I walk through what's left of camp. If you can still call this a camp.
No orders. No shouting. Just the dead silence that comes after the dying stops. The kind of silence that presses in on your ears, makes you feel like you're underwater, drifting through the aftermath.
Every step feels heavier than the last—not from wounds, but from the weight of knowing how many didn't make it back. Their faces blur now. Just names in my head. Just blood in the mud. The memory of their laughter, their arguments, their dreams—all fading, replaced by the same dull ache.
I pass soldiers hunched near cold fires, their armor stained and eyes hollow. None of them speak. Their gazes are fixed on nothing, or maybe on everything at once. They don't blink much anymore. It's as if moving, even just a little, might break the fragile silence and spill out everything we've been holding in.
I keep walking.
Something crunches under my boot—wood splinters from a shattered cart. Supplies that never made it where they were supposed to. Like the men who pulled them.
There it is.
A half-burnt banner still clings to a splintered pole, flapping weakly in the wind like a dying breath. The Dusmir crest is torn straight through the center, the colors muddied and scorched.
Figures.
I crouch down. There's a helmet lying in the dirt, scorched black and battered. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands.
Three claw marks on the side. Craze's squad. I remember the kid who carved that—said it made them look fearsome, said they'd come back heroes.
Yeah. Real heroic. They're all gone now.
I sit down beside a crate, letting the dirt soak into my coat. My hand drifts to the only thing I still trust—my sword. Still there. Still mine.
I draw it halfway, the metal whispering as it leaves the sheath, tired as I am. I look into the blade, searching for something familiar.
The reflection isn't kind.
Sunken eyes. Split lip. A scar I don't remember earning. I look like I lost, but somehow I'm the one still breathing.
Two years. Two years of surviving where better men fell. This sword's seen it all—every cut, every kill, every time I should've died and didn't.
It's not a weapon anymore.
It's a ledger.
Every scratch is a debt I haven't paid yet. Every nick a name I can't quite remember, but should.
I shove the blade back into its sheath and lean back, letting the wind press ash into my skin. I don't brush it off. I let it cling, a thin gray shroud that marks me as one of the leftovers.
Maybe if I sit here long enough, I'll sink into the earth with the rest of them.
But I know better.
Someone will come. They'll say we're moving out again. Another plan. Another line to hold. Another goddamn fight we're not ready for.
And I'll get up.
Because that's all I know how to do.
Jamie finds me near the edge of camp, where the fire pits have gone cold and the dead haven't been moved yet. The air is thick with the scent of old smoke and something sourer—loss, maybe, or just the memory of it. She doesn't say anything at first—just stands there, arms folded, her gaze burning a hole through the back of my head until I finally turn.
"Commander Gerald's calling for us," she says, her voice flat, stripped of anything but necessity.
I sigh and force myself to stand. My joints ache, my body heavy with exhaustion that's settled deeper than bruises. "If this is another glorious charge into hell, just stab me now."
She snorts, a dry sound that almost passes for humor. "No. This time, the gods must've blinked. The capital responded."
That gets my attention. I brush ash from my sleeve and follow her, boots crunching through debris and mud as we make our way toward the command tent.
The tent isn't as loud as it used to be. No shouting, no drawn weapons over maps, just tired men and heavier words. Gerald is already there, back straight despite everything, a pillar holding up the last fragments of order. Arlan sits nearby, nursing what looks like three cracked ribs and a limp that wasn't there yesterday.
We step in. Jamie gives a nod. I keep my mouth shut, the taste of iron and old fear still lingering on my tongue.
Gerald doesn't look at us right away. He's staring at the war map like it's a traitor. Maybe it is. Maybe we all are, in some way.
Then, without turning, his voice slices through the quiet. "The Emperor has issued direct command. We abandon Grannis."
Retreat. The word hangs in the air, unspoken but echoing in every heart.
Gerald turns, holding up the opened scroll—the imperial seal split, still dangling from its end like a broken promise. "We pull back to Lornwood. Establish a forward line at the river. Dig in and wait."
I say nothing, but my jaw tightens until it aches.
Jamie asks the question before I can. "Is this a full fallback? Or are we leaving some poor bastards behind again?"
Gerald's eyes meet hers, steady and cold. "We extract who we can. No one re-enters Grannis without full battalion coverage."
Even Arlan is silent now, the weight of the moment pressing down on all of us.
Gerald continues, his voice low and precise. "Lionheart was never supposed to be here. That tunnel breach was fed to us—intentionally. We walked into a noose."
Arlan exhales through his teeth. "So someone from the top..."
Gerald nods once. "It's a purge. Controlled. Political."
I glance down at my sword—the same one I held when I nearly died, the same one I used to pull Arlan out. It's dull now, nicked and cracked, but it's been through every lie this war has told us. Every betrayal. Sometimes, I wonder if the steel remembers more than I do.
Jamie's voice breaks the silence. "And what now?"
Gerald looks between us—not as equals, but as survivors. "We move in three hours. You're part of my inner circle now. All of you. Whether you like it or not."
Jamie nods, all sharp lines and focus. Arlan grunts, "Guess we lived just long enough for promotions."
I don't speak. But I follow. Because sometimes, surviving is the only vote you get.
– • –
The world smells like wet ash.
The rain came sometime after midnight—too late to save the scorched earth, too early to be a blessing. Now, everything is mud and rot, and the only music is the distant groan of broken wagons, their wheels dragging half-dead men through the muck.
We march slow.
No horns. No banners. No drums of victory. Just the rhythm of footfalls in the mud, the clink of dented armor, and a silence so thick it presses on your chest. It's the kind of quiet that comes after the dying stops, when there's nothing left to say and no one left to say it.
I walk with Jamie and Arlan, boots heavy, breath fogging in the morning chill. Gerald rides up front with the vanguard, his banner rolled and hidden. There's no pride left in it—just a duty that weighs heavier than steel.
We pass a grove where the trees still wear scorch marks like wounds. I spot a boy—no older than fifteen—dragging a shield that's too big for him. His face is pale, and one of his boots is missing. No one tells him to keep up. No one helps him. We're all too busy carrying ghosts.
"Feels wrong," Jamie mutters beside me, her hood drawn low, voice barely more than a breath. "Just… leaving."
"It's not leaving," Arlan replies, his limp making his steps uneven. "It's living. There's a difference."
I don't say anything. My mind is stuck in the breach—watching the Lionheart Knight walk through blood without leaving footprints, watching Melissa vanish into the trees. Was I supposed to save her? Stupid thought. I don't save anyone. But I remember how she looked, curled up with that bread like it was treasure. Small. Quiet. Real. More real than anything else this war's thrown at me.
I glance at my sword again. The hilt's fraying. The blade's edge is chipped. It's too familiar now—like a scar you forget how to hide. I should replace it. Should've done it months ago. But I don't. Because it remembers every time I didn't die.
The road dips into a shallow gorge. Water pools in the wheel ruts, reflecting the gray sky. A rider passes us at a gallop, hooves splashing, cloak soaked in Imperial black. One of Gerald's runners. His face is drawn tight, eyes darting.
Jamie leans in, voice low. "Scout party spotted Solmere flags on the ridge to the southeast."
"Pursuit?" I ask.
"Not yet. Could be they're watching."
Arlan grunts. "Or waiting to see if we run."
We don't.
We move. Controlled. Measured. Like we've done this before—because we have. Every step is a lesson learned from the last retreat, every glance over the shoulder a silent promise to keep moving until someone tells us to stop.
A storm brews behind us, thunder rumbling at the horizon, but for now, we march under open sky. Lornwood is still two days off. If the gods hate us a little less, we'll make it.
If not?
I grip my sword tighter.
Let them come.
– • –
We set camp before nightfall. No fires. Just cold rations and colder air, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you wonder if you'll ever feel warm again.
Lornwood is still a day away, but none of us trust the trees anymore. The scouts say the hills are clear, but that doesn't mean safe. After Grannis, nothing feels safe. Not the woods, not the road, not even the faces you know.
I find a spot near the tree line, just far enough from the others to pretend at solitude. Jamie and Arlan drop down beside me, moving like dying dogs searching for shade—too tired to care about dignity.
"Not how I imagined this war would go," Arlan mutters, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "Figured we'd be sipping wine by now. Maybe stealing Solmere silver."
Jamie doesn't miss a beat. "You can still steal it," she says dryly, "off the corpses of your friends."
The silence after that is heavy. Not angry. Just… tired. The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and never leaves.
I pull my sword from its sheath, the familiar rasp grounding me for a moment. The edge is dull, the notches deep. I run my thumb along the spine, stopping at a fresh crack near the fuller.
"This thing's done," Arlan says, eyeing it. "Should've snapped days ago."
I don't respond. He's right.
Jamie shifts, hugging her knees to her chest. "Why haven't you replaced it?"
I stare at the blade, at the crusted blood that never really washes off. "Because this one remembers everything I've done."
Arlan grunts. "That's exactly why I replace mine every season."
Jamie's eyes flicker to me, sharp even in the gloom. "You think it makes you stronger? Carrying the weight of every fight?"
"No," I say. "Just honest."
No one speaks for a while. The wind rattles the trees like bones in a bag. Somewhere in the dark, a bird cries out once, then goes silent.
"You know," Jamie finally says, her voice flat and hollow, "I watched a boy die today. Nineteen. Pretty eyes. He took a lance to the stomach and screamed for his mother. She wasn't there. I was."
Her words hang in the air, heavy as stones.
"I think I hate this war."
Arlan chuckles, low and rough. "Took you that long?"
Jamie looks at me. "And you, Rex? What do you want after this?"
I hesitate. I should say nothing. I should shrug and pretend I don't think that far ahead. But something in her voice cuts deeper than I expect.
"I want to find someone," I say. Quiet. Honest.
Jamie raises an eyebrow. "A girl?"
I nod.
Arlan whistles, the sound soft in the gloom. "Didn't take you for the sentimental type."
"I'm not."
They don't push further. That's why I can stomach being around them. They know when to let silence do the talking.
Jamie leans back on her hands, staring up at the black canopy of leaves overhead. "Let's hope she's alive when this is over," she says.
I don't tell her I'm not sure she is. Not because Melissa's weak. But because this world doesn't care how strong you are. It only cares how long it can bleed you before you drop.
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of mud and old ash. I grip my sword a little tighter, feeling the weight of it—and everything it remembers—press into my palm.
– • –
The capital of Solmere shone like a dream—one woven from gold and cruelty. Silver towers pierced the clouds, their mirrored faces reflecting sunlight in dazzling, blinding sheets. Beneath them, nobles glided through perfumed halls, their laughter echoing off marble and crystal, untouched and uninterested in the war that raged beyond their walls. Here, the world's pain was a distant rumor, easily drowned beneath the music of fountains and the rustle of silk.
Inside the Grand Spire of Glass—the true heart of Solmere's power—echoes of laughter drifted through marbled corridors. Musicians played gentle strings, their notes winding through the air like smoke. Courtiers traded rumors as if they were coins, each word a weapon, each smile a mask.
But beyond the outer halls, past three layers of gilded security and guards in ceremonial armor, there was a room not marked on any map.
A chamber of obsidian and sapphire, its walls veined with silver that caught the candlelight and fractured it into a thousand cold stars. Here, the Council of Thorns convened—Solmere's hidden hand, the shadow behind the throne.
At the head of the oval table sat High Strategist Velkan Ryne, robed in raven-black silk, his fingers laced over a scroll bearing the wax seal of the Dusmir Empire. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, reflected the candle flames as he spoke.
"…He pulled back," Velkan murmured, his voice a low thread of satisfaction. "Gerald Von Baron did exactly what we expected."
Across from him lounged Lady Cassia Varnell, Solmere's most dangerous woman—not for her magic, but for her smile. She twirled a crystal goblet of blood-red wine, her lips curved in a knowing smirk.
"Retreating to Lornwood. Predictable," Cassia said, her voice as smooth as poison. "They never could handle precision warfare. Leon made sure of that."
A low chuckle came from Master Azien, the spymaster behind the spymaster, cloaked in moonlight blue. He traced invisible patterns on the table's surface, his eyes half-lidded with amusement. "And now they've seen him. The Lionheart. Word will spread. Panic will settle in their bones."
Velkan nodded, a small, cold gesture. "That's what we wanted. The ghost of Leon does more damage than his sword."
"But," Azien added, his tone sharpening, "this brings us closer to the edge. Gerald will not sit idle forever."
Cassia leaned in, her gaze glinting. "Let him fortify Lornwood. Let him gather his wounded. When he thinks he has safety, we bleed him again."
Velkan's fingers tapped the table, once, then twice—a signal of thought, not impatience. "And what of the capital?"
Azien answered, his words precise. "They're stirring. But not aligned. Dusmir's Emperor suspects treachery. He will sniff his court for rats—but he won't find the right ones. Not yet."
Cassia's smile widened, all teeth and secrets. "Good. We still have time."
Velkan stood, straightening his robes with a single, elegant motion. "Time is the one thing no soldier ever has."
He turned to the arched window behind him. From here, the towers of Solmere looked flawless—immaculate, unbreakable. But he knew better. He saw the cracks beneath the gold, the shadows between the stones.
"We'll let them lick their wounds in Lornwood," he said softly. "Then we send the next message. Quietly."
Cassia raised her glass, the candlelight catching in the wine. "To the next breach."
Azien smirked, raising his own. "To the next lie."
They drank, the sound of crystal ringing in the chamber—soft, cold, and final.