Ever since his "confession," Aurean had become something of a ghost within the camp.
Not in presence—he still performed every duty, still showed up at roll call, still brought reports to Rythe's table with the same silent precision—but in the eyes of the others.
He heard the silence shift when he passed.
He saw the elbows nudging, the stares quickly averted.
No one dared mock him to his face. Not anymore.
But no one looked him in the eye either.
They had believed his lie.
And now they didn't know what to do with him.
That evening, just before supper, a grizzled sergeant barked a sudden order.
"We're short on wood. You—go fetch. Take the north slope."
Aurean didn't argue. He simply nodded, gathered his cloak, and left without touching the tin bowl of food already steaming at his corner.
He wandered further than needed.
Not because he didn't know his place—but because the weight of eyes pressed too heavily on his back, and the forest offered the only peace he could find.
By the time he collected enough dry branches, dusk was fading into full night.
When He Returned
The camp was silent.
Too silent.
The first thing he noticed was the smoke—sharp, bitter.
Then came the moans.
He moved faster.
Bodies littered the camp in clumps. Not dead—yet—but writhing, retching, faces pale and slick with sweat. The stench of bile mixed with the lingering scent of stew.
Poison.
Aurean's heartbeat surged. He dropped the wood without a sound.
Then he saw them.
The enemy.
They moved like shadows between the tents—black-clad, lean, quiet, fifty at least. He recognized the training. Border raiders. Swift. Deadly. Merciless.
A coordinated strike. Wait until the food is served. Wait until the men are weak.
Then kill everyone who remains.
Rythe was down on one knee, one hand clutching his stomach, the other gripping a short blade. His face was gray with pain, but his eyes were sharp—and locked onto Aurean.
They both knew there wasn't time.
Aurean inhaled once.
Then whistled.
A sharp, rising call—one, two, pause, three short bursts.
The hounds answered.
They came streaking out of the shadows like dark fire—Varnak, the others—silent, swift, not barking but deadly.
They knew this signal.
They had been trained.
Weeks ago—long nights when the others mocked him or ignored him—Aurean had taken to sleeping beside the hounds, whispering to them, testing their instincts, shaping them into something more than beasts.
He had taught them signs. Trained them in formation. Mapped their obedience not with harsh hands, but with trust.
Now that bond answered blood with blood.
Aurean raised one hand—flat palm, steady.
Then dropped it sharply.
The hounds attacked.
Chaos erupted in eerie silence.
No howling. No snarling.
Just the thud of bodies as jaws found throats, as claws struck joints.
Aurean moved through the carnage like a shadow, his small blade flashing with economy. He didn't try to take on anyone directly—he knew his limits—but he maneuvered the enemy into the hounds' teeth.
A flick of his wrist—left curl—and Varnak shifted his target, taking out a man readying a crossbow.
A snap-point to the right—and two hounds converged on a swordsman attempting to flee.
Within minutes, the advantage was gone.
The raiders hadn't expected resistance.
They hadn't expected Aurean.
They fell—one by one—until only silence remained.
The ground was slick with blood.
Aurean stood in the center, chest heaving.
Rythe stared at him from where he knelt, barely able to lift his head.
"…You…" Rythe rasped.
Aurean knelt, wiped his blade clean with his cloak, and said nothing.
The hounds returned to him, bloodied and triumphant, circling close as if guarding their own.
And for the first time since the collar was fastened around his throat, no one in that camp saw Aurean as something lesser.
They saw the man who saved them all.
The poison had been laced into the spices—carefully mixed by a cook no one remembered hiring.
She had vanished during the chaos.
Further investigation uncovered old insignias burned into her travel gear—emblems from the same kingdom whose spy Rythe had executed. She had slipped in weeks ago, quiet and patient.
There were no survivors among the enemy. Their bodies were burned.
The dead they had lost—eight men too weak to fight the poison—were buried with full honors.
Rythe did not speak much in the days following.
But he did not avoid Aurean.
Nor did he command distance.
There was a silence between them, but it was not filled with shame.
The camp recovered slowly. And though the soldiers speculated endlessly, no one named Aurean directly.
The truth—like so much else about him—remained buried.
Their campaign had ended not with a battle, but with a shadowed victory won in the dead of night.
The border was secured.
Enemy forces were scattered.
And so, they marched home.
The journey back took twelve days. Along the road, word of the poisoned camp spread faster than any official courier could deliver it. By the time they reached the capital gates, nobles and soldiers alike were whispering about the near-disaster.
Aurean rode in the rear, hood drawn low.