Dawn came pale through the canvas walls, cold light seeping through the tent's seams.

  Alric woke at the war table where he'd remained through the night, neck stiff from the wooden chair. The brazier had died to ash hours ago.

  Priscilla lay on the cot, curled tight beneath the furs, facing the wall. Whether she slept or simply hid, he couldn't tell.

  He rose quietly, joints protesting. The camp was already stirring outside: distant voices, the clatter of breakfast preparations, horses being saddled.

  He rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness.

  His gambeson hung on a peg beside the armor stand.

  He pulled it on over his tunic, the padded layers familiar and worn.

  His sword belt came next, blade checked by habit even though he'd done nothing to dull it.

  The water for washing was cold on his face, helping him wake up.

  When he glanced at her, she still hadn’t moved.

  “We march in an hour,” he said to her back. “Be ready.”

  No response. Not even the slightest movement.

  He stepped outside and was met by late autumn’s morning chill.

  He beckoned some guards he found standing near the smaller tents about him.

  They came to him at once and saluted.

  “Post watch on my tent. No one enters unless I say so. Call for medicae, she needs cleaning and a change of bandages. Only women are to enter.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander.”

  He moved into the camp, leaving her behind.

  The meadow lay shrouded in mist, cook fires glowing dim in the haze. Rations and salted meat were being passed around as the ranks prepared for the march.

  Men moved between tents in practiced routine, breaking down shelters, loading wagons, checking gear.

  Alric walked among them in silence. They saluted as he passed, fists to chests. He responded with a simple nod.

  He scanned the perimeter, checking guard positions, watching the dreaded forest bleed into the meadow’s edge.

  Though still enshrouded by its fading madness, it felt already long gone, like it hadn’t happened the day prior.

  His thoughts turned to the night before, dark flashes appearing in his mind like unwanted motes.

  Her screams. The way she had curled against the wall like a wounded cat. The terror in her eyes when she looked at him through the guards.

  He’d broken her to get an answer she still hadn’t given.

  What did that make him?

  A Seneschal? One of Vaudel’s ilk, wielding paranoia like a wepaon?

  The thought twisted in his gut like wormwood, clouding his mind.

  His gaze fell on a piece of wood used for tent making, and an urge to break it came over him.

  But he held himself against it.

  What good would it do? Useless. All of it.

  He forced his fists to unclench and moved on.

  The Tents of Meeting were close. His men would be there to discuss the departure.

  He came near and heard them already in the midst of a discussion.

  He pushed aside the flap and entered.

  Regulus, Klethiar, Veracles and Vargo were all there, standing round the center table with a map spread before them, plotting out a course to take.

  “Report.”

  Klethiar spoke first.

  “The scouts have returned from their reconnaissance with... unexpected news.”

  He paused, visibly uncertain how to continue.

  “They reported reaching the Crag’s end after thirty minutes at full gallop.”

  Alric stared at him.

  “Speak.”

  Klethiar continued.

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  “Thirty minutes, my Lord. All three scouts reported the same. The Crag's end lies less than an hour's ride from here.”

  “Impossible,” Alric’s voice was flat as stone. "We calculated four days minimum based on the entrance march."

  "Yet their reports match," Veracles said. "I questioned them separately. But they all spoke the same thing. Same distance. Same landmarks."

  “Indeed.” Vargo interjected.

  Alric turned to the map, then back to Klethiar. The parchment meant nothing now.

  “What did they see at the edge?”

  "The lowlands, Lord Commander. Half-flooded from autumn rains. The Valekyrian mountains to the northeast. And the Great River, shimmering in morning light."

  Veracles spoke carefully. "The Crag has... changed, my Lord. Or perhaps we have."

  “Speak none of it, Veracles. We remain unscathed of its tricks.” Regulus cut him off.

  Alric raised a fist, silencing them both.

  "It doesn't matter why the distance changed. What matters is we can leave this place today." He looked at each officer in turn.

  "My Lord, with respect. If the Crag can compress four days into mere moments, what else has it compressed? Our minds? Our men?”

  Vargo looked at him and spoke bluntly.

  "Half an hour at full gallop, Lord Commander. That's eight leagues, maybe ten if the terrain permits it. We marched for a day entire into this cursed place. The math is broken."

  “Indeed,” Alric answered. “But has it been normal since we entered? We saw how our maps became chaff in the wind when faced with the Crag. We haven’t followed one since.”

  "But, my Lord," Klethiar said, voice uncertain. "When you returned yesterday... could it be that you freed us and the Crag is letting us go?"

  The room fell silent once more, officers looking at their youngest.

  Then Alric spoke at last.

  "I don't know if I broke it or if it's baiting us with another lure."

  He paused, jaw tightening.

  "Either way, don't trust it so easily.”

  He met their eyes, one by one.

  "But we can't stay. The men are straining, and supplies won't last either. If the Crag wants to kill us, it'll do it whether we wait or march."

  A pause.

  "So we march. But I lead. If this exit is another vision, it takes me first."

  Vargo's brow furrowed slightly, but said nothing.

  Alric turned to Klethiar.

  "The flooded lowlands. How deep?"

  Klethiar glanced at his notes.

  "The scouts said knee-deep in most places. Waist-deep where the old road runs through the valley’s bottom."

  "Can the wagons cross?"

  "We'll need men in the water," Vargo said. "Teams pulling ropes, pushing from behind when wheels bog down. It'll be brutal work, but possible."

  "How long to reach dry ground?"

  "Half a day's march through the floods,” Veracles traced a finger across the map.

  “Assuming the road hasn’t washed out completely."

  Alric studied the useless parchment one last time, then looked up.

  "We break camp immediately. I want the army moving within the hour."

  "Dismissed."

  Alric stepped toward the exit.

  “Lord Commander.”

  Alric stopped, hand on the tent flap, and turned back.

  Regulus stood, posture rigid.

  "There is another matter we must address."

  The other officers shifted.

  Alric let the flap fall closed and stepped back into the tent.

  “Speak.”

  “There were screams last night from your tent,” he began, voice clipped. “You summoned guards, then dismissed them without explanation.”

  He paused, gaze steady.

  “The prisoner should have been removed as I previously suggested last night, and placed under formal supervision. Yet she remains under your sole custody.”

  His tone hardened slightly. "The men heard those screams, my Lord. They are drawing conclusions. This will reach the court."

  Vargo’s stare filled with hot hatred for a breath, then quenched.

  Alric cut to the older officer, eyes cold as winter ice.

  “Regulus—” His voice low, warning.

  But Regulus raised a hand.

  “My Lord, what I am about to ask is not meant as insult or provocation. But I must know.”

  Veracles glanced at Vargo questioningly. The latter simply acknowledged and continued listening.

  “Does… does she remind you of your late wife?”

  The room fell silent.

  Then Vargo snapped.

  “Lariante! You dare bring her majesty into this?!”

  He stood, sabre half-drawn, knuckles twisting around the hilt, teeth clenched tight.

  Regulus turned to him and spoke.

  “I ask what you won’t, Vargo. You love him too well to view him clearly.”

  “YOU-…!” Vargo’s face went white, then red.

  The blade hissed fully free.

  “You know nothing of loyalty, Lariante!” His voice cracked. “You’d feed him to the court like meat to swine if it meant protecting your so-called order!”

  He shifted his weight, ready to strike.

  Regulus took hilt in hand, but didn’t draw.

  “Then answer the question for him,” he said, voice low and steady. “If you can.”.

  Vargo’s hand trembled on the hilt, caught between striking and lowering.

  “Enough. Both of you.” Veracles spoke, voice cutting through the hatred.

  “Regulus is right,” he continued.

  Vargo’s eyes flicked to him, betrayal stark on his face.

  Veracles raised a hand, meeting his gaze evenly.

  “Not because the Lord Commander is compromised. But because this question will be asked by the court itself the moment we reach the capital.”

  He turned his eyes to Alric once more.

  “The Seneschals will hound you to the depths of the abyss just to see you fall. Durell, that candle-faced fuckspawn and his bastard ilk will shout for joy when they see a Drathiri woman riding beside you.”

  “And they will scream for betrayal, scandal, treason. All to see you kneel and beg for mercy.”

  He gestured to the other officers with his hand.

  “So trust us, my Lord. Better to answer here, among men who serve you. Than there, where jackals spin their webs.”

  Alric looked at Regulus and drew a slow breath and held it, then released it through his nose.

  He moved to the nearest chair, dragged it to the center of the room, and sat heavily, as though a sack of bricks pressed upon his shoulders.

  “Regulus. Take a seat in front of me.”

  He obeyed wordlessly. He took a chair, placed it, and sat.

  “Vargo. Sheathe your blade. There is no need for its steel now, and come beside Regulus. Veracles, you do the same. All three of you must bear witness. No shadows between us.”

  “What about me, my Lord?” Klethiar asked, voice quiet. “What would you have me do?”

  Alric looked at him and answered.

  “You are to go outside and order anyone within earshot to step back from this tent fifty paces, then come back.”

  Klethiar bowed his head and moved with haste.

  The tent flap fell shut behind him.

  Alric remained seated, gaze fixed on the three men before him.

  His hands rested on his knees unmoving. But inside his chest, something old and familiar coiled tight. A serpent whose venom had been emptied already.

  The tent remained in silence, save for the muffled sounds of Klethiar’s orders coming through and the distant clatter of men repositioning.

  Vargo watched him with a steady gaze, while Regulus sat rigid, jaw clenched.

  Veracles rested his elbows on his knees, hands folded, eyes never leaving Alric’s face.

  No one spoke.

  The tent flap stirred, and Klethiar stepped in again, breath heavier than before.

  “It’s done, my Lord.”

  Alric nodded and beckoned with his hand to a chair near the table.

  Klethiar bowed again and took it, completing the formation.

  Alric looked at them in turn, from left to right.

  “What I am about to tell you cannot be spoken aloud to anyone but my grave.”

  His voice was flat, final.

  “Once you hear it, you will become part of it.”

  He met their gaze again, one by one.

  “Leave. This is your last chance.”

  Silence. No one moved.

  “So be it.”