witness to all that had passed.

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  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Check her for anything dangerous she might be carrying. After that, step aside and let me finish.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  She did not flinch as Vargo approached.

  But her eyes found Alric’s and held them.

  A toothy smile touched her lips, sharp and jeering.

  “Does your hound know how to handle a woman?”

  Silence answered.

  Vargo moved with the quiet efficiency of a soldier, yet not without caution.

  She had more than enough reason for revenge against Alric, against Valekyr.

  And this moment could serve well enough.

  “Careful,” she murmured, her voice low and edged. “You might fall in love.”

  He gave her no reply.

  Alric’s voice followed.

  “Stand.”

  She stared at him, long and unreadable, then rose with begrudging obedience.

  Vargo’s hands were precise as they searched for any hidden blades or tucked-away shard.

  She didn’t resist, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her fury.

  Alric stood unmoving.

  When the search was done, he stepped aside and looked at Alric.

  “Nothing to report, my Lord.”

  “Good. Wait outside.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Who would’ve thought,” she muttered.

  He saluted and went out.

  Alric stepped forward.

  He drew a length of leather from his belt with one hand, and offered the other toward her.

  “Wrists.”

  A short laugh escaped her lips.

  “Am I a prisoner now? Something to parade in the capital?”

  Silence.

  “At least you’re consistent.” Another dry chuckle escaped her.

  Her eyes dropped to the strip of leather.

  In a venomous hush, she muettered, “Leather does suit your kind of mercy, after all.”

  She extended her wrists to him, eyes never leaving his.

  Alric took them and wrapped the cord twice, slow and precise.

  He left space, not enough for escape, but not tight enough for discomfort.

  “It’s loose,” he said. “Enough for you to hold the reins if need be on the road ahead.”

  She offered him a polished smile.

  “How gallant of you, my Lord. I will remember that… when the time comes.”

  He stepped back, and without turning, raised his voice just enough to be heard through the canvas.

  “Vargo.”

  A beat of stillness, then the flap stirred.

  “My Lord?”

  “Tell the men to dismantle the tent. I want it ready within the quarter of hour, not a second later.”

  “As you command.”

  The flap fell shut again, echoing footsteps fading into the fog outside.

  Alric lingered a moment longer, eyes on maps no longer before him.

  “When we reach the Crag,” he said at last, “you will obey every command I issue.”

  She scoffed.

  “Your true colours, at last. Did you need me in cords to play the tyrant? Or are just dressing your sickness in ghost stories and mist?”

  “Death doesn’t wait for sceptics. Remember that.”

  Her smirk faltered for a moment, doubt creeping into her forced smirk.

  “Well then, commander. If I die, I’ll make sure to haunt you first.”

  Alric said nothing.

  He merely turned and parted the flap with his hand, letting the fog roll in.

  “Come,” he said, looking back at her.

  She lingered a heartbeat longer.

  Then followed. Leather cords whispering each other’s names.

  The outside world greeted them in gloom and fog. It curled around their boots like breath drawn too taut.

  Scattered frost clung to hardened sludge.

  The soldiers assigned to dismantle the tent glanced up and saluted crisply at the sight of them.

  “Get to work,” Alric ordered, passing by them.

  She walked beside him, drawing attention from the camp’s remaining stragglers.

  Some stared with curiosity. Others with mistrust.

  But before any could linger too long, captains barked their own orders, cutting short any stirrings of gossip.

  Eyes turned to the discipline of preparation.

  Alric paid it no mind.

  Her pace was marred by slightly uneven steps, old pain and fatigue pulling at her limbs.

  Signs of incomplete healing were made plain in her gait.

  Keeping his eyes forward, Alric spoke.

  “You’ll be sitting at the front of my horse with me.”

  She huffed what seemed to be a chuckle.

  “Careful. They might start to suspect you care.”

  “I cared enough to spare you,” he said. “Nothing more. Don’t mistake that for kindness.”

  Her lips parted, but no words came out.

  She looked away in earnest, as if the tents and fog had suddenly become of great interest.

  He didn’t press her further.

  Instead, he slowed his pace as they neared his waiting destrier at the head of the column.

  The beast was tall, dark-mained, with eyes that shimmered with intent beneath the mist.

  Its reins were being held by one of the younger riders whose gaze flicked between Alric and the bound woman.

  Alric came to a halt beside the horse.

  “Move in front of me and brace yourself.”

  She obeyed and stepped ahead of him, back turned, shoulders tensed.

  She felt his hands at her waist, firm and impersonal.

  With a single, fluid motion, he lifted her up.

  Her breath caught as her feet left the earth.

  He placed her on the saddle with the precision of a man sheathing his sword.

  Her legs settled astride, stiff with bruises not yet faded.

  He mounted behind her a moment later, the creak of leather punctuating the hush.

  His arms brushed her side as he reached for the reins.

  A jolt of revulsion and indignation flashed behind her eyes.

  She stifled it beneath a mask of composure.

  As Alric mounted, the column stirred to life.

  Feet shifted. Hooves readied. Torches rose through the mist, casting ghost-lit halos above their bearers.

  With a pressure of his heels, Alric’s warhorse stepped forward.

  The army followed in wordless rhythm, their movements practiced, falling into place as if drawn along by invisible threads.

  Behind them, iron-bound wheels creaked beneath the weight of conquest: gold, grain, weapons, relics. Anything that spoke of Khal-Drathir’s wealth.

  Above them, a ceiling of grey-black hung where sun, moon and stars had vanished beyond man’s reach.

  Before them, the valleys stretched for leagues, entombed in the shadows of trees bereft of life or leaves.

  And somewhere beyond, the Crag awaited.