The river held its breath.
That was how it felt on the morning of the sixth day—no birdsong, no careless chatter, even the water seeming slower, heavier, as if it knew something was coming and did not wish to arrive first.
I woke before dawn, armor already on, sword resting across my knees. I hadn't slept well. None of us had. Too many eyes watched the southern bank. Too many questions hung unanswered.
Ril entered the tent, rubbing his face. "Scouts are back."
I looked up. "Draeven?"
He hesitated. That was enough.
"No," he said. "Kaeldor."
For a moment, the word meant nothing.
Then it meant everything.
"How many?" I asked.
"Enough," he replied grimly. "Banners confirmed. Crown colors. Heavy infantry. Cavalry."
Elren pushed in behind him, jaw clenched. "They're moving fast. Like they don't want to give anyone time to think."
I stood slowly.
Valen Draegor had not moved.
The council had.
By midmorning, the river towns knew.
You could feel it ripple through the camps and villages like a sickness—fear sharper than anything Draeven had brought. Men who'd faced enemy steel without flinching now stared north, pale and silent.
"Our own," someone muttered. "They're sending our own."
I climbed the watch hill overlooking Redmere Ford. From there, I saw the dust cloud rising in the distance. The glint of armor beneath the sun. The unmistakable order of a trained Kaeldor host.
They weren't marching to fight Draeven.
They were marching to stop me.
Ril joined me, face tight. "This is bad."
"Yes," I said. "That's why they chose it."
"They'll call you traitor. Us too."
"They already have."
Elren spat into the dirt. "Spineless fucks couldn't beat Draeven, so they're trying to hang the man holding the line."
"They're afraid of precedent," I said. "A commander who doesn't obey."
The Kaeldor army halted within sight of the river.
Trumpets sounded—not for attack, but announcement.
A herald rode forward alone, white sash across his chest, voice carrying across the water.
"By order of the Crown of Kaeldor," he declared, "you are commanded to lay down arms, relinquish control of the river towns, and submit yourself for judgment."
Murmurs erupted behind me.
I raised a hand for silence.
"What judgment?" I called back.
The herald swallowed. "Trial for insubordination, seizure of royal assets, and—" He hesitated. "—incitement of rebellion."
Ril laughed, sharp and bitter. "Rebellion. Hear that? Fucking rebellion."
I stepped forward to the river's edge.
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
The herald's voice dropped. "Then you will be taken by force."
Behind me, the river towns gathered.
Farmers. Merchants. Militia. Men and women who had watched Stonewake burn and decided they would not wait their turn.
The woman from Rathmere stood near the front. "You said you'd protect us."
"I did," I replied.
"And now?"
I looked back at the Kaeldor banners.
"Now," I said, "the crown wants to pretend this war is tidy."
Ril leaned close. "If we fight them…"
"I know," I said quietly. "History will call it civil war."
Elren's voice was low and furious. "And if we don't, Draeven walks back in within a week."
I closed my eyes for a brief moment.
This was the choice Valen Draegor had been waiting for.
The Kaeldor army began to deploy.
Shield walls forming. Cavalry shifting to the flanks. Engineers moving forward with practiced ease.
They were not here to negotiate.
They were here to end an inconvenience.
A runner arrived from the river towns, breathless. "People are arming
themselves," he said. "They're saying they won't stand aside."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Tell them to hold," I said. "No one moves unless I say so."
The runner nodded and vanished.
Ril stared at me. "You're going to fight Kaeldor."
"I'm going to protect the river," I replied. "If the crown stands in the way, that's their decision."
He searched my face. "You don't sound angry."
"I'm past anger," I said. "This is clarity."
A horn sounded from the Kaeldor line.
Once.
A signal.
Archers stepped forward.
Ril's hand tightened on his spear. "They're going to fire."
"No," I said slowly. "Not yet."
I scanned the opposite bank, eyes narrowing.
Something was wrong.
Too disciplined.
Too slow.
Then I saw it.
Another dust cloud.
South.
Rising behind the Kaeldor army.
Elren followed my gaze. "What in the seven hells…"
The realization hit like a hammer.
"They didn't come alone," I said.
The Kaeldor host began to shift uneasily as a second force emerged on the horizon—dark banners snapping in the wind.
Draeven.
Valen Draegor's army advancing hard, perfectly timed.
Ril went pale. "They're between us."
"Yes," I said.
Kaeldor to the north.
Draeven to the south.
The river at our backs.
The trap closed.
A Kaeldor trumpet blared in alarm as they realized it too late.
And across the field, a single rider broke from the Draeven line, raising a black banner marked with Valen Draegor's sigil.
A message.
An offer.
Or a declaration.
I stared at the converging armies, the river behind me, the people who had chosen to stand.
"Well," I murmured, drawing my sword as steel sang free of its scabbard, "that's a fucking problem."
The rider kept coming.
And the world held its breath.