The tent held the breath of four shapes about to change by the revelation of one.

  Brazier light caught the banner hanging limp behind Alric.

  “She reminds me of every woman I butchered in the South.”

  He clenched his fists.

  “How many times I heard them beg me in tongues I did not understand. How I slit their throats while they pleaded.”

  His voice was empty, stripped of power.

  “How I saw them cast their little ones from the walls, hoping someone below would catch them. Only to see them break against the rocks.”

  His hands, resting on his knees, began to tremble.

  “Liliare. Veleroth. Caladras. Khal-Drathir, and every other city we torched because the court willed it.”

  He met their eyes.

  “By someone who will never live through war. Who will never understand it. Who will never know its price.”

  He continued.

  “The court’s paranoia spun madness into decree.”

  His jaw tightened, voice dropping to a growl.

  “Those brocaded pig-fucks condemned half the Empire to death on suspicions alone.”

  He looked at Regulus

  “You were there, Regulus, as was I. We both counseled against it, saying that the South hadn’t rebelled. That they wanted peace, treaties. Not war.”

  A pause.

  “But you saw it. How their rumours became certainty. Their certainty, policy. And their policy, slaughter.”

  He turned his eyes to the others.

  “And we gave them fire.”

  “For three years I was the Empire’s blade enacting their will. Burning cities to the ground. Killing civilians who deserved mercy. Razing settlements and turning blind eyes when men became monsters.”

  His hand gripped his knee hard.

  “And I am tired of it all. I have had enough.”

  He breathed deeply through his nose.

  “I am tired of pretending that their justice is just. That their orders are pure. That I am nothing more than an instrument of death.”

  He looked at Regulus once more.

  “So no, I will not give her over to protocol. Not when it means genuflecting to jackals in silk."

  “I will keep her with me. Protect her if I can. The court will call it treason. I will deal with them.”

  He looked at them, one by one.

  “So choose. Report me. Or stand with me.”

  Vargo was first to rise, chair scraping the canvas floor.

  “I stand with you, my Lord.”

  Klethiar followed, voice steady despite trembling hands.

  “As do I, my Lord.”

  Veracles sat motionless, eyes locked on Alric.

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Then:

  “I am with you also. But we need a story to protect you from their coming accusations.”

  “We need to know who she was before Khal-Drathir. We need something to latch onto to control the narrative, my Lord.”

  “We will discuss this later, Veracles.”

  All eyes turned to Regulus.

  He had not moved nor spoken, hands resting on his knees.

  “Regulus?” Alric named him.

  The older man drew breath.

  “Lord Commander.”

  His voice was firm, but strained at the edges.

  “I have served the Empire for thirty-five years. Served your father before you. I saw you grow from foot-soldier to general and from general to Lord Commander.”

  He met Alric’s eyes.

  “On account of that and the truthfulness of your words, I will not report you.”

  His voice dropped.

  “But I cannot bring myself to lie for you either.”

  Alric’s gaze held his for the space of two breaths.

  “It’s enough.”

  Regulus closed his eyes and brought his fist to his chest in slow, deliberate motion.

  Then he turned and walked toward the exit.

  At the threshold, he stopped, back still to Alric, and spoke.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “For what it’s worth, you are right, Alric. But I can’t break my oaths.”

  He left.

  Alric watched him leave, tent flap falling shut. Then stood and turned back to the remaining officers.

  “Dismissed. Prepare the men for immediate departure.”

  Vargo saluted and left.

  Veracles halted before exiting completely.

  “Lord, one question. Do you intend to ride with her even while in Valekyr?”

  “No, Veracles. I intend to have her removed from my stallion when we approach the capital. I don’t intend to make it more difficult than it already will be.”

  Veracles nodded.

  “I understand, my Lord. I will consider it while coming up with some ideas for how to shield you.”

  He saluted and left.

  Klethiar turned to leave, but Alric’s hand caught his shoulder.

  “Klethiar.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Go to the woman and prepare her. See to it that she’s ready to ride and bring my horse to the tent. Take this. show it to them for proof.”

  He retrieved his seal from his pocket and handed it to the young officer.

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Alric let go. Klethiar left.

  Alric stood alone, silence encasing him again.

  His gaze lifted to the limp twin-headed falcon hanging behind him faded and smoke-stained. For the first time in his life, he’d refused it.

  But it didn’t bring any liberation. Only hollow exhaustion.

  The camp had transformed. What was bustling now lay desolate, army forming ranks.

  The air's chill bit at Klethiar's throat as he took a breath that stung his lungs with autumn's edge.

  Smoke crawled along the ground as he left the tent behind him, upturned earth scattering at his boots.

  He could still hear the Lord Commander’s voice in his head, the weight of his final admission: I have had enough.

  He couldn’t understand it. Why go through with it at all?

  He could have refused, left the madness to others like Kriklak, who would have relished it.

  Still, are we wrong for it? For betraying the Empire over a single campaign?

  He shook his head.

  No, I know him. He wouldn’t do it over nothing. And is it really betrayal when he speaks truth?

  I just know we’ve already burned our souls thin enough.

  He put a hand over his face, wiping what felt like sweat or grime.

  “Gods help us all,” he muttered.

  The command area lay ahead, tents half-collapsed, canvas sagging.

  Alric’s was still standing, two guards standing before it, spears in hand.

  He approached them.

  The guards straightened as he neared and barred his path wordlessly.

  He withdrew the Lord Commander’s seal and presented it.

  “By order of the Lord Commander, I am to prepare the prisoner for the coming march.”

  They exchanged a quick glance, then stepped aside.

  He pushed through the flap and entered.

  The air inside was warmer, thick with smoke and the faint tang of medicine.

  Pale shafts of light cut through the tent's seams, pooling around her shape.

  She was sitting on the cot, wrists unbound, staring into nothing.

  Auburn hair fell to her waist with unnatural neatness.

  Her eyes, rimmed red, held the hollow green of a dying forest.

  She neither looked nor moved, simply sat motionless.

  The silence between them stretched until he shifted his weight, throat tightening at the prospect of breaking it.

  “My… Lady,” he began, uncertain on how to address her. “The Commander bids you prepare. We march within the hour. I am to see you ready.”

  She didn’t answer or blink.

  Just stared at the canvas wall as though he weren’t there.

  He cleared his throat.

  "Is there... anything you need?”

  Silence.

  He didn’t know what to say further.

  The tent bacame too small and quiet for him to feel in control.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I… I’ll wait outside.” He turned.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  He stopped, turning again to her.

  She was looking at him now, eyes hollow as they were before.

  “Klethiar, my Lady.”

  She studied him for a long moment.

  "You're young. Like me. Correct?"

  He didn't know how to respond to that.

  "Yes, my Lady."

  "Young enough to still believe in him."

  "My Lady, I-"

  She looked away. "Go get the horse."

  He hesitated.

  "Are you... ready?"

  A short, bitter chuckle escaped her.

  "Ready for what? To ride with the man who butchered my city?"

  He said nothing.

  "Go," she murmured, voice frayed. "Before I change my mind."

  He nodded and left.

  Once out, he drew a breath. It tasted of wet soil and fear. But of what, he didn’t know.

  His hands shook without reason or cause.

  When he regained his composure, he moved to the camp’s edge.

  There the horses waited tethered to wooden stakes, their breaths mingling with the mist in puffs of white.

  Alric’s stood in their midst, black as mourning, pawing at soil long turned to iron by night’s frost.

  He approached and placed his hand on its muscled flank. The beast turned its head, eye gleaming like wet glass.

  “We’re all itching for something it seems…” He murmured.

  When he reached for the reins, something in him quieted, as though the practice of a hundred battles stilled him in this moment.

  He took them in hand, and led the destrier back toward Alric’s tent.

  Each step felt heavier than the last. The practiced calm gave way to the slow realisation of what he had witnessed in the command tent.

  The woman’s hollow green eyes haunted him.

  Young enough to still believe in him, she’d said.

  And he did believe. But in what?

  He didn’t know. Nor could he. The decision had been made regardless of what he believed about the Lord Commander.

  When he reached the tent, the guards had already gone. Only the sun-wreathed lightning remained, drooping in the windless air, beaded with dew.

  He tied the horse to a pole nearby, then turned and moved to the tent’s flap.

  He brushed it aside and went in.

  "I've brought the horse," he said.

  She sat where he had left her, still motionless. Only her eyes moved to him, green water pools emptied of vigour.

  "Did you think I'd be gone?" Her voice was thin, but lightly syruped with mocking.

  Klethiar shifted his weight. "No, my Lady."

  She gave a weak smile that never touched her eyes.

  “Not a lady,” she said. “Not anymore.”

  A long silence descended upon them.

  Then she spoke.

  “Tell me, Klethiar. What happens to me when we reach Valekyr?”

  Before he could answer, the tent flap opened.

  Alric entered, gambeson damp with morning fog.

  "You'll ride with me until we approach the capital. Then you'll be transferred to a covered wagon."

  Her eyes narrowed.

  "Why?"

  "Because riding into Valekyr with you on my horse will make things worse."

  A pause.

  "For you, you mean."

  "For both of us."

  She looked away and scoffed.

  "And then? When we arrive?"

  "You'll be held in the citadel for questioning.”

  “And you?”

  “I will be there."

  "To protect me? Or to make sure I don't talk?"

  "Both."

  A dry chuckle escaped her lips.

  "At least you're honest, butcher."

  A hush gripped the room like a dead hand.

  "The horse is ready, my Lord," Klethiar broke it, snapping its fingers wide.

  Alric nodded. "Then we leave. But first-" he fixed his gaze on her.

  “Did the medicae attend to you?”

  “They did.” She answered flatly.

  “Show me.”

  “Am I to undress here? Before you?” she asked, anger flashing in her eyes.

  “No. Just show me your side. That is enough.”

  After a moment longer, she stood, reached for her tunic, and exposed her wounded side.

  Klethiar averted his gaze.

  He heard the Lord Commander go near.

  For a long breath, neither spoke. Only the ruffle of cloth could be heard.

  The scent of spiced tinctures invaded his nose, sharp and bitter.

  “Good. You are to ride with me. Klethiar-” he turned.

  “Order the men to dismantle this tent immediately and regroup at the column.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Alric stepped outside.

  Priscilla followed with heavy steps, struggle apparent in her every move.

  Klethiar came last, drawing the tent flap closed behind him.

  Outside, the army stood in waiting, shields glinting in the morning light.

  Alric's destrier stood nearby, stamping the thawing ground.

  Alric mounted and extended a hand down to Priscilla.

  She stared at it for a long moment, then took it.

  He lifted her onto the saddle before him. She sat rigid, jaw working, staring ahead.

  Klethiar mounted his own horse and moved to Alric's right.

  Vargo rode up on the left, horn in hand.

  Alric looked back once toward the Tents of Meeting, then ahead.

  He raised his fist and the horns sounded.

  The army began to move, Hekatons relaying orders down the ranks.

  Klethiar rode toward the rear, leather reins tight across his palms.

  I have made my choice. I’ll live by it.

  Or die by it.