The night was restless. Even with the fires low and the town of Dervain quiet, the weight of our victory clung to the air like smoke. I couldn't sleep—not because of fatigue, but because the world beyond the hills was already stirring. The Council would not forgive, and Tarek al-Rhazim would not rest.
I walked along the edge of the town wall, the wind carrying faint scents of cooking fires and frightened animals. My eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and unrelenting.
Shadows moved among the trees—hunters, scouts, and perhaps spies. I could not be certain which. I only knew to act as if every figure was a threat.
Rethan joined me silently, leaning against the cold stone. "They won't stop," he said. "Not for months. Probably years. Every step we take, they'll be there, watching."
"They're slow to learn," I replied. "And even slower to act correctly. That's all we need."
Lysa appeared on the other side, hands resting on her hips, eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You talk as if waiting is enough," she said. "I've seen enough hesitation to know it's dangerous."
"I don't wait," I told her. "I observe. Patience is part of strategy."
Rethan snorted. "You've got a lot of patience for someone with a bounty on his head large enough to buy a kingdom."
I smirked. "That's the point. Let them think they control the game. Let them make mistakes."
By first light, reports had started arriving. Scouts brought grim news: patrols doubled in size, supply lines were being cut, and towns near Dervain were fortifying.
Every messenger carried urgency and fear. The Council had begun to act—not with reason, but with panic.
"Orders?" Lysa asked, resting her elbow on the wall.
"First, we move north," I said. "We disrupt their communications. Force them to stretch themselves thin. Make them chase shadows while we strike at the heart of their supply."
Rethan raised an eyebrow. "You mean burn more towns?"
I shook my head. "No. Take supplies. Liberate. Make them question loyalty and leadership. If they see their men being outmaneuvered at every step, morale cracks. That's what breaks armies."
Joren approached silently from the rear, holding maps and small, marked tokens.
"Their forces are reorganizing," he said.
"Tarek is consolidating in the east, but his generals are overconfident. Several have volunteered to chase rumors about your location."
"Perfect," I said, tracing the map with my finger. "We let them waste themselves. Each wasted army is one less force they can use against us when the real confrontation comes."
Lysa's lips curled in a grim smile. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
"Strategic elegance," I replied. "Not bloodlust. Though it will come."
By mid-morning, we were moving again.
Half the Bloodline carried supplies, the rest armed and ready, advancing in disciplined lines through the forested paths. Every step was calculated, every patrol avoided or lured into traps.
Ambushes were swift, brutal, and precise. We left no survivors who could identify us—no evidence for the Council to trace except fear.
The first skirmish of the day came at a river crossing, where a small detachment of Council soldiers had set up a makeshift barricade.
Their mistake was arrogance. They had assumed we would be slow, fragmented, disorganized.
They did not account for the Bloodline.
I led the charge with Rethan on my right, Lysa weaving silently through the trees, and Joren coordinating archers from the cover of brush. Within moments, the soldiers were trapped.
Panic spread quickly. Those who drew their swords met steel. Others ran, only to find themselves surrounded.
When the fighting ended, the detachment was destroyed, their banners taken down and burned.
The river ran red in streaks, and the men who had followed me looked at me differently now—not just survivors, but soldiers of purpose.
I did not celebrate. Victory was only a step.
That night, we camped near an abandoned watchtower.
The valley below was silent, but I could feel the ripples of our actions spreading. Somewhere, Tarek would be informed. Somewhere, generals and kings would debate how to stop a man who moved like a shadow across their lands.
I sat by the fire, sharpening my blade.
Sparks rose and disappeared into the darkness. Lysa and Rethan tended the men quietly, while Joren mapped out the next moves.
"We've made them afraid," Rethan said quietly.
"Yes," I agreed. "But fear can be used against us just as easily as for us."
Lysa leaned against my shoulder for a brief moment, eyes on the stars. "Do you ever think about what happens if we lose?"
I paused. "Losing is an option only if we stop moving. Only if we stop thinking. And we will not."
The night deepened. Shadows lengthened, and the forest whispered. Somewhere beyond the hills, the Council's agents were gathering.
Somewhere further, Tarek himself was sharpening his strategy, preparing for a confrontation that would come sooner than any of us expected.
And yet, despite the danger, a sense of inevitability settled over me. This war had begun.
Every step we took, every move we made, only tightened the coil. Aereth was shifting, and no one—not councilors, not generals, not kings—would stop what was coming.
I stared into the fire, thinking about the path ahead. The Bloodline would grow. Our victories would become whispers that turned to rumors, and rumors into legends.
Somewhere, far to the east, Tarek's patience was ending.
And soon, the real war would begin.