The hills closed around us like clenched fists.
By the third day after turning south, the land rose and folded in on itself—long ridges broken by narrow valleys, scrub forests clinging stubbornly to stone, old shepherd paths winding where roads had never bothered to exist. It was the kind of terrain generals hated and survivors learned to love.
Movement slowed. Scouts doubled. Silence became discipline.
Tarek al-Rhazim would not rush into this blind. That knowledge gnawed at me more than the terrain itself. Lesser commanders would blunder forward, desperate to bring numbers to bear. Tarek would wait, watch, test, then tighten the grip.
A noose, drawn patiently.
We camped that night beneath a ridge crowned with shattered menhirs—ancient stones from a time before kingdoms, before councils. Their surfaces were scarred with symbols no one remembered anymore. Men said the stones marked an old battlefield where no victor survived to claim it.
Fitting.
Rethan stood beside me, studying the dark valleys below. Fires burned low, shielded from view. Even the horses seemed to sense the danger, stamping less, breathing quieter.
"Scouts say Tarek's vanguard split," he said.
"Three columns. Wide spacing."
I nodded. "He's probing."
"And herding.
"
"Yes."
Rethan grunted. "Bastard's trying to pen us in."
I traced the ridgelines with my eyes. Three valleys converged ahead, all leading toward a narrow basin—flat ground, easy to surround, hard to escape once entered.
A killing bowl.
"We don't go forward," I said.
Rethan raised an eyebrow. "Then where?"
I turned west, toward steeper ground and broken rock. "There. Where his maps lie."
—
The first clash came before dawn.
Not a battle. A knife-fight in the dark.
Our forward scouts stumbled onto one of Tarek's screening units moving through a ravine. No horns. No time to disengage. Steel whispered instead of rang.
By the time I reached them, bodies already littered the narrow path—Council soldiers in muted armor, throats opened, faces frozen in surprise. One of ours lay against the rock wall, breathing shallowly, blood pooling beneath him.
"Ambush?" I asked.
The scout shook his head. "Meeting engagement. They were cautious. Too cautious."
That worried me more than arrogance would have.
We dragged the wounded man back and vanished into the rocks before sunrise. No pursuit followed. Tarek would already know what happened. He would count the dead, mark the time, adjust.
The noose did not tighten yet.
—
On the fifth day, it did.
Smoke rose behind us that morning—villages burning. Not close, but close enough to see the black fingers clawing at the sky. Tarek wasn't chasing us directly anymore.
He was cutting away everything that could shelter us.
Men noticed. Whispers moved through the ranks. Hunger sharpened tempers. A fight broke out over dried meat that night—quick, ugly, fists and curses until Rethan cracked skulls apart with the flat of his axe.
Later, I found Joren sitting alone, staring at the fire like he wanted to throw himself into it.
"You're thinking about leaving," I said.
He didn't look up. "Thinking about surviving."
"Same thing," I replied.
He finally met my eyes. "Tarek won't stop. Everyone knows that. You know that. So what's the plan when he finally corners us?"
I didn't lie. "Then we bleed him."
"That's it?"
"No," I said. "Then we show his men that following him is worse than following me."
Joren swallowed. "And if that doesn't work?"
I leaned closer. "Then we die hard enough that the realm remembers."
He laughed weakly. "You're a madman."
"Yes," I agreed. "But I'm not wrong."
—
The duel happened two days later.
Tarek's outriders finally caught us in force near a broken bridge spanning a gorge.
They advanced carefully, shields raised, spears forward, testing for weakness. A
disciplined screen—too disciplined to panic, too trained to charge blindly.
Their captain stepped forward alone, helm crested with black horsehair.
"I am Captain Serros," he called. "By authority of the High Marshal, I challenge your leader to single combat."
Murmurs rippled through our ranks.
Rethan snarled. "Don't you dare."
I stepped past him.
This was not bravery.
This was necessity.
Single combat bought time. Time to reposition. Time to rest men. Time to test the enemy's nerve.
I walked out onto the stone span, the gorge yawning beneath my feet.
Serros removed his helm. Scarred face. Calm eyes. He was good. He knew it.
"Cairos," he said. Not a question.
"You know me."
"Tarek wants you measured."
I drew my sword. "He should've come himself."
Serros smiled thinly. "You're not worth his blade."
Then he attacked.
Fast. Clean. No wasted motion.
Our swords clashed, ringing sharp in the open air. He pressed hard, driving me back toward the edge, footwork flawless. He fought like a man trained to end duels quickly—overwhelm, disarm, finish.
I let him think it was working.
When he overcommitted on a high strike, I stepped inside his guard, slammed my shoulder into his chest, and we both nearly went over the edge. He recovered faster than I expected, slashing across my ribs.
Pain flared.
Good. Pain sharpened focus.
We circled again, breath fogging, steel singing. He nicked my arm. I split his lip.
Blood flecked the stones between us.
"You're slowing," he said.
"So are you," I replied.
The gorge wind howled, carrying the sound of our blades to both armies. Men watched without breathing. Morale hung on every step.
Serros lunged for my throat.
I dropped, rolled, came up inside his reach, and drove my pommel into his knee. Bone cracked. He screamed, stumbled.
I didn't finish him immediately.
I kicked his sword away and pressed my blade to his neck.
"Yield," I said.
His eyes burned with hatred—and fear.
"Do it," he spat.
I leaned closer. "Tell Tarek al-Rhazim this: I am not prey."
Then I killed him.
Clean. Quick.
Silence followed.
I turned back to our lines, blood dripping from my blade into the gorge below. Rethan met my gaze and nodded once.
The outriders withdrew without a word.
Tarek had his measure now.
—
That night, as men slept fitfully, a realization settled over me with crushing clarity.
Tarek was not trying to defeat me in battle.
He was trying to define me.
Every move he made forced me into sharper, darker shapes—raider, butcher, rebel king. Every village burned behind us narrowed the choices ahead.
If I kept reacting, I would become exactly what the Council claimed.
I could not allow that.
At dawn, I gathered the captains.
"We stop running," I said.
Faces tightened. Questions rose—but no one interrupted.
"We strike somewhere he can't ignore. Somewhere symbolic."
Rethan frowned.
"Where?"
I pointed to the map. To a city no one expected us to approach.
"Stonefall."
Gasps. Murmurs.
Stonefall was fortified, wealthy, loyal to the Council—and unprepared for an attack from the hills.
"Taking it means open war," Lysa said quietly.
"Yes," I agreed. "And not taking it means slow death."
Silence stretched.
Then Rethan grinned, feral and tired. "Well. That'll piss him off."
I allowed myself a thin smile.
"Good."
Because noose or not—
I intended to decide when it tightened.