The march to Solgard was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came from peace—but the kind that pressed into lungs and coiled around hearts. Elira rode at the front, the obsidian road stretching ahead, framed by dying trees and skies too still.
Something was wrong.
The birds had stopped singing at dawn.
Auren rode beside her, hand on his blade, eyes scanning the hills. Behind them, the rebellion moved like a ghost army—tired, mourning, but determined. Every flame they carried had a name now.
> "This path feels too easy," Auren muttered.
Elira nodded. She had felt it too—the air felt staged, as if the world was holding its breath.
They had passed no patrols. No scouts returned late. No messages from the southern watch post.
And the smoke in the distance?
Not from Solgard.
> "We should've seen the capital's walls by now," Elira said, narrowing her eyes.
> "Or its defenses," Auren added.
Then came the cry.
A single voice from the rear—cut off too soon.
Elira turned in her saddle. "Hold formation!"
But it was too late.
The ground beneath them pulsed.
A crack like thunder tore through the valley. The road split—and from the hills on either side, shadows poured out.
Dark shapes. Dozens. No—
> Hundreds.
Cloaked in voidsteel, carrying blades that shimmered like oil and screamed against the air.
The Obsidian Order had been waiting.
And leading them, at the top of the hill, stood someone Elira knew.
Someone she had trusted.
Their hood fell back.
"No," Elira whispered. "You…?"