I woke choking on blood.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The world was a blur of canvas above me, flickering lamplight, and pain—sharp, deep, everywhere. My ribs screamed when I tried to breathe too deeply. My jaw throbbed. My thigh felt like fire had been packed into it and lit.
Hands pushed me back down.
"Don't," someone said. "Don't move, you stubborn bastard."
Rethan's voice.
That grounded me.
I swallowed, tasting iron. "Still alive?"
"Unfortunately," he said. "For both of us."
I turned my head slowly. The command tent was crowded—surgeons, aides, guards. The smell hit me all at once: alcohol, burned flesh, sweat, and blood. Too much blood.
"How bad?" I asked.
"You cracked two ribs," the surgeon said without looking at me. "Your leg will limp for weeks if you're lucky. Your jaw—" he prodded it and I hissed "—will swell. Don't chew."
"Anyone dead?" I asked.
The tent went quiet.
Rethan answered. "Seventy-three. More wounded. We buried Halvek at dawn."
I closed my eyes.
Seventy-three men for one duel that should never have happened.
Worth it, some would say.
I wasn't sure.
They kept me flat for most of the day. The camp moved around me—orders carried, scouts dispatched, the wounded sorted between those who would recover and those who would be remembered. I heard shouting once, then laughter, then silence again. Life going on because it had to.
By afternoon, word had spread.
Not just that we had beaten House Darneth—but how.
The duel traveled faster than the battle. Men told it in fragments: Halvek's challenge, steel ringing in the basin, blood in the dirt, the Lord-Commander of Darneth falling on his knees like any other man.
They exaggerated, of course.
I let them.
Stories are a weapon. And we needed every weapon we could get.
Rethan sat with me as the sun dipped low, his arm bound, his armor discarded. He looked tired in a way that sleep wouldn't fix.
"You know what this means," he said.
"Yes."
"They won't send negotiators anymore."
"No."
"They'll send names," he continued. "Men with reputations. Killers who want to test themselves."
I stared at the tent ceiling. "Let them come."
"That's easy to say when you're lying down," he replied.
I smiled faintly. "You didn't seem eager to stop me yesterday."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I was angry."
"So was I."
He sighed. "That's what scares me."
That night, the first of the consequences arrived.
A lone rider approached under a white cloth, long after dark. He carried no banner, no escort. Just a satchel and a face lined with fear and determination in equal measure.
They brought him to me.
He knelt as soon as he entered the tent. "I bring word," he said.
"From whom?" I asked.
"From the western holds."
My eyes sharpened. "Go on."
"They have heard of the duel," he said. "Of Halvek Darneth's death. They… they believe you."
"Believe what?"
"That the Council is lying. That this war is not over. That you are not what they say."
I felt something shift inside me.
Not relief.
Momentum.
"They offer what?" I asked.
"Food," he said. "Horses. A place to rest your wounded."
"And troops?"
He hesitated. "Not yet."
I nodded. "Smart."
He looked up at me. "They want to know how far you intend to go."
I answered without hesitation. "As far as they force me."
The rider swallowed. "Then they will watch. Closely."
"Tell them they're welcome to," I said. "But watching ends eventually."
After he left, I lay awake for hours, listening to the camp breathe.
Somewhere out there, the Council was recalculating. Adjusting. Counting.
I wondered if they were afraid yet.
Morning brought rain.
Cold, steady, miserable rain that turned the camp into mud and the roads into traps. Men cursed as they worked, but no one complained about the weather itself. Rain meant no marching armies today. Rain meant time.
Scouts returned with troubling news before noon.
Three groups moving independently. Not armies. Not banners.
Individuals.
Names.
One was a knight-errant from the north, famous for killing rebel leaders and presenting their swords at court like trophies.
Another was a former champion duelist, disgraced and sold into mercenary work, undefeated in thirty bouts.
The third was worse.
"Who?" I asked.
Rethan hesitated. "Serak of the Black Reach."
I sat up despite the pain. "He's real?"
"Unfortunately."
Serak was a rumor more than a man. A killer who fought with no armor, no honor, and no witnesses left alive. They said he collected scars like others collected coin.
They said if Serak was coming for you, you were already dead.
"Which one arrives first?" I asked.
"Serak," Rethan said. "Tonight. If the scouts are right."
I pushed myself to my feet.
The surgeon swore. "You shouldn't—"
"I know," I snapped. "But I will."
By nightfall, the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Fires burned low. The camp was tense in a way that felt different from battle—focused, inward, waiting.
I stood near the perimeter when the guards stiffened.
A figure walked out of the darkness.
No armor.
No helmet.
Just a tall man wrapped in a dark cloak, bare hands visible, boots silent on wet ground.
"I'm here for Cairos," he said calmly.
His voice carried without effort.
I stepped forward.
"I'm here."
He smiled.
Scarred lips. Scarred face. One eye clouded white.
"Good," Serak said. "I hate chasing."
He tossed something at my feet.
A severed hand.
Still wearing a signet ring.
"I met one of your scouts," he said. "He tried to run."
The camp exploded into motion—but I raised my hand.
"No," I said. "This one's mine."
Serak's grin widened.
We moved away from the camp, into the mud and darkness, rain slicking the ground beneath our boots. No witnesses close enough to interfere. Just steel, breath, and the sound of rain on dirt.
He attacked without warning.
Fast. Too fast.
His blade flashed low, then high, then vanished as he twisted his wrist. I barely parried, the impact numbing my fingers.
Pain lanced through my ribs.
He laughed softly. "You're hurt."
"Enough," I said.
"Good."
He pressed me relentlessly. No pattern. No rhythm. Every strike designed to draw a mistake. My leg screamed as I shifted weight. My vision narrowed.
I forced myself to slow down.
To wait.
Serak lunged again—overextended, just slightly.
I took the hit on my shoulder and drove my blade into his side.
He gasped, surprised more than hurt.
We locked close, foreheads nearly touching.
"You'll be remembered," he whispered.
"So will you," I replied.
I twisted the blade and pulled free.
Serak staggered back, blood pouring down his side. He laughed once, wet and broken, then collapsed into the mud.
I stood there, rain washing the blood from my hands, chest heaving.
Behind me, the camp was silent.
When I turned, every man was watching.
They had seen enough.
I sheathed my sword slowly.
Three names sent.
One dead by my hand.
The price of my name was rising.
And the realm would soon learn how expensive it had become.