Kael's pace was relentless. The snowy forest gave way to rocky terrain as they made their way westward. Elira said little. Each step she took was one more between her and the life she'd lost. She clung to the name like armor—Elias. It didn't feel like hers, not yet, but perhaps it didn't need to.
That night, they reached the edge of a cliff, where the trees thinned and a valley opened below. Tucked between jagged ridgelines and hidden by fog, firelight flickered in the darkness.
"The camp," Kael said.
They descended in silence, weaving through narrow paths until voices rose ahead—muffled and tense. A perimeter guard stepped forward, sword drawn. His eyes narrowed when he saw Elira.
"Who's the kid?"
Kael shrugged. "Another orphan from Norwyn. Can hold a blade, though. Saw it myself."
The guard eyed her up and down. "Small."
"Fast," Kael replied. "And angry."
That seemed to satisfy him.
Inside the camp, tents sprawled in ragged rows, their canvas patched with old uniforms and burlap sacks. Fires burned low. Men of all ages —most little older than Elira—huddled over maps, weapons, or meals. They looked tired. Hardened. Like ghosts who had decided to haunt the world instead of leave it.
Kael led her to a tent near the edge of the camp.
"You'll bunk here," he said. "Keep your head down, speak little, listen more. Trust no one."
She gave a short nod.
"Especially not me," he added with a half-smile. "Spies don't make good friends."
But something in his voice told her he meant the opposite.
—
The next day began with drills. No time to rest, no time to grieve.
The rebel commander—a wiry man with burn scars across his neck named Captain Sera—watched the recruits with a hawk's stare. He didn't care who you were, only if you could survive.
Elira could.
She was weaker than most. Smaller. But she moved like a dancer, eyes sharp, footwork precise. She didn't swing wildly like the others; she studied them. Within a week, whispers of "the quiet one" spread through the ranks.
Then came her first real test.
Captain Sera called for sparring matches—one-on-one duels in front of the entire company. Elira stood silently, arms crossed, until the name "Talen" was called.
Her opponent was tall, broad-shouldered, and fast. He grinned as he stepped forward, clearly amused at the thought of fighting the newcomer.
"Try not to cry when I knock you down, Elias," he said.
She offered no response.
They circled. He lunged first—too fast, too confident. She ducked, twisted, and drove the flat of her blade into the back of his knee. He fell hard, his sword clattering from his hand. The crowd let out a stunned noise, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
Talen stared up at her, breathless.
"Where'd you learn that?"
She didn't answer.
Captain Sera called the match. Elira walked off without looking back. She didn't see the gaze that followed her—not Talen's, but another figure standing behind the crowd.
Kael.
—
Later that night, Kael slipped into her tent without a sound.
"You made an impression," he said.
"Good."
"And a rival."
"I can handle him."
Kael crouched beside her, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his cloak.
"A message came today. Coded, intercepted from a Duras scout. Something big's moving through the southern highlands—weapon shipments. I'm leaving at dawn."
"You want me to come?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. But soon."
She nodded. Then hesitated. "Why me?"
Kael studied her. "Because you see everything. You don't just fight—you watch. That's what makes a good spy."
Elira lowered her gaze. She wanted to tell him she hated spies. That if they'd warned Norwyn, her family might still be alive. But she also knew that without Kael, she'd be dead in the snow.
Before he left, he paused.
"There's one more thing. The captain's assigning you to a new unit. Scouts and saboteurs. You'll meet them tomorrow. They're elite. And stubborn."
"Names?"
Kael smirked. "You'll like one of them. Or hate him. Hard to tell the difference."
—
The next morning, she met the unit—and him.
His name was Corin. Dark hair, scarred jaw, a smirk that looked carved in place. He was clever, faster than he looked, and immediately unimpressed.
"Elites," he said, eyeing her. "We're not here to babysit."
"Good," Elira replied. "I don't need a nursemaid."
He raised an eyebrow. Then, to her surprise, he grinned.
"Well then, Elias. Welcome to the worst job in the rebellion."
The scouts trained before dawn, always in the dark. Captain Sera believed that if you couldn't see, you'd learn to listen—every breath, every shift of cloth, every footfall on frost.
Elira kept up. Barely.
Corin moved like smoke, soundless, effortless. He never waited, never looked back, never spoke unless it was to point out what someone had done wrong—which was often. He didn't single her out, but he didn't go easy on her either.
"Stay low. You're a shadow, not a torch," he muttered after she brushed too close to a branch.
"I am low," she snapped back, ducking under a fallen log.
He glanced over his shoulder. "You're short. That's different."
Still, by the end of the second week, he didn't correct her anymore. That was something.
—
The mission came suddenly.
A Duras messenger had been captured two towns west, carrying coded orders. A Duras supply caravan—heavy with weapons and rations—was scheduled to pass through a narrow mountain pass at dusk, guarded but vulnerable. The rebels didn't want to hit it head-on.
They wanted it stolen.
Captain Sera assembled Corin's unit before sunrise. The map was rough, edges torn, ink smudged with someone's blood.
"We go in quiet," she said. "Eliminate the scouts. Replace their men. Divert the caravan into the gorge—then rig the drop path to collapse behind it. No survivors."
No glory. No banners. Just shadows and death.
Perfect work for spies and ghosts.
—
The forest thickened into black pine and shale as they moved into position. Elira's heartbeat slowed, sharpened. She'd never killed anyone in cold blood before.
But tonight, she would.
She crawled beside Corin through underbrush. His voice, barely a breath, reached her ear.
"You sure you're up for this, Elias?"
"Yes."
"You look pale."
"I'm always pale."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone. Then the first scout appeared—just ahead, standing alone, silhouetted by the fading light.
Elira exhaled slowly.
"Left flank," Corin whispered. "He's yours."
She nodded and moved. Her feet found silence, her hands steady as stone. The scout never heard her. Her blade slid through the space between breath and heartbeat. The man crumpled without a sound.
When she returned, Corin looked at her with something new. Respect. Or maybe caution.
Either way, he said nothing.
—
The ambush unfolded with mechanical precision.
They disguised themselves in the fallen scouts' cloaks, mimicked their postures. When the caravan arrived—eight wagons, fifteen guards—Elira stood at the front of the line, heart hammering like war drums in her chest.
The lead commander rode past her without suspicion.
Corin gave the signal.
Moments later, the path behind the caravan gave way in a thunder of rock and dust. Wagons tumbled into the gorge. The screams were short.
A few Duras soldiers remained, panicked and confused.
Elira's unit struck like wolves.
When the silence returned, they stood among the bodies. Wind howled through the pass, carrying with it the scent of iron and pine.
She had done it.
She had killed.
And she didn't feel broken.
She felt alive.
—
That night, beside a fire built from the shattered remains of a Duras wagon, Corin sat across from her, arms folded. The others drank and laughed around them, but he watched her with narrowed eyes.
"You don't flinch," he said.
"Should I?"
"Most do, their first time."
Elira shrugged. "They killed my family. I'm only returning the favor."
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise—recognition. Pain held close.
"I know that feeling," he said softly. "You carry it like a blade."
"Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But after a while, he passed her a flask of something sharp and bitter. She drank it anyway.
They sat in silence, side by side, two shadows warmed by the same fire.
—
Later that night, Kael returned to camp, silent as snowfall. He found her sharpening her sword near the edge of the trees.
"You made an impression," he said.
"I seem to be doing that a lot."
He nodded toward Corin, who was helping clean blood from one of the stolen weapons.
"He likes you."
Elira froze.
"He doesn't know me."
Kael studied her face. "Maybe not. But sometimes people see the truth before you speak it."
"And what do you see?"
Kael's gaze lingered a moment too long. "I see someone who doesn't know how dangerous she's becoming."
Elira didn't sleep that night.
She stood alone in the trees, staring at her reflection in the blade.
Not Elira.
Not Elias.
Something else.