The dawn after the failed coup was quiet—too quiet. As the sun's first light stretched across the battlements of the fortress, it revealed more than just the fading mist. It uncovered bloodstains on stone, broken spears in the mud, and eyes filled with questions. Though Eryndor's body had been burned before nightfall, his betrayal lingered like smoke in every corner of the stronghold.
Kael stood alone on the watchtower, arms crossed, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. Below, soldiers moved slowly, cautiously—every glance toward their fellow comrade tinged with doubt. Trust, once taken for granted, now lay in tatters.
Behind him, footsteps approached. It was Lysara. She wore her usual half-armor, but her expression was softer today, even hesitant.
"They're waiting," she said. "The Council wants a statement."
Kael didn't turn around. "What would they have me say? That one of our own nearly ended us all? That the enemy walked among us, and we smiled at him every day?"
"They want reassurance."
"Then lie to them."
Lysara frowned. "You've never been a liar, Kael."
He finally looked at her. His eyes were tired, not with sleep, but with the weight of decisions only he could carry.
"No. But I may have to become one, if I'm to lead them through what's coming next."
In the war council chamber, tension hummed like a taut bowstring. The surviving commanders sat in their places, but none leaned back comfortably. Every creak of leather, every shift of weight, seemed too loud.
Kael entered without ceremony. He placed a small iron ring—Eryndor's signet—on the table before them.
"He was one of the Last Blooded," Kael announced. "The House of Shadows sent him years ago, with a mission to weaken us from within. He was not alone."
Murmurs erupted around the chamber.
"Do you mean there are others still—"
"Yes," Kael cut in. "I believe there are. We don't know how many. We don't know where. But we know this: they are patient. And they are willing to bleed us slowly."
General Harvold slammed a fist on the table. "Then we find them! Root them out like vermin—publicly, decisively!"
"No," Kael said, voice calm but firm. "That's what they want. Panic. Division. If we start accusing our own, we'll do their work for them."
Riven, leaning against the far wall, added, "They thrive in chaos. We must remain colder than the ice of the northern wastes if we are to survive this."
Kael nodded. "From this moment forward, we move in silence. The official story: Eryndor died repelling a northern incursion. He died a hero."
Gasps. Objections. Outrage.
"That's treason!"
"That's insanity!"
"You want to honor a traitor?!"
Kael raised a hand, silencing the room.
"I want to protect the people who still believe in what we're building. If we let this fracture us, they win."
The silence that followed wasn't agreement. It was acceptance—bitter, reluctant, but necessary.
Later that day, Kael stood at the courtyard as Eryndor's pyre was lit. Soldiers saluted. Some cried. Most wore masks of respect they weren't sure they meant.
Lysara stood beside Kael, arms folded. "You're making enemies in that chamber," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Even among your own circle."
"I know that too."
She glanced at him. "And you're willing to bear it all yourself?"
Kael didn't answer. He only stared into the flames. "He was a friend," he said at last. "I have to believe that, at some point, he thought he was saving something."
The fire crackled, embers dancing like lost spirits in the wind.
That night, in the deepest level of the archives, Kael, Riven, and Lysara met in secret. Riven had summoned them both with a message bearing the old cipher—the one they hadn't used since the Eastern Campaign.
The room was lit only by a few blue lanterns enchanted to absorb sound. Here, the walls had no ears.
Riven laid out a map across the stone table.
"This," he began, "is where we start hunting."
The map wasn't of enemy territory. It was the fortress itself—every level, every hidden passage, every servants' corridor and blind corner.
"You think the others are here?" Lysara asked.
"No," Riven replied. "I think they were. Eryndor had help—letters, messages, coordination. Someone delivered them. Someone removed evidence. And someone's still watching us."
Kael leaned over the map, tracing a path with his gloved finger.
"Here," he said. "The northwest wing. We haven't used it since the siege three years ago."
Riven nodded. "That's where I'd hide a spy."
Lysara narrowed her eyes. "We go tonight."
Moving through the fortress at night felt different now. Every shadow looked like betrayal. Every echo sounded like whispered secrets.
The trio wore dark cloaks, faces covered. No torches—they moved by memory and moonlight.
As they entered the northwest wing, Kael motioned for silence. A creak echoed from deeper inside—a door, or perhaps a footstep.
They moved forward.
Behind a collapsed wall, they found it: a hidden study. Dust-covered, but not abandoned. Candles sat freshly used. Papers were scattered—but only on the surface. The true documents had already been removed.
Kael knelt beside a locked chest.
Riven picked the lock in silence.
Inside were letters—coded in the same cipher as the one found on Eryndor. Names. Instructions. Routes for smuggling messages beyond the wall.
One note in particular stood out.
It read: "The Ember will rise when the Hawk falls. Watch the Falcon. She's the key."
Lysara paled.
"What is it?" Kael asked.
"I've been called 'the Falcon' by only one person," she said. "Eryndor."
Riven tensed. "You think this means you're being watched?"
"I think it means I've been marked," she said. "Either as a threat—or a next target."
Kael's expression hardened. "Then we'll make them regret choosing you."
The next day, the fortress returned to its rhythms—but something had changed. Whispers were softer. Eyes darted faster. Loyalty had become a luxury few could afford.
Kael sat in his chambers, reading the letters over and over. The Ember. The Hawk. The Falcon.
What was the pattern?
He opened a drawer, pulling out a sigil once gifted to him by the previous commander—a small metal hawk.
The old commander, Commander Veylan, had died under mysterious circumstances. Poison, they'd said. But no one had ever proven it.
And now the letter spoke of a Hawk falling.
Kael whispered, "He wasn't just a victim… He was the first strike."
And if they had taken down Veylan to make room for Eryndor...
That meant Kael himself had been chosen by the enemy's plan.
He hadn't thwarted it.
He'd fulfilled it.
That night, Kael called a private meeting with Lysara and Riven.
"I was never meant to lead," he said. "I was meant to be manipulated. Eryndor was supposed to control me. Or kill me when the time came."
Lysara frowned. "So what now?"
Kael's eyes burned. "Now we turn their plan inside out. We feed them false intel. We expose every one of them. Slowly. Quietly. Until the last snake is crushed under our heel."
Riven smiled for the first time in days.
"And if they strike again?"
Kael stood.
"Then let them come. This time, the shadows belong to us."