News never traveled alone. It moved with fear, with exaggeration, with the stain of whoever carried it.
By the time the first couriers reached the cities of Aereth, the valley battle was no longer a skirmish—it was a massacre, a rebellion, a warning.
And my name rode with it.
In Valecourt, the Council's western seat, the morning session dissolved into shouting before the bells finished ringing.
Marble floors echoed with hurried footsteps as messengers were dragged forward, dust-stained and hollow-eyed.
One knelt before the long crescent table where robed figures sat in stiff-backed chairs, gold chains heavy around their necks.
"The supply column is gone," the messenger said hoarsely. "Burned. Taken. Destroyed."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
One of the elder councilors, Lord Maeven, leaned forward, fingers steepled. "By bandits?"
The messenger swallowed. "No, my lord."
"Then by whom?"
There was a pause. Too long.
"By Cairos."
Silence fell like a blade.
Another councilor scoffed sharply.
"Impossible. He's a fugitive with a handful of deserters."
"That handful," the messenger said, voice trembling now, "defeated three companies, shattered the cavalry escort, and forced General Tarek al-Rhazim to withdraw."
Chairs scraped back. Voices rose.
"Tarek retreated?"
"Withdrawn," the messenger corrected weakly. "Alive. But wounded in pride, if not flesh."
That name carried weight even here. Especially here.
Lord Maeven's lips thinned. "How many losses?"
"At least two hundred confirmed. Possibly more. Officers included."
The chamber erupted.
"This is absurd—"
"—he should have been crushed—"
"—how did this happen under Tarek's command—"
A woman seated near the end of the table, Lady Serayne, raised one gloved hand.
The noise died instantly.
"Where is Cairos now?" she asked calmly.
"Moving north," the messenger replied. "Fast. Organized. Not fleeing."
Serayne nodded once. "Then this is no longer a man running from judgment. This is a war leader."
The word leader lingered uncomfortably in the air.
"Put a price on his head," someone snapped. "Triple it."
"It won't matter," Serayne said. "Men don't follow coin into hell. They follow belief."
She turned her gaze to Maeven. "And belief is spreading."
Far to the south, in the sun-baked halls of Kharadon, the news was received with something close to delight.
King Rhavos listened as his spymaster finished speaking, then laughed—a deep, booming sound that startled the servants lining the walls.
"So the Council bleeds," Rhavos said, leaning back on his throne. "And Tarek tastes dirt."
The spymaster hesitated. "Sire… Cairos is dangerous."
Rhavos waved a hand. "Dangerous men are useful. Especially when they're pointed at someone else."
He rose, pacing slowly. "A traitor to them. A hero to others. That's how legends begin."
The spymaster frowned. "Should we intervene?"
"Not yet," Rhavos said. "Let the river carve its path. When the flood reaches us… then we decide whether to dam it or ride it."
In Eldwyn, where scholars ruled more than soldiers, the reaction was quieter—and far more unsettling.
In a candlelit archive beneath the High Library, an old man traced his finger across a map of Aereth, stopping at the valley where the clash had occurred.
"A single engagement," he murmured, "and already the balance shifts."
A younger archivist shifted nervously. "Do you think he means to overthrow the Council?"
The old man smiled thinly. "No."
"Then what?"
"He means to survive," he said. "And history bends around men who refuse to die."
He reached for a weathered tome, its spine cracked with age.
"There have been others," he continued.
"Commanders declared traitors who carved their own banners from blood and necessity."
The archivist swallowed. "And how did they end?"
The old man closed the book softly.
"Most were killed," he said. "A few became kings."
We felt the change before we heard it.
The roads grew quieter. Scouts spotted fewer lone travelers, more armed patrols.
Villages that once eyed us with fear now watched with something else—curiosity, calculation, hope.
In one hamlet, an old farmer pressed bread into my hands without a word.
In another, a woman whispered, "You're the one they're talking about," like it was a prayer and a curse both.
That unsettled me more than blades ever had.
Rethan noticed it too. "They're starting to look at you differently," he muttered as we broke camp one evening.
"How so?"
"Like you're not just passing through," he said. "Like you belong."
I didn't answer.
Belonging had a price.
Joren returned late that night with news. "Council patrols doubling along the main roads. Bounties posted in three cities already."
"How much?" Lysa asked.
Joren exhaled. "Enough to buy a minor estate."
Rethan whistled softly. "That's… impressive."
"It's a declaration," Lysa said.
"Yes," I agreed. "They're done underestimating us."
We gathered around the fire, low and shielded. Faces glowed in the dim light—tired, scarred, resolute.
"They'll send more than soldiers now," I said. "Envoys. Assassins. Spies."
"And armies," Rethan added.
"Eventually," I said. "But first they'll try to end this quietly."
Lysa's eyes hardened. "And we won't let them."
"No," I said. "We'll make sure they can't."
I unfolded a rough map, marking routes, passes, supply lines. Places where men could vanish—or strike.
"We don't face them head-on," I continued. "Not yet. We bleed them. Confuse them. Force them to react."
"And when they finally march in force?" Rethan asked.
I looked up at him.
"Then the world will already be watching."
Silence followed. Not fear. Anticipation.
Later, alone again, I reread one of the intercepted messages we'd taken from the Council's couriers. Not the panic this time—but the language.
Threat.
Symbol.
Containment required.
They weren't just hunting me.
They were afraid of what I represented.
That realization sat heavier than any wound.
As dawn approached, a final report reached us—passed quietly from scout to scout until it reached my hands.
Tarek al-Rhazim had survived. He had returned to Council lands. And he had spoken.
Not in rage.
Not in excuse.
In warning.
I folded the message carefully and stared east, toward lands I had not yet set foot in—but soon would.
The war had echoed outward now, beyond valleys and blood-soaked ground.
It had reached thrones.
It had reached history.
And it was coming back to me.