Kael Draven
Before us, the valley opened like a wound in the earth.
The steep walls rose on either side, the dark stone streaked with shadowstone. The floor was rough with boulders and scraggly vegetation. And at the far end, partially hidden by an overhang, I could see structures: tents, crude buildings, smoke from cooking fires.
The rebel camp.
"Stop here," Lyra said. "They'll have sentries. If we just walk in, we'll get shot."
"Then how do we announce ourselves?
She cupped her hands and made a sound, three short whistles followed by one long one. A signal.
We waited. Then movement on the valley wall, figures emerging from hiding places. At least six of them, all with bows. All pointed at us.
"State your business," a voice called down. Male, young, aggressive.
"It's Lyra Ashenfell. Scout of the third company. Returning from mission."
"Lyra's dead. Captured three weeks ago."
"Obviously not. I'm standing right here."
"Prove it."
She pulled a pendant from around her neck and held it up. "Silver wolf. Given to me by Captain Dren when I made scout."
Then the voice called down, less hostile: "Who's with you?
"A friend. Also escaped from Temple custody. He's safe."
More consultation. Then, "Come up. But keep your hands visible. Any sudden moves and you'll have six arrows in you."
"Nice folks," I grumbled.
"They're cautious. It keeps them alive." Lyra glanced at me. "Follow my lead. Don't say anything unless asked. And don't mention the shadow magic. Not yet."
"Understood."
The path wound between boulders, designed to slow attackers and expose them to fire from above. Smart defensive layout.
But as we drew closer, I got a better view of the rebels. Maybe fifty people visible, from teenagers up to veterans. All looked hard and weathered; mismatched armor, well-used weapons. There were no idealistic revolutionaries here. These were survivors.
A woman emerged from a larger tent. Probably in her forties, dark hair with grey streaks pulled back in a practical braid. Leather armor reinforced with metal plates. A sword at her hip worn with long familiarity.
"Lyra," she said, "we heard you'd been taken.
"I was, Captain Dren. Caught stealing shadowstone. They threw me in the mines." Lyra gestured to me. "This is Eren. He helped me escape."
Captain Dren's eyes locked onto mine, sharp and appraising. "Eren. That's all? No family name?
"Just Eren, ma'am. Born in the mines. Never had a family name to lose."
"And you helped Lyra out of the goodness of your heart?
"I helped her because we were chained together, and I wanted out, too. Goodness didn't enter into it."
That got a small smile. "Honest. I appreciate that." She turned to Lyra. "Your report. Everything."
Lyra gave a succinct rendition of being captured, our time in the mine, the escape, and our journey. She left out the shadow magic, saying only that we'd gotten lucky against the hunters.
She finished, and Dren looked at me again. "You killed five Crimson Chain hunters. Malnourished and exhausted, and you killed five professional bounty hunters."
"Like Lyra said. We got lucky."
"Luck doesn't kill five armed men. Skill does." She stepped closer. "Where did you learn to fight, Eren?"
"My father. Before the mines, he was a soldier.
"What unit?"
"Third infantry, western campaign."
"Under whose command?"
I hesitated just a fraction, and she saw it. "I don't know. I was young when he died."
Dren held my gaze. "You're lying. Or not telling the whole truth. But that's fine. Everyone here has secrets. The question is whether those secrets make you dangerous to us."
"I'm not your enemy, Captain."
"Maybe not. But you're not exactly a friend either." She smiled without warmth. "You're a survivor. You'll be loyal as long as it serves you. The moment it doesn't."
She wasn't wrong. And the fact she'd read me so quickly told me she was dangerous in her own right.
"I need rest, food, and safety," I said, meeting her eyes. "You can provide that. In exchange, I can fight. That's the deal."
"What about Lyra?
"Lyra's her own person. She makes her own choices."
Dren studied us both. Then: "Fine. You can stay. For now. You'll bunk with new recruits, work rotation like everyone else. Prove yourself useful, and we'll talk about making it permanent."
"Fair enough."
"Lyra, show him around, get him fed; then both of you report for debriefing in two hours."
Dren walked away, calling orders. Lyra let out a breath.
"That went better than expected," she said.
"She doesn't trust me."
"She doesn't trust anyone. But she didn't have you killed, so that's basically a warm welcome." Lyra strode toward a tent. "Come on. Food first."
The mess tent had rough tables and benches. A few rebels looked up when we entered, tracking me with suspicion and curiosity.
Lyra got us bowls of stew, meat of questionable origin in broth with real vegetables. It was the best thing I'd eaten since waking up. We ate in hungry silence.
Halfway through, a young man came forward. Maybe twenty, sandy hair, friendly face with a fresh scar across the cheek.
"Lyra! They said you were dead."
"Takes more than the Temple, Marcus." She motioned to me. "This is Eren. We escaped together. Eren, this is Marcus. He's a scout."
Marcus extended a hand. I shook it, noting the calluses. "Welcome to paradise. Where the food is terrible and you might get killed at any moment. But at least we're free."
"Sounds perfect," I said dryly.
He laughed. "You'll fit in fine." He sat down. "How was Ashveil? We've been hearing reports of corruption incidents there."
Lyra tensed up. "We saw one. Right before we escaped. Man just died. Shadows consumed him from the inside."
Marcus went serious. "That's the third report this month. Same pattern. Shadow corruption manifesting in people with no training. Just wild, violent, deadly."
"What's causing it?" I asked.
"Nobody knows. Temple claims it's because shadow magic is inherently evil." He lowered his voice. "But some think it's something else. Something new. Or something old waking up."
The Void. They were referring to the influence of the Void without knowing such.
And if it was occurring at multiple places, it means the seals were failing.
I was running out of time.
We finished eating, and Lyra showed me to the barracks. She pointed to an empty bedroll.
"That's yours. Not much, but it's better than the mine."
"It's perfect."
She hesitated. "Thank you. For not mentioning the shadow magic. I know it would have been easier.
"Easier, maybe. But stupid. You're more valuable as an ally."
She smiled slightly. "Such a poet."
Before I could respond, a bell rang outside. Lyra's face changed. "That's the alarm."
We ran out with everyone else. The rebels gathered in the center, weapons ready. Dren stood on a platform, her face grim.
"Scouts just reported in. Temple force moving toward the valley. At least a hundred soldiers. Two hours out, heading straight for us."
A murmur of alarm rippled through the crowd. A hundred against fifty. The math wasn't good.
"How did they find us?"
"Doesn't matter. Do we fight or do we run?"
Arguments began at once. Dren tried to restore order, but a mess was emerging.
I looked at Lyra. She looked back. And I saw the same calculation in her eyes.
This was a test. How I handled this would determine everything after.
I could stay quiet. Play it safe.
Or I can take a risk.
Once, I built an empire by taking risks.
I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the arguments. "There's a third option."
Everyone turned to look.
"And what option is that, new blood?" someone taunted him.
I met Dren's gaze directly. "We don't run. We don't fight head-on. We make them come to us on our terms, in terrain we choose. And we make them regret finding this place."
Silence. Then Dren's voice, carefully neutral: "I'm listening."
I smiled, not the smile of a scared teenager, but the calculating smile of a person who'd won a hundred battles.
"Here's what we do.