By the fourth morning, the army stopped pretending.
No one spoke the Council's name aloud anymore. Orders were no longer framed as temporary or provisional. Men stopped asking when we would turn back and began asking where we would strike next. It wasn't rebellion yet—but it was no longer obedience.
That distinction mattered less with every mile we marched.
We reached the southern rise just before noon, a long ridge of dry earth and scattered stone overlooking three roads that fed into the borderlands. From there, you could see everything that mattered: caravans moving cautiously, villages half-abandoned, smoke from distant watchfires that should have been extinguished weeks ago if the Council's assurances had been worth a damn.
"They lied," Rethan said quietly beside me. "Again."
"They always do," I replied.
We made camp on the high ground. Defensive by instinct now. Ditches dug.
Stakes planted. Patrols doubled. This wasn't an army waiting for orders—it was an army preparing to be hunted.
Scouts returned before dusk with troubling news. Royal messengers were moving fast, not just toward us, but away from us—toward the allied holds.
"They're cutting us off," Rethan said after the third report. "Turning the lords against us before we can speak."
I nodded. "Then we speak louder."
That night, I ordered the banners brought to the central fire.
The men gathered in a wide ring, uneasy, curious. Some already knew what was coming. Others looked confused, offended even. The royal banner—deep crimson with its gilded sigil—was raised between two spears.
It had flown above us at the ford.
It had flown above us when men died.
I stepped forward.
"This banner," I said, my voice carrying across the circle, "claims authority over you. Over your lives. Over the way your deaths are counted and explained."
No one spoke.
"It has never bled for you," I continued. "It has never stood in the mud or the river or the smoke. It has never carried your wounded or buried your dead."
I drew my knife.
Steel flashed once.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as I cut cleanly through the banner's center. Not tearing—cutting. Precise. Deliberate.
Then I handed the blade to Rethan.
He hesitated only a moment before slicing again.
Others followed. Captains. Sergeants. Veterans whose hands shook not from doubt, but from the weight of what they were doing.
By the time the fire caught the cloth, there was no turning back.
No cheers followed. No roar. Just a deep, collective breath, like a wound finally opened to air.
We were no longer pretending to belong to the realm.
We belonged to each other.
The consequences came faster than expected.
At dawn, horns sounded from the eastern road. Not a warning horn—too controlled for that. Formal. Official.
Royal troops. Not riders this time. Infantry. Disciplined. Armored. Marching under a different banner—the Council's war standard.
"They're early," Rethan muttered.
"They were always coming," I said.
We formed quickly. Shields locked. Spears leveled. Archers took the ridge. Cavalry waited behind the slope, hidden, restless.
The royal commander rode forward under a white cloth tied to his spear.
"I bring terms," he called.
I stepped out to meet him.
"You bring demands," I said. "There's a difference."
He dismounted, a tall man with sharp features and eyes that measured everything. "Stand down. Disperse your forces. Surrender the officers named on this list." He held up a parchment. My name sat at the top.
"And if we refuse?"
"Then you are enemies of the realm," he said evenly. "This army will be broken. Today."
I glanced past him at his ranks. Well-drilled. Well-fed. Unblooded.
"You know," I said, "they didn't send you to negotiate. They sent you to die first."
His eyes flickered.
"You don't believe that," he said.
"I do," I replied. "Because if you succeed, they'll praise you. If you fail, they'll say you misunderstood your orders."
I stepped closer. "Tell me—how many of your men have stood in a river while arrows fell like rain?"
Silence.
"That's what I thought."
He mounted without another word.
The horns sounded moments later.
The battle that followed was nothing like the ford.
There was no chaos at first. No panic. Just two disciplined forces colliding with grim inevitability. Shields slammed. Spears punched. Lines buckled and held and buckled again.
I fought in the front this time.
Not because it was brave—but because it was necessary.
Royal troops were trained to break formations, not adapt. When their first push failed, uncertainty crept in. When their second stalled, fear followed.
Our men had already learned how to fight when plans failed.
Steel rang. Men screamed. Blood soaked the dry earth, turning dust into mud underfoot. I took a cut along my forearm and didn't notice until my grip slipped. Rethan went down briefly before hauling himself back up, helmet split, eyes wild.
The cavalry hit their flank at the perfect moment.
Not a glorious charge. A brutal one. Horses crashing into shields. Men crushed under weight and momentum. The royal line folded inward, then collapsed entirely.
When it was over, the ridge was ours.
The royal commander lay dead near his fallen standard, throat opened cleanly.
We did not pursue the survivors far.
Let them run.
By sunset, word was already spreading.
The Council's army had failed.
And failure travels faster than orders.
That night, messengers arrived from two border lords—quietly, cautiously. Neither pledged open support. But both offered food. Shelter. Time.
It was enough.
As I stood on the ridge, looking down at the bodies being gathered, Rethan joined me.
"There's no way back now," he said.
I watched the horizon darken. "There never was."
Far away, beyond the hills, the capital waited—unaware that the war it feared least had just begun.
And this time, it would not be fought on their terms.