The valley did not fall silent when the fighting ended.
It exhaled.
Smoke drifted low across the broken ground, thick and sour, clinging to the corpses of men and horses alike.
Fires crackled where wagons still burned, their flames chewing through wood and canvas with a slow, hateful patience.
The cries of the wounded rose and fell in uneven waves—some sharp and desperate, others weak, already fading.
Victory never sounded clean.
I stood on the ridge where the duel had ended, sword lowered, hands trembling slightly now that the danger had passed.
Blood—some mine, most not—darkened the edge of my blade. I wiped it on the grass without ceremony. There was no honor left in gestures like that.
Below me, the Bloodline moved through the wreckage. Not celebrating. Not cheering. Just working.
That told me everything.
Rethan dragged a wounded soldier toward the triage fires, his axe slung across his back, armor dented and blackened.
Lysa knelt beside a fallen archer, pressing cloth to a wound with blood-soaked hands, her jaw clenched tight.
Joren moved between bodies, checking pulses, finishing what needed finishing with a grim efficiency that would haunt him later.
This was the cost.
I descended the slope slowly, boots sinking into churned mud and blood. Men looked up when they saw me—not with joy, not with fear—but with something heavier.
Expectation.
That was new.
One of the younger fighters—barely old enough to shave—saluted me with a shaking hand. His eyes were wide, hollow.
"We… we drove them off," he said, as if he needed confirmation.
"Yes," I replied. "You did."
He swallowed. "Is… is it over?"
I didn't lie to him.
"No."
His shoulders slumped, but there was no anger in it. Only understanding. War educated men quickly.
I moved on.
Near the center of the valley, the bodies were thickest.
Council colors lay trampled beneath boots and hooves, banners torn, insignia smashed into the mud.
Officers were easy to spot even in death—better armor, cleaner blades, faces frozen in disbelief.
They had not expected this.
That was our greatest weapon.
Rethan joined me, breathing hard. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his gauntlet, smearing ash across his face.
"Scouts say they're gone," he said. "Not just retreating. Running. Tarek pulled them back hard."
I nodded. "He had to."
Rethan snorted. "Still breathing though."
"For now."
He studied my face. "You had him."
"Yes."
"Then why—"
"Because killing him there would've cost us everything else," I cut in. "And he knows it."
Rethan grimaced. "I hate when you're right."
So did I.
Lysa approached soon after, her hands stained red to the wrists. She looked exhausted, hair plastered to her temples, eyes sharp despite it all.
"We lost twenty-seven," she said quietly.
"Another forty wounded. Five badly."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Names began to surface in my mind. Faces. Voices. Men who had laughed around fires and argued over rations.
"Council losses?" I asked.
"At least three times that," she replied. "And more from burns later."
She hesitated, then added, "They won't forget this."
"No," I said. "They'll remember it every time they hear my name."
That thought should have frightened me.
Instead, it settled in my chest like something inevitable.
As the sun dipped lower, we gathered what we could.
Supplies were redistributed. The dead were laid out in rows—ours first.
There were no speeches. No grand words. Just silence and bowed heads.
When it was done, I stood before them.
Not on a platform. Not above them.
Among them.
"We hold here only until nightfall," I said, my voice carrying without effort. "Then we move. Fast. Quiet."
No one argued.
"The Council will lie about today," I continued.
"They'll say we ambushed civilians. That we butchered loyal soldiers.
That we are traitors, murderers, animals."
A few bitter laughs answered me.
"Let them," I said. "Truth doesn't survive wars—but memory does. And Aereth will remember who bled today."
That earned nods. Tight fists. Hard eyes.
"They came for us with numbers," I went on.
"With banners and arrogance. And we broke them."
A murmur spread, low and dangerous.
"But this doesn't make us kings," I said sharply. "It makes us hunted."
The murmuring stopped.
"From this moment on, there is no going back. If you stay, you stay knowing what follows.
More battles. More losses. More blood than any of us wants to spill."
I let the words hang.
"If you leave," I said, "no one will stop you."
No one moved.
I exhaled slowly.
"Then prepare," I finished. "Because the war has finally noticed us."
That night, I walked alone.
The fires were smaller now, reduced to embers.
Most of the camp slept or pretended to.
I moved past them, toward the edge of the valley where the ground sloped upward and the stars were clearer.
That was where Joren found me.
"You should rest," he said, stepping out of the dark.
"So should you."
He shrugged. "Sleep can wait."
We stood in silence for a while.
"They'll put a price on you now," he said eventually. "A real one."
"They already have."
"No," he replied. "Not like this. Not after today."
I stared at the stars. "Good."
Joren turned to look at me. "You mean that."
"Yes."
"Because it draws them out?"
"Because it forces them to choose," I said. "Hide behind walls, or come for me themselves."
He considered that. "And if they come?"
I smiled faintly. "Then we'll be ready."
A runner arrived just before dawn, breathless, mud-splattered.
"Messages," he said, holding out sealed scraps of parchment. "Intercepted. Council couriers."
I took them, breaking the wax without ceremony.
The words inside were hurried, sharp with panic.
—Supply route lost.
—General demands explanation.
—Name 'Cairos' spreading among troops.
—Request immediate reinforcements.
I folded the parchments slowly.
So it had begun.
By morning, we were gone. The valley was left to the dead and the crows, the smoke rising like a warning to anyone who dared follow.
As we moved north through narrow passes and wooded trails, I felt it settle over me fully for the first time.
This was no longer survival.
This was rebellion.
And somewhere beyond the hills, in halls of stone and gold, men would be waking to reports they could not ignore.
They would curse my name. Debate my threat. Argue over how much force was enough to erase me.
Too late.
The river had already broken its banks.
And Aereth was about to flood.