The dead were buried before noon.
Not with prayers. Not with banners or words meant to soften what had happened. We dug the pits by hand, shoulders burning, fingers raw, and laid the bodies down wrapped in whatever cloth could be spared.
Some had names spoken quietly before the earth covered them. Others did not. War does not remember everyone.
I stood at the edge of the last grave, watching soil fall onto a man I had eaten beside two nights ago. His name was Bren.
He had complained about the bread, laughed too loud, and died with his shield locked in place like he'd been born holding it. No final speech. No hero's moment. Just steel, fear, and then nothing.
This is what victory costs, I thought.
Rethan wiped his hands on his trousers and spat. "Council won't like this."
"They don't like breathing," I said. "They endure it."
He snorted, but his eyes were tired. Everyone's were.
The camp had changed since the battle. Not in size or shape, but in weight. Men moved with purpose now, not panic. Sentries stood straighter. Conversations stopped when I passed—not from fear, exactly, but attention. I hadn't asked for it, but I felt it all the same.
Leadership is a thing people give you long before you accept it.
Scouts returned in the afternoon, mud-streaked and sharp-eyed.
"No pursuit," the lead scout reported.
"Council forces pulled back hard. They're regrouping behind Blackwater Ford. Looks like damage control."
"Damage control," Rethan echoed. "After losing a cavalry detachment?"
"After failing to kill you," the scout corrected, glancing at me.
I dismissed them and turned toward the map laid across a crate. Stones marked roads, broken arrows marked engagements. Blackwater Ford sat like a wound at the center.
"They'll spin this," I said. "Say they engaged bandits. Or traitor remnants. Or deny it happened at all."
Rethan leaned over the map. "But the soldiers know."
"So do the merchants," I replied. "And the villages along the road. Stories travel faster than messengers."
That mattered more than banners.
By evening, the truth reached us in fragments. Refugees. Traders. A wounded courier who'd slipped away before the fighting even ended.
The Council had sealed the capital's gates.
That alone told me everything.
"They're afraid," Rethan said quietly.
"Yes," I answered. "And afraid men make mistakes."
We didn't move that night. The wounded needed rest. The civilians needed to breathe without running. And I needed to think.
War had found us whether I wanted it or not. Not a rebellion. Not survival skirmishes. Open conflict.
There would be no going back now.
I sat by the fire long after the others slept, sharpening my sword by habit rather than need. Sparks jumped with each stroke. The blade had taken chips during the cavalry fight. Honest damage. The kind you keep, not grind away.
Footsteps approached softly.
Lysa stopped a few paces away. She had blood on her sleeve that wasn't hers and exhaustion etched deep into her face.
"You're awake," she said.
"So are you."
She hesitated, then sat across from me. For a while, neither of us spoke.
"They're calling you something," she finally said.
I didn't look up. "Let me guess. Traitor?"
"No." She met my eyes. "The Iron Wolf."
I laughed once, short and humorless. "That's worse."
"Names like that spread," she said. "Especially after today."
I slid the sword back into its sheath. "Names turn men into myths. Myths get killed."
"And leaders get followed," she replied.
There it was.
The thing none of us were saying out loud.
I stood. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we move."
"Where?"
I glanced toward the dark road leading north.
Toward Blackwater Ford.
"Toward the truth," I said.
—
We marched at dawn.
No drums. No horns. Just boots and resolve.
The land ahead was scarred by movement—ruts from wagons, trampled grass, the stink of fear left behind by retreating soldiers. We followed the edges of the road, scouts fanning out wide. I expected an ambush.
It never came.
By midday, smoke rose on the horizon.
Blackwater Ford.
The crossing was narrower than I remembered. The river sluggish and brown, swollen by recent rain. The ford itself was fortified now—stakes driven into the banks, earthworks hastily raised. Council banners hung there, bright and defiant.
They weren't hiding anymore.
We stopped on a ridge overlooking the approach. Men crouched low, eyes fixed on the fortifications.
Rethan frowned. "They're daring us."
"Yes," I said. "Because they think we won't take it."
"And will we?"
I scanned the defenses. Too many soldiers for a frontal assault. Archers positioned well. Cavalry held in reserve.
"We won't attack," I said. "Not like that."
A murmur rippled through the ranks.
I raised a hand. Silence returned.
"They think this crossing is a wall," I continued. "It isn't. It's a message."
I turned to the scouts. "Find me another crossing. I don't care how ugly it is."
One of them grinned. "Already did."
Of course he had.
We moved by nightfall, circling wide, following a goat path downriver. The alternate crossing was nothing more than broken stone and shallow water, ignored because it couldn't support wagons.
But it could support men.
We crossed soaked and silent, weapons held high. No torches. No sound.
On the far bank, I knelt and pressed my palm into the mud.
"This is where it changes," I said softly.
Rethan nodded. "For them."
For us too, I thought, but didn't say it.
We struck before dawn.
Not the ford—but the supply camp behind it.
Tents went up in flames before the first alarm sounded. Horses screamed as their lines were cut. Men stumbled from sleep into chaos.
This was not a battle.
It was punishment.
I fought through smoke and shouting, my blade moving on instinct. A Council officer charged me, sword raised high and reckless.
We circled once.
"You're Cairos," he said, breath ragged. "They said you'd run."
"They lied," I replied.
He attacked.
He was good—trained, aggressive—but desperate. I let him spend his strength, let his blows slide, then stepped inside his guard and drove my pommel into his face. He fell, stunned.
I placed my blade at his throat.
"Yield," I said.
He spat blood. "Traitor."
I killed him anyway.
Around me, my men fought with terrifying discipline. Not wild rage. Purpose. Tents burned. Supplies were destroyed, not looted. Messages were left nailed to posts—simple words, written in charcoal.
We are still here.
By the time the ford realized what was happening, it was too late. Smoke choked the riverbank. Panic spread through the garrison.
They abandoned the crossing by noon.
We didn't pursue.
We stood on the far side of Blackwater Ford, watching Council banners sink into the mud.
Men looked at me, waiting.
I wiped blood from my blade and spoke loud enough for all to hear.
"This is not rebellion," I said. "This is reckoning."
Somewhere far away, bells would be ringing. Messengers riding. Lies being rewritten.
But here, at the river's edge, truth stood unarmored.
The Council had drawn first blood.
And I was done running from it.