The river did not care who owned it.
Blackwater flowed the same way it always had—slow, brown, indifferent—sliding past the ruined ford where Council banners lay half-submerged, their colors bleeding into the mud. The smell of smoke still clung to the air behind us, sharp and bitter, but ahead there was only water, reeds, and silence.
We made camp on the far bank, not out of comfort, but necessity. Men were exhausted. Arms shook from hours of fighting, running, killing. Even victory had a weight, and it pressed down hard once the blood cooled.
I watched them settle—fires lit low, sentries posted, the wounded tended with quiet efficiency. No cheering. No songs. That worried me less than it would have once. Armies that celebrated every win didn't last long.
Rethan joined me at the river's edge, crouching to rinse blood from his hands. The water turned red for a moment, then cleared.
"That'll be talked about," he said. "Burning their supplies. Taking the ford without holding it."
"That's the point," I replied. "They expected conquest. We gave them absence."
He snorted. "You think like a bastard."
I allowed myself a thin smile. "I've had good teachers."
Across the camp, Lysa was arguing with one of the quartermasters, voice low but sharp. I couldn't hear the words, but I knew the tone. Triage. Always triage. Who gets bandages. Who gets rest. Who gets left behind.
War reduced everything to decisions you hated making.
As night fell, a rider approached under a white cloth tied awkwardly to his spear. He rode slowly, hands visible, fear plain even at a distance.
"Envoy," one of the sentries called.
I didn't like the word.
We met him between the lines, torchlight flickering across his pale face. He was young. Too young to be brave. Too old to cry.
"I bring terms," he said quickly, before anyone could speak. "From the Council."
Rethan laughed outright. "That's rich."
I raised a hand. "Speak."
The envoy swallowed. "The Council offers… clemency. If you disband your forces immediately, surrender yourself, and submit to trial, your followers will be spared execution. You will be imprisoned, not killed."
I stared at him.
"Is that all?"
He nodded, hopeful. "It's generous, considering—"
I stepped closer. He flinched.
"Do you know what happened at the ford?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "You attacked a lawful garrison."
"No," I corrected softly. "We burned a supply camp. We did not touch civilians. We did not slaughter prisoners. Your Council sent cavalry to wipe out refugees. They failed."
His mouth opened. Closed.
I leaned in until he could smell the smoke on me. "Tell your masters this: they don't get to offer mercy anymore."
Rethan drew his axe just enough for the edge to catch the torchlight.
The envoy's voice cracked. "Then… then this is war?"
I straightened.
"No," I said. "This is consequence."
We let him leave. Fear would carry the message better than blood.
—
The following days were harder than the battles.
Marching took its toll. Wounds festered. Food grew scarce. Every village we passed looked at us like we might burn them next—or save them. Sometimes both.
Word traveled ahead of us now. Some places closed their gates. Others sent out bread and water with shaking hands. A few sent young men to join us, eyes bright with the stupid hope of glory.
I took none of them without warning.
"This isn't glory," I told them. "This is hunger, fear, and watching people you know die badly. If you still want to come, come."
Some turned back.
Enough stayed.
On the fifth night after Blackwater, we camped in the ruins of an old watchtower overlooking the eastern plains. The land spread wide there, flat and exposed, dotted with farms and low stone keeps loyal to whoever rode through last.
A messenger arrived after sunset—one of ours this time, breathless and grinning despite exhaustion.
"They've named you," he said.
"I already have a name."
"A new one. Official." He wiped sweat from his brow. "The Council has declared you an enemy of the realm. Not just a traitor. An existential threat."
Rethan whistled. "That escalated fast."
I felt something settle inside me—not surprise, but clarity.
"What else?"
"They've appointed a High Marshal. Full authority. Tarek al-Rhazim."
The name landed like a hammer.
Rethan went still. "That bastard."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
So they'd finally stopped pretending.
Tarek al-Rhazim was not a man you sent to negotiate or intimidate. He was a man you sent to end wars. Brutal, precise, patient. He didn't rush. He didn't bluster. He erased problems methodically, and the realm praised him for it.
When I opened my eyes, the camp felt smaller.
"Where?" I asked.
"Marching west," the messenger said. "He's consolidating forces. Calling banners. He's not chasing you."
Rethan frowned. "Then what is he doing?"
I answered before the messenger could. "Preparing to crush everything around us."
Silence followed.
That night, sleep refused to come. I walked the perimeter alone, listening to the wind move through broken stone and dry grass. Somewhere out there, Tarek was doing the same thing—thinking, planning, turning maps into graves.
We were past the point of avoidance.
This war would not be decided by skirmishes anymore.
—
At dawn, a dispute broke out near the supply wagons.
Two men stood facing each other, weapons half-drawn. One was older, scarred, a veteran from the border wars. The other was young, newly joined, eyes burning with anger.
"He left him," the younger man shouted. "He left him to die back there!"
The older man's jaw tightened. "We couldn't carry him. We were already falling behind."
"You decided that!"
"Yes," the veteran snapped. "I did. And I'd do it again."
I stepped between them before steel cleared leather.
"Enough."
Both froze.
I looked at the younger man. "What's your name?"
"Joren," he said, chest heaving.
"Who was left behind?"
"My brother."
The word hung heavy.
I turned to the veteran. "Is that true?"
He nodded once. "He was gut-shot. Slowing us down. Would've gotten more killed."
I studied both of them, then raised my voice so others nearby could hear.
"This army does not survive by pretending every choice is clean," I said. "But it also does not survive by pretending choices don't matter."
I faced Joren. "Your brother didn't die because of cowardice. He died because war doesn't care about fairness."
Then I looked at the veteran. "And you don't get to make those calls alone again. Not without command approval."
Neither spoke.
I let the silence stretch, then added, "If anyone here thinks this path leads somewhere noble and painless, leave now."
No one moved.
That was worse than applause.
—
By midday, scouts returned with troubling news. Tarek's forces were moving faster than expected. Roads were being cleared.
Garrisons reinforced. Supplies secured.
"He's choking the land," Rethan said over the map. "Cutting us off."
"Yes," I agreed. "He wants to starve us into a mistake."
"And will it work?"
I tapped the map, tracing a line southward.
"Not if we don't stay where he expects."
We changed course that afternoon, veering toward the hill-country where armies moved slower and information traveled poorly. It wasn't safe—but it was unpredictable.
As we marched, I felt the shift in the men. Not fear. Not yet.
Anticipation.
They knew a real enemy was coming.
That night, as fires burned low, Lysa sat beside me without asking.
"You're thinking about him," she said.
"Yes."
"Good," she replied. "So is everyone else."
I looked at her. "You don't sound afraid."
She met my gaze steadily. "I'm afraid of what happens if we win. I'm afraid of what happens if we lose. Tarek is just a man in between."
I exhaled slowly. "He won't underestimate us."
"No," she said. "But he doesn't need to."
The wind shifted, carrying the distant howl of wolves across the hills.
I stared into the darkness, toward the roads Tarek would soon march.
Blackwater had been a line.
It could not be unmade.
And now the realm would bleed trying to cross it.