Spring had come whilst the dead were still being buried.

  Quinton stood in formation—third row, left flank—bow in hand, watching Vekarn command from the rear like he always did. Safe. Protected. Giving orders whilst others bled.

  The cold had broken. Green pushed through the thawed earth. Birds called from branches that had stood bare all winter.

  But the dead hadn’t finished rotting yet.

  The plague had done this. Quinton didn’t know why it came or where it started. Nobody did. It just… came. Swept through camps like fire through dry grass. Killed old and young. Strong and weak. No pattern. No mercy.

  His band had lost twenty-three. Nearly half. And whilst they were weak, whilst they were grieving, Vekarn had come with his coalition and his smiling face and his offers of “protection.”

  Join or starve, that’s what it really meant.

  So they’d joined. Because what choice did they have?

  That was two months ago. Now Quinton stood in Vekarn’s formation, holding Vekarn’s bow, about to kill for Vekarn’s ambition.

  He hated it.

  Hated him.

  Man, I have never seen a man so full of himself. Quinton’s jaw tightened. He and his son, Isac. Can’t stand them. Do they truly think they can rule over our people?

  He scoffed quietly. Low enough that nobody heard.

  It’s only a matter of time. His fragile hold on us will soon break.

  Vekarn raised his hand. Dropped it.

  The warriors moved.

  Quinton moved with them because refusing meant death.

  They hit from three sides.

  Quinton ran with the eastern group. Ten men. No formation. Just bodies tearing through grass.

  The first scream came from ahead. A sentry went down. Spear through his side. Not deep. Meant to wound. Make noise. Spread fear.

  Ethenius’s camp exploded.

  Men scrambled from shelters. Grabbed weapons. Spun around trying to see where the attack was coming from.

  “HOLD THE LINE!” someone screamed.

  There was no line.

  Quinton’s group hit them first. Men howling. High, ululating cries that Vekarn had taught them. “Make noise. Fear is half the battle.”

  One of Ethenius’s warriors threw his spear. Wild. Desperate. Missed.

  A club cracked his jaw. The bone broke. Teeth flew. Blood sprayed across someone’s face.

  Quinton didn’t swing. Not yet. He watched. Let others do the work.

  A young warrior—brave, stupid—lunged with his spear. Caught one of Vekarn’s men in the thigh. Shallow cut. The wounded man roared and drove his spear into the boy’s shoulder.

  The boy screamed. Dropped his weapon. Fell.

  Chaos everywhere. Men grappling. Spears jabbing. Someone bit someone’s ear. Someone else laughed—high, cracked, losing his mind mid-fight.

  Quinton moved through it like he was doing his part. Speak out. Feet planted. But he didn’t commit. Didn’t throw himself into the violence.

  Why should I die for him?

  A warrior with grey hair grabbed another by the throat. Drove his knee into the man’s groin. The man folded. Took a club to the back of his skull.

  He didn’t get up.

  “WE YIELD!” someone shrieked. “WE YIELD!”

  But the fighting hadn’t broken out yet. Still bodies colliding. Still blood.

  An arrow flew past Quinton’s ear. Too close. He flinched. Looked back.

  Vekarn. Standing at the rear. Bow drawn. Face calm. Picking targets like he was choosing fish from a basket.

  The arrow took a warrior in the arm. The man roared. Dropped his club.

  Of course. He shoots from safety whilst we bleed up here.

  “AGAIN!” Vekarn called.

  More arrows. One missed. One caught a warrior in the thigh. He went down howling.

  The line shattered. Men threw down weapons. Raised hands. Knelt.

  All except Ethenius.

  Old man. Grey-haired. Spear in hand. Standing alone whilst his warriors surrendered around him.

  “COWARDS!” he screamed. “COWARDS AND DOGS! STAND UP!”

  None moved.

  Quinton watched from the edge of the chaos. Watched two of Vekarn’s men—Brask and Ulden—flank the old man.

  Ethenius spun toward Brask. Thrust his spear. Uncontrolled. Desperate.

  Brask stepped aside. Easy.

  Ulden moved from behind. Fast. Drove his spear into Ethenius’s back.

  The old man screamed. High. Thin. Broken.

  He went down. Knees hit the earth. Blood spread across his shirt.

  Vekarn walked forward.

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  Quinton’s stomach turned.

  Here it comes. The speech. The lies.

  Vekarn turned to face the warriors. Let his voice carry. “The man who speared him gets first choice of food. Remember this. The man who strengthens my hand strengthens his own blood.”

  Ulden straightened. Pride on his face.

  Strengthens his own blood. Quinton wanted to spit. Everything’s about blood with him. About legacy. About his name lasting.

  He’d heard stories about Vekarn’s childhood. How his father had knelt to some other elder. How they’d laughed. How Vekarn had carried that shame his whole life.

  That’s what this is. All of this. One man’s wounded pride dressed up as salvation.

  Vekarn crouched in front of Ethenius. Smirked.

  “What a pity, Ethenius. I thought you were wise. Why resist?”

  Ethenius lifted his head. Blood on his lips. Spat.

  The glob hit Vekarn’s cheek.

  Vekarn wiped it away. Slow. Deliberate.

  Ethenius’s nostrils flared. “I’d rather lose a hand than bow to you. Do what you want. The spirits of our ancestors will grant me justice for your sin.”

  Quinton watched Vekarn’s face. Watched the smile spread.

  Here comes the lies.

  “The ancestors came to me in dreams,” Vekarn said. Voice calm. Certain. “They told me to gather our scattered people. To build something that lasts. The ancestors you worship chose me.”

  Bullshit, Quinton thought. Complete bullshit. And everyone knows it. But we pretend because what choice do we have?

  “Lies,” Ethenius hissed.

  “Maybe.” Vekarn shrugged. “But useful lies. You know what paradise is, Ethenius?”

  Quinton’s hands tightened on his spear.

  “It’s not food. Not safety.” Vekarn leaned closer. “It’s being remembered. My name. My bloodline. My sons are inheriting what I built. What do you leave behind? Sixty-four people who surrendered the moment you fell?”

  Ethenius’s face twisted. “What do you know of paradise?”

  “More than you.” Vekarn stood. “You cling to old ways. Old customs. Old pride. And where does it leave you? On your knees. Bleeding.”

  “You’re just a mortal,” Ethenius said. Stronger now. “You bleed red just like all of us. A single arrow right now could end you.”

  He lifted one shaking finger. Pointed at Vekarn.

  “Don’t get too full of yourself and overstep your boundaries, Vekarn. At the end of the day, you’re just a man like me. And sooner or later, that arrogance of yours will be the death of you.”

  Quinton felt something shift in his chest.

  Yes. Say it. Tell him.

  Vekarn’s jaw clenched. Hands curled into fists.

  For a moment—brief, beautiful moment—Quinton saw rage crack through the calm mask.

  Then Vekarn breathed. Forced it down.

  “You’re right,” Vekarn said. Voice level again. “I am just a man. But I’m the man who understands this world is changing. And men who don’t change die forgotten.”

  He turned to walk away.

  “I swear by my life and the blood of my lineage,” Ethenius called. “You be cursed. You’ll never know sanity. Never know peace. I see your fall, Vekarn. I see it clear.”

  Good, Quinton thought. Let him hear it. Let it eat at him.

  Vekarn stopped. Didn’t turn.

  “I won’t grant your hand the honour of ending my life,” Ethenius said.

  His jaw set. He bit down.

  Hard.

  Teeth meet through the tongue. Blood poured. Eyes bulged. The body convulsed.

  He toppled sideways. Twitched. Went still.

  Silence spread like frost.

  Quinton stared at the body. At the old man who’d chosen death over submission.

  That’s courage. Real courage. Not this.

  Vekarn stood there. Back turned. Then he spoke.

  “Tsk. A pity. He had spirit.”

  Spirit, he couldn’t break. That’s what bothers you.

  Vekarn pointed at two warriors. “You two. Grant him burial. He kept his honour till the end.”

  Honour. Like you’d know what that means.

  Vekarn faced the prisoners. Sixty-three people. Frightened. Defeated.

  “Ethenius is dead. His choice. But you have a different choice. Kneel. Join us. Or walk into the forest and take your chances.”

  Silence.

  “You kneel today so your children don’t kneel tomorrow,” Vekarn said. “I offer strength. Unity. Legacy. But legacy requires submission.”

  Submission. That’s the only word that matters to him. Everyone bent. Everyone controlled.

  One woman spoke. “What happens to us?”

  “You become useful. Follow rules. Eat food. Fight battles. Some will thrive. Some will survive. That’s up to you.”

  A young man: “If we refuse?”

  “You walk. Now. With nothing.”

  Quinton watched the young man’s face. Watched him look at his companions. At the blood. At the bodies.

  He’ll kneel. They all will. Because Vekarn knows how to leave no real choice.

  The young man lowered his head. “I’ll kneel.”

  Others followed. One by one.

  Quinton looked away. Couldn’t watch it. This slow death of dignity.

  Within minutes, sixty-three people knelt in the dirt.

  Two hundred and sixty now. How many more before he’s satisfied? How many more bands broken and absorbed?

  Vekarn turned to Brask. “Organise them. Feed them. Show them how we live. Treat them well. They’re ours now.”

  Ours. Like we’re possessions. Like we’re tools.

  The warriors began moving prisoners toward the camp. Sorting them. Processing them like harvested grain.

  Quinton stayed at the edge. Watched Vekarn walk away toward the river. Alone.

  For a moment, Quinton’s hand tightened on his spear.

  One throw. That’s all it would take. One throw whilst his back was turned. End this before it grows worse.

  But there were too many watching. Too many loyal. And even if he succeeded, what then? Isac would take over. Or Brask. Or someone worse.

  His fragile hold will break. Just not today.

  Quinton relaxed his grip. Turned away.

  Around him, warriors laughed. Clapped each other’s backs. Celebrated another victory. Another band absorbed.

  They believed. Or pretended to believe. Hard to tell the difference anymore.

  Quinton walked through them like a ghost. Back to his assigned position. Back to his new life under Vekarn’s rule.

  He looked at the other recent additions. Men from his old band. From Quoral’s band. From the twelve smaller groups that had bent the knee over the past months.

  Some looked resigned. Some looked broken. Some—few—looked like him. Like they were counting days. Waiting.

  The plague did this. Weakened us. Made us desperate enough to accept him.

  But plagues end.

  And when they do, when we’re strong again, when we’re not starving and grieving…

  His hold will break.

  It has to.

  Quinton settled into his spot. Cleaned his spear. Kept his face neutral whilst his thoughts ran dark.

  Across the camp, Vekarn stood by the river. Staring at his reflection. Probably seeing a king. A founder. A man building paradise.

  Quinton saw something else.

  A man so full of himself, he couldn’t see the hatred building. Couldn’t see the resentment festering in every warrior forced to kneel. Couldn’t see that the submission wasn’t loyalty. That fear wasn’t respect.

  You and your son, Isac. Can’t stand you. Walking around like you’re chosen. Like the ancestors truly spoke to you.

  But I’ve heard the truth. Heard the stories. About your father. About the shame you carry. About how all of this—every conquest, every speech, every grand vision—is just one wounded boy trying to rewrite his childhood.

  That’s not strength. That’s weakness dressed in blood.

  Quinton lay back on the grass. Closed his eyes. Let the sun warm his face.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  Your fragile hold on us will soon break.

  And when it does, I’ll be there to watch you fall.

  He smiled.

  Just a small smile. Hidden. Private.

  The smile of a man who knew how to wait.

  Spring had come whilst the dead were still being buried.

  But some deaths were slower than others.

  And Quinton was patient enough to wait for this one.