The northern bank of the Silvermere gave way to rolling hills cloaked in autumn gold, and for three days the Crimson Thorn marched without incident. The sirens' illusions lingered like a protective shroud, turning watchful Church eyes toward empty river rafts and false trails. Scouts reported patrols passing within a league yet seeing nothing.
Elara walked near the center of the column, Thorne always at her side. Rowan had taken to consulting her on strategy, and even the most skeptical rebels now looked to her with something approaching reverence. The glowing filigree on her skin had become a banner they rallied behind—a visible promise that the old magics were waking.
On the fourth night they camped in the ruins of an abandoned watchtower, its stones blackened from some long-ago siege. Sentries ringed the perimeter, but the mood was lighter than it had been in weeks. Children laughed quietly around small cookfires; someone produced a battered lute and coaxed a defiant old marching song from its strings.
Elara sat apart on the broken battlements, watching the stars emerge. The Crimson Lust was quiet tonight, content, but she felt a subtle wrongness in the air—like a note slightly out of tune.
Thorne settled beside her, offering a strip of dried venison. "You're brooding."
"I'm listening," she corrected. "Something feels… off."
He sniffed the wind, ears twitching. "No Church scent. No iron or incense. We're clean."
Yet the feeling persisted.
It struck just after midnight.
A sentry's shout cut through the camp, followed by the twang of a crossbow. Thorne was on his feet in an instant, Elara a heartbeat behind. They raced down the crumbling stairs to find chaos: rebels scrambling for weapons, children being hustled into the tower's cellar.
Rowan met them in the courtyard, face grim. "One of ours is missing—Joren. Went to check the eastern picket and never came back. Then this." He held up a quarrel bolt fletched with white feathers—the Church's mark.
Kaelin appeared, dragging a bound figure: a rebel scout named Merrick, one of the newer recruits who had joined only a fortnight ago. His face was pale, eyes wide with fear.
"He was trying to slip away," Kaelin spat. "Had this on him." She tossed a small silver medallion at Rowan's feet—the Pale Sun's radiant symbol, hidden until now.
Rowan's expression turned to stone. "Traitor."
Merrick shook his head violently. "No—I can explain—"
Elara stepped forward, the wrongness crystallizing into certainty. Merrick had sat beside her at the blood-bonding ritual, had drunk from the cup, had sworn the oaths. Yet now the faint connection she felt to every rebel through that shared blood felt… twisted where he was concerned. Muted. False.
"Bring him to the fire," she said quietly.
They bound him to a broken pillar in the courtyard, the camp gathering in a tense circle. Torches cast harsh shadows across frightened faces.
Rowan drew his dagger. "Confess, Merrick. How long have you been feeding them our movements?"
Merrick's mouth worked soundlessly. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill night.
Elara approached slowly. The Crimson Lust stirred, responding to the lie like a hound to fresh scent. She stopped inches from him, close enough to smell the fear-sweat on his skin.
"You drank with us," she said softly. "Your blood mingled with ours. Yet I feel nothing true from you now. Why?"
Merrick's eyes darted, searching for escape that wasn't there.
She placed a hand on his chest, directly over his heart. The filigree on her own skin began to glow faintly. "There's a way to be sure."
Rowan met her gaze, understanding dawning. "Do it."
Elara leaned in until her lips nearly brushed Merrick's ear. "I'm going to ask you questions," she whispered. "And every time you lie, you'll feel it. Not pain—not yet. Just… pressure. Building. Until the truth is easier than holding it in."
She let the Crimson Lust rise—not the wild ecstasy of ritual, but something colder, more precise. A thread of power slipped from her palm into his chest, coiling around his heart like crimson wire.
Merrick gasped, eyes widening.
"Who do you serve?" she asked.
"The—the Crimson Thorn," he stammered.
The thread tightened. Merrick's breath hitched, face paling further.
"Lie," Elara said calmly.
He shook his head frantically. "I didn't mean—"
"Who do you serve?"
"The Church," he choked out. "They have my sister. Said they'd burn her if I didn't—"
The thread loosened slightly, rewarding the truth.
The watching rebels murmured, anger shifting to something more complex. Betrayal born of desperation was harder to hate than pure malice.
"How many know our route?" Rowan demanded.
"None—only that we crossed the Silvermere. I was supposed to signal tonight with a lantern. They're two days behind, no more."
Truth again. The thread eased further.
Elara stepped back, studying him. Merrick sagged against the pillar, trembling.
"What do we do with him?" Kaelin asked, voice hard.
Rowan looked to Elara.
She considered. Execution would be simplest—justice in wartime. But something in Merrick's terror reminded her too much of her own village's fear under Church rule.
"We give him a choice," she said finally. "Tell us everything—every contact, every code, every detail they forced from you. Then you leave. Alone. If you ever carry word against us again, this—" she touched his chest, and the thread pulsed once, making him cry out—"will find you. No matter how far you run."
Merrick nodded frantically. "I'll tell you everything. Please—just don't hurt my sister."
Rowan signaled, and they cut him loose to be questioned thoroughly under guard.
Later, when the camp had quieted and plans were being redrawn based on Merrick's confessions, Thorne found Elara on the battlements again.
"You could have killed him," he said quietly. "Most would have."
"I'm not most," she replied. "And we're not the Church. We don't rule by fear."
He pulled her against his side, warm and solid. "You used your power without… the usual price."
She smiled faintly. "It's learning. So am I. Pleasure isn't the only way to channel it."
In the distance, a single lantern flickered once on a far hill—the signal Merrick never got to light—then winked out as rebel archers silenced the watcher.
Two days' lead had just become hours.
Rowan's voice carried up from the courtyard: "Break camp at dawn. We force-march north—there's an old smugglers' pass through the Blackfangs. If we reach it before they close the net, we vanish."
Elara leaned into Thorne's warmth, watching the stars.
The kiss of deception had nearly killed them tonight.
But it had also taught her something vital: her power could taste truth as easily as desire.
The Crimson Thorn would need both in the days ahead.
And when the next Blood Moon rose, the Church would learn that some betrayals cut both ways.