The smoke from Thalenford lingered long after the fires had been put out.
Cairos stood on the ridge above the valley as dawn bled slowly into the sky, pale and cold. Below him, the captured camp was already changing.
Council banners were gone, replaced by nothing—no flags, no symbols. Cairos had ordered it so. Symbols attracted attention. Fear spread faster without them.
Rethan joined him, boots crunching on damp gravel. "Scouts are back," he said. "And you were right. Maelor Venn didn't rush."
Cairos didn't turn. "He wouldn't."
"He's pulled back three garrisons instead of pushing forward. Fortifying crossings. Cutting roads. He's trying to box us in."
A faint smile tugged at Cairos' mouth.
"Good. That means he thinks I want to run."
Rethan snorted. "Don't you?"
"I want him to believe I do."
By midday, the Bloodline was on the move again, leaving Thalenford behind like a scar in the land. They traveled light, faster than any conventional army. Wagons were redistributed to villagers, supplies rationed with brutal efficiency.
Cairos rode at the front, but his mind was elsewhere.
Maelor Venn was different. Tarek al-Rhazim was dangerous because he was patient and political, a spider at the center of a vast web.
Maelor was dangerous because he was precise. He didn't care about glory. He cared about outcomes.
And men like that learned quickly.
That meant Cairos had to stay ahead—not just on the battlefield, but in expectation.
They reached the edge of the Stonewake Pass by evening, a narrow stretch of broken rock winding between steep cliffs. A natural choke point. Perfect for an ambush.
Too perfect.
Cairos raised his hand. The column stopped.
"Something's wrong," Lysa said quietly, eyes scanning the heights.
"Yes," Cairos replied. "It's empty."
Rethan frowned. "Empty's good, isn't it?"
"No," Cairos said. "Empty means prepared."
He dismounted, crouching to study the ground. Bootprints—old, deliberately obscured. Drag marks where something heavy had been moved, then removed.
"They were here," he said. "And they left us a choice."
Joren rode up from the rear. "Scouts confirm movement beyond the pass. Heavy infantry. Cavalry too. They're waiting for us to commit."
Maelor's first test.
Cairos straightened slowly. "He wants to see how I react when the obvious path is a trap."
"And what will you do?" Lysa asked.
Cairos looked up at the cliffs. Then at the narrow pass. Then back the way they'd come.
"I'll disappoint him."
They turned away from the pass.
The Bloodline shifted course sharply east, into rough terrain no army should willingly enter. Broken hills. Shallow ravines. Sparse cover. No roads.
Exactly where Maelor wouldn't expect a force their size to go.
By nightfall, rain returned, cold and relentless. Men slipped. Horses struggled. Progress slowed.
Rethan rode close. "This'll cost us," he said. "Morale. Supplies."
"It'll cost him more," Cairos replied. "He's committing resources to a battle that won't happen."
As if summoned by his words, distant horns echoed through the night—Council signals, searching for an enemy that wasn't there.
Cairos listened, expression unreadable.
Let them chase echoes.
Maelor Venn received the report at dawn.
He stood inside a reinforced pavilion overlooking the Stonewake Pass, armor immaculate despite the mud. Maps were spread across a broad table, marked with careful precision.
"They turned away," the scout said, breathless. "Didn't enter the pass. Headed east."
Maelor said nothing at first. He studied the map, fingers steepled.
"Interesting," he murmured.
One of his lieutenants scoffed. "They're panicking. That terrain will slow them to a crawl."
"Or," Maelor said calmly, "they know exactly how I think."
He straightened, eyes sharp. "Pull the cavalry back. Light units only. Spread them wide. I don't want speed—I want information."
"Yes, sir."
"And inform the Council," Maelor added. "Tell them Cairos is not running. He's positioning."
The lieutenant hesitated. "Should we pursue aggressively?"
Maelor shook his head once. "No. He wants me to overreach."
A thin smile crossed his face. "Let's see how he handles being watched instead."
The first clash came three days later.
Not an ambush. Not a battle.
A test.
A Bloodline foraging party ran into a Council patrol at the edge of a ruined hamlet. Steel was drawn. Blood spilled. The patrol retreated in good order—too clean, too disciplined.
"They wanted to be seen," Lysa said afterward, wiping her blade. "They're probing."
"Yes," Cairos replied. "They're mapping our reactions."
That night, Cairos gathered his commanders.
"Maelor is tightening the net," he said. "He'll avoid full engagement until he understands how we fight."
Rethan cracked his knuckles. "Then let's show him."
"No," Cairos said. "Let's lie to him."
They spent the next days doing exactly that.
Feigning weakness. Allowing small losses.
Retreating at the wrong moments. Leaving behind patterns—predictable routes, repeated behaviors.
All of it false.
Maelor's scouts dutifully recorded everything.
And Maelor began to smile.
The trap closed on the seventh night.
Council forces moved in coordinated arcs, pushing the Bloodline toward a shallow basin surrounded by low hills. Not a killing ground—but close enough.
Maelor himself was nearby now.
Cairos knew it.
The air felt different. Tighter.
Rethan sensed it too. "This is it, isn't it?"
"Yes," Cairos said. "His counterstroke."
They entered the basin at dusk.
Council horns sounded.
Torches flared on the ridges.
Infantry advanced in disciplined lines, shields locked, spears bristling. Archers took position above.
A clean, professional encirclement.
Maelor's work.
Cairos rode forward into the open, alone.
Arrows flew.
He raised his arm.
And the ground beneath the Council ranks exploded.
Hidden charges—packed earth loosened days earlier—collapsed into sudden sinkholes. Men screamed as formations broke. Shields shattered. Lines dissolved.
From the hills behind the Council troops, Bloodline archers rose—where Maelor believed the ground impassable.
Rethan charged with the reserve, slamming into the flank.
Lysa's arrows found officers, messengers, standard-bearers.
Chaos erupted.
Cairos rode straight toward the heart of it, sword singing.
This wasn't slaughter.
It was dismantling.
Council discipline fought back—hard, stubborn—but the terrain betrayed them. Every step they took led into confusion. Orders died in throats cut short.
Maelor Venn watched from a distant ridge, rain soaking his cloak.
For the first time, his expression changed.
"He baited me," he said softly.
A lieutenant shouted over the din. "Orders?"
Maelor turned away. "Withdraw. Cleanly."
The lieutenant stared. "But—"
"Now," Maelor snapped.
The horns sounded retreat.
Cairos noticed.
He didn't pursue.
He stood amid the broken field, blood dripping from his blade, watching the Council forces pull back in disciplined withdrawal.
Their eyes met across the distance.
Two strategists. Two predators.
Maelor inclined his head slightly.
Cairos did not return the gesture.
That night, the Bloodline regrouped.
Men laughed shakily. Some cried. No one slept easily.
Rethan dropped onto a log beside Cairos.
"You just fought one of the best commanders in Aereth."
"And?"
"And you didn't lose."
Cairos wiped his blade clean. "Neither did he."
Lysa joined them, gaze distant. "This changes things."
"Yes," Cairos said quietly. "Now he knows I'm not a fluke."
Thunder rolled across the hills.
Far away, Tarek al-Rhazim would hear of this clash. Of Maelor's withdrawal. Of a man who did not break when the net closed.
And the war, which had begun in whispers, was now being spoken aloud.
Because Cairos was no longer a hunted traitor.
He was a threat.