The fog had disappeared completely. Now only a vast canopy of twisted bark and skeletal branches remained.

  The sun had risen, pale light filtering through overhead boughs where dark-feathered omens hung motionless.

  The march continued for five hours. No ambush nor sorcery came. Just the steady crunch of boots and rattling of chains sounded.

  Veracles rode up on his right, parchment in hand.

  “Lord Commander, the scouts returned with word. They say the edge is real, walked through and back.”

  Alric kept his eyes on the path ahead.

  “How long?”

  “One hour, my Lord.”

  “Good. Prepare the men, they must be ready for ambush or sorcery alike.”

  “As you command, my Lord,” Veracles nodded, turned aside, and rode off toward the other Hekatons.

  He rode at the center of the vanguard, his retinue close behind.

  The hour stretched ahead of them, trees creaking in the cold.

  The army moved in near-silence, save for the clink of armor and the occasional cough.

  Before him, Priscilla sat rigid against the saddle bow, wrapped in an unfit tunic and borrowed furs, staring at nothing.

  He felt her weight shift in the saddle.

  “Speak.”

  She turned her head just enough for him to see her eye.

  “Tell me,” she began. “What will they do to me in Valekyr?”

  “Question you.”

  She scoffed.

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “It remains true.”

  She clenched her jaw.

  “And then? What about after they finish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She gave a dry, joyless chuckle.

  “The same answer. How useful.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  He remained silent for a moment, then spoke.

  “I can only assume.”

  “Do tell, Commander.”

  “They’ll call me the monster, and you, my victim. They will give you false sympathy, promises of freedom. Then cut off your head when you’ve exhausted your usefulness.”

  She sneered.

  “And do you think I’d believe them? You think I would trust the same Empire who sent you to butcher my city and my people? That I’m fool enough to let myself be swayed by empty promises?”

  He looked at her.

  “No. But they’ll make it convincing enough.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  He exhaled through his nose.

  “Because I’ve played their games long enough to know.”

  She said nothing. Just watched him for a long moment, silence stretching between them like a thin wire.

  Then she turned away, shoulders sagging.

  “What will you do?” she finally asked, voice low beneath the tramp of boots.

  “I will be there with you.”

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  “Why?”

  “To shield you.” His voice was quiet.

  She turned sharply, hatred heating cold in her stare.

  “May the abyss take you, bastard. I don’t want your protection, I want you dead at my feet.” She whispered just loud enough for him to hear.

  He said nothing, keeping his eyes on the trail before them.

  She turned and exhaled, then:

  “But I will take what I can get. Even from you.”

  “Good.”

  She scoffed and shook her head.

  Ahead, the path widened, canopy easing its grip on them, letting arcs of pale light break through.

  Every step they took felt brighter than the last. The air felt clearer, warmer, as though real sunlight had returned at last.

  Relief slowly spread to the ranks, shallow sighs and murmurings rippling across the column.

  The edge was near.

  “Klethiar,” Alric called.

  The young officer came near.

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Silence the men and ready them.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander.” Klethiar nodded and rode off.

  The order passed down the lines soon after. Voices stilled, faces hardened.

  Fifteen minutes passed, tension crept in like an old snake between the rows of swords and shields.

  Then, ahead, the trees parted wide like wooden gates thrown open.

  Beyond the treeline, they could see the open sky and its sun illuminating rolling lowlands half-drowned by autumn rain.

  “Lord Commander!” A voice called from behind.

  He turned. A rider was approaching; silver thread visible on his right glove.

  One of the medicae’s guards.

  “Report.”

  The man reined in, breathless.

  “The prisoner, Molvane. He woke in a stupor and is muttering your name.”

  Alric’s eyes sharpened.

  “Speak clearly.”

  “His words are unclear and unfocused, my Lord. But he’s insistent in repeating ‘Lord Commander’ over and over.”

  Alric looked back at the threshold, then at the column.

  “Take me to him.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Alric turned his horse around and spurred it toward the center column.

  Priscilla swayed with the sudden movement, but said nothing.

  Klethiar rode up beside them.

  “My Lord, what has happened?”

  “Keep the men still. I have to see Molvane.”

  The young officer’s face darkened with astonishment.

  “After all this time you go to him? Why, my Lord?”

  “Do as I say.” Alric cut him off.

  “As you command, my Lord.” He nodded and returned to post, directing the men to hold position.

  When he reached the wagon, medicae were hard at work stabilizing him with various tinctures and bandages.

  At his approach, the medicae stepped back.

  Alric stopped his horse beside the wagon bed and peered inside.

  The man lay wrapped in swaddled cloths, surrounded by instruments of healing and vials of diverse colours.

  His eyelids were sewn shut, but his pupils moved rapidly beneath them, as though tracing figures in darkness.

  Molvane’s hand shot out and grabbed Alric’s arm.

  Priscilla recoiled, pulling back instinctively.

  “Lord Commander,” he said, voice cracked. “You have been summoned by the empty divisor.”

  “The golden bricks call you theirs. But they whisper your name with fear. They know glass lurks beneath your eyes. They see their heated colour disappear in your hot spring.”

  His grip tightened.

  “Your back itches with power. It gnaws, digs and squirms. But it dies when it tries to dig too deep. Winter takes it back. Ice melts it to ashes.”

  His head jerked up with a sudden movement. He turned to Alric, pupils rapidly chasing something underneath.

  “A jewel tossed to and fro is chipped by strange wills. It cries in pain and calls you home. Will you go?”

  Priscilla's face twisted in revulsion. She turned to Alric, eyes questioning: Why are we listening to this?

  Alric shook off his arm.

  “You summoned me to speak nonsense once more?”

  “No… no. You will go. You have no choice in this.”

  “Where is this place you say I have no choice but to go?” Alric’s tone hardened.

  “To where gold melts into blood, and blood dries into steel.”

  “You will see memory suffocate for truth. And truth suffocate for lies.”

  A smile found his face, red meat showing beneath rotted teeth.

  “Enjoy your stay, Lord Commander. You’ll need it.”

  He slumped back, head lolling.

  The medicae stepped forward and put two fingers on his neck.

  "He's unconscious, my Lord."

  Alric stared at the broken man for a long moment, then turned his horse and rode off.

  The ranks watched him in silence as he moved.

  Priscilla shifted in her seat before him and spoke.

  “Did you really have to break his mind and body so completely, butcher?”

  “I didn’t torture him. When I found him, he was already like that.”

  She gave no answer, but he could see her disbelief. Words with no sound accusing him louder than any could ever hope.

  When he reached the vanguard, Veracles was waiting with Regulus.

  “My Lord, I saw you ride to the rear. Did Molvane say anything?”

  Alric turned to him.

  “Nothing useful.”

  Veracles’ eyes flicked toward the wagons, then back. The air between them felt brittle.

  “How do we proceed, my Lord?”

  Alric’s gaze fastened on the edge for a moment before answering.

  “We march the moment the signal is given. I take point. You and Regulus are to form the line behind me. We stop for nothing until every man has crossed. Not a moment sooner.”

  Veracles nodded once and sent messengers down the column, banners rippling as they went. Orders moved like a current through the ranks.

  Alric stepped forward to the head of the vanguard and waited. The men stood silent, breath misting in the cold air; the edge shimmered ahead.

  As he raised his hand and gestured forward, horns sounded, and he began his stride.

  Each step rang against the roots and soil until the forest itself seemed to recoil from his passing.

  With each pace the world ahead sharpened. The haze broke apart, revealing hills and distant fields glistening in the midday beams.

  The forest thinned to mere lattice, as though it had opened to let him pass.

  He blinked against the light, shielding his eyes with his hand. Colour returned in a rush. The shimmering aquamarine blue of the Great River, the gleaming greens of grass wet with dew and flood, the sun’s torrid gold on armour.

  Behind him, horns called again.

  The first ranks emerged, stumbling into the sunlight with raised shields, bracing for an unseen blow.

  More followed, hundreds, thousands, until the very plain was filled with men blinking and muttering under their breaths, eyes watering in the sudden brightness. Some fell to their knees, pressing their hands to the ground as if to confirm it real. Others only stared upward, mouths open.

  When Alric looked back, the forest was gone, now replaced by nothing but shadow and hazy mist.

  Alric drew breath.

  They were out.