The Black Gorge earned its name honestly.
It was a wound torn into the earth, a long, narrow slash where cliffs rose so steep they stole the light for most of the day.
The road running through it was little more than a scar of packed dirt and stone, wide enough for two wagons if they trusted each other.
Above it, the cliffs leaned inward like spectators waiting for blood.
Perfect.
We reached the gorge an hour before dawn, moving without torches, feet wrapped in cloth to muffle sound.
The air smelled of damp stone and old rot.
Somewhere below, water trickled faintly—too weak to matter, too loud to hide a scream.
I crouched at the edge and peered down.
The supply train was already there.
Six wagons. Heavily laden.
Canvas covers stretched tight over grain, dried meat,
arrows, spare spearheads.
Enough to feed and arm an army for weeks. Council banners hung limp in the still air.
Guard detail: lighter than I'd hoped, heavier than I wanted.
Thirty soldiers at least. Maybe more tucked into the shadows.
Two watchfires burned low at either end of the narrowest point. Discipline was decent.
Not elite.
Confident.
They didn't think anyone would be stupid enough to hit them here.
They were wrong.
I turned back to the others.
Faces pale in the dark, eyes sharp with exhaustion and anticipation.
These weren't fresh troops. These were survivors.
Men and women who'd already buried friends and learned how close death liked to stand.
"Listen carefully," I said quietly.
"No shouting. No chasing. We strike, we burn, we leave."
Rethan snorted softly.
"You always say that."
"And you always ignore the part where we leave," Lysa added.
I allowed myself a thin smile.
"Tonight, we don't get greedy."
I pointed to the cliff edge above the center wagons.
"Archers up here. Two volleys. Fire arrows only.
Aim for canvas, not men."
They nodded.
"Rethan," I continued, "you take the left descent with twelve. Silent kills only. If steel rings, we abort."
He grinned, teeth flashing white in the dark. "You're taking all the fun."
"I'm taking the officers," I replied.
That wiped the grin off his face.
Good.
We split without another word.
I slid down the narrow goat path on the right side of the gorge, boots scraping stone, heart pounding not with fear but with focus. Every breath tasted sharp. Every sound felt too loud.
At the bottom, the road loomed close. I pressed myself into the shadow of the cliff and watched.
Two officers stood near the central wagon, heads bent together.
One wore a crested helm under his arm.
The other held a rolled map, gesturing as he spoke.
Logistics officers.
Important enough to kill.
Not important enough to be missed immediately.
Perfect.
I signaled behind me.
Two shapes detached from the darkness—Joren and Keth, blades already drawn.
We moved.
The first officer never knew I was there.
My blade slid under his ribs and into his heart.
His breath left him in a soft, confused sigh.
I lowered him gently to the ground.
The second turned, eyes widening, mouth opening.
Keth's dagger took him under the jaw.
He gurgled once.
Then silence reclaimed the gorge.
I counted to five.
Nothing.
Good.
I raised my hand.
Above us, fire bloomed.
The first volley hit like falling stars.
Flaming arrows punched into canvas, lodged in wood, skidded across tarred rope.
For a heartbeat, there was only confusion—shouts of alarm, boots scrambling.
Then the fire took hold.
Wagons burned fast. Too fast.
Flames climbed canvas and licked into grain sacks soaked with oil.
Smoke poured upward, thick and choking.
Horses screamed, rearing against their tethers.
"Fuck!" someone yelled. "Fire—fire!"
That was our cue.
Rethan's men surged from the left side like demons, blades flashing in the firelight.
They moved low and fast, cutting throats, hamstrings, hands reaching for swords.
I charged straight into the chaos.
A guard lunged at me, spear thrust wild with panic.
I batted it aside with my shield and drove my sword into his collarbone, feeling bone crack.
Another swung an axe; I ducked under it and slammed my shield into his knee, finishing him as he fell.
The gorge became a slaughterhouse.
Firelight painted everything red and gold.
Smoke blurred faces.
Men screamed orders that no one followed.
Discipline dissolved in heat and fear.
I spotted a sergeant rallying a small knot of guards near the rear wagon, trying to cut the horses loose.
Smart.
I went for him.
He saw me coming and braced, shield up, sword steady.
A veteran.
Scarred.
Calm.
"Traitor," he spat.
I didn't answer.
We circled once.
Twice.
He struck first, quick and precise.
I caught it on my shield, felt the jolt up my arm, countered with a slash that glanced off his helm.
He headbutted me, stars bursting in my vision, then shoved me back toward the burning wagon.
Heat blasted my side.
I growled and drove forward, smashing my shield into his chest.
He staggered. I took the opening and cut deep across his thigh.
He went down hard, roaring.
"Please," he gasped, blood pumping through his fingers. "I've got—"
I ended it.
Around us, the fight was already turning.
Council soldiers were breaking, some fleeing into the darkness, others throwing down weapons and begging.
"Burn everything!" Rethan shouted, voice hoarse with joy and rage.
We did.
We smashed barrels of oil, kicked fire into grain, slashed harnesses so wagons toppled and spilled their contents into the flames. Smoke rose in a towering column, visible for miles.
Too visible.
"Time!" Lysa yelled from above. "More riders coming!"
I looked toward the gorge mouth and saw torches moving fast.
Cavalry.
"Fall back!" I roared. "Now!"
We disengaged hard, cutting our way free, leaving the gorge an inferno behind us.
Arrows chased us as we scrambled up the paths, but panic had robbed the Council troops of coordination.
We vanished into the high ground just as hooves thundered into the gorge.
From above, hidden among rocks and scrub, we watched the aftermath.
The supply train was gone.
Not damaged.
Gone.
Burned to ash.
The cavalry commander shouted orders in fury, but there was nothing to save.
Smoke rolled upward, stinging eyes and lungs.
Dead horses lay twisted among wrecked wagons.
Survivors knelt in the dirt, coughing, weeping.
Rethan let out a low whistle.
"That's going to hurt."
"Yes," I said quietly.
It would hurt Tarek.
Badly.
—
By midday we were miles away, moving fast, spirits higher than they'd been in weeks despite the blood and exhaustion.
But victory didn't feel clean.
It never did.
We stopped briefly at a stream to wash soot and blood from our hands.
The water ran black for a while before clearing.
Joren broke the silence.
"You think he'll chase us now?"
"No," I said.
"Then what?"
"He'll change the game."
That evening, as we made camp under heavy cover, a scout returned pale-faced.
"Commander," he said, swallowing hard.
"There's word spreading."
"What word?"
He hesitated.
"They're calling tonight 'Gorgefire.'
The soldiers.
Even the civilians."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Names were dangerous.
"They say you planned it for weeks," the scout continued.
"That you knew exactly where to strike.
That you burned the Council's lifeline in a single night."
Rethan laughed softly.
"That part's true."
"They also say Tarek swore an oath," the scout added.
"Publicly."
My eyes opened.
"What oath?"
The scout swallowed again.
"That he'll bring your head back to the capital.
Not for justice.
Not for the Council."
"For himself."
The camp fell silent.
Somewhere far away, beyond hills and smoke and ash, Tarek al-Rhazim stood before his men and realized something crucial.
This wasn't a rebellion to be crushed.
It was a war that would have to be fought to the end.
And for the first time since I'd been declared a traitor, I felt it too.
There was no road back.
Only forward.
Through fire.