The moon hung low over the ravine, thin enough to leave most of the forest in heavy darkness. Ridgebrook slept with tension in its bones, but I didn't sleep at all. I stood on the barricade watching shadows move in the trees, waiting for a sign—any sign—that Vlad had reached the supply line.
He had slipped out hours earlier without a sound.
Orin joined me quietly. "Do you think he reached them?"
"If anyone can walk through a camp of trained killers like it's a garden," I whispered, "it's him."
She nodded, though she looked more unnerved than reassured.
Hours passed.
The torches in the forest barely flickered.
The night crawled.
And somewhere far from Ridgebrook, Vlad moved like a ghost.
The supply road carved through a narrow, rocky ravine—a perfect bottleneck. Two wagons sat guarded by a dozen Warguard soldiers, most dozing lightly by their fires. Horses stood tethered to a post, ears twitching.
A breeze passed.
A shadow passed with it.
The first soldier never saw him—just felt a hand cover his mouth and a palm strike the back of his neck before he went limp.
Vlad dragged him behind a boulder.
Then he went to work.
He slipped between rock shadows with the patience of a hunter, cutting the straps of grain sacks, loosening wagon axles, puncturing water barrels so they would leak dry by dawn.
Every movement silent.
Every sabotage deliberate.
One horse sensed him—ears pricked, muscles tense—but Vlad touched its muzzle gently and it went still, trembling under his influence.
Only one soldier remained fully alert: a young guard pacing nervously near the wagon, gripping his spear too tightly. His instincts were good—he felt something wrong.
He looked into the darkness.
Vlad looked back.
The guard raised his spear shakily. "W–who's there? Show yourself!"
Vlad stepped from the shadows without hesitation.
The guard's courage vanished instantly.
"G–get back! I—I'll call the others—"
"No," Vlad said calmly. "You will not."
The guard tried to scream, but Vlad was already behind him, one hand crushing his throat just enough to silence him.
"I need you alive," Vlad whispered into his ear. "Your fear is more valuable than your death."
The guard trembled violently.
Vlad dragged him deeper into the ravine, tied him to a broken wagon wheel, and removed the cloth wrap from his head.
Then Vlad's cruelty—cold, controlled, masterful—began.
He placed the cloth back on the man's head, smoothing it gently as though preparing a gift.
Then he took a thick nail from one of the wagon crates and positioned it atop the cloth.
"No… no, please—PLEASE—"
Vlad didn't answer.
He drove the nail downward.
The strike went through the turban, through skin, through bone.
The man's scream tore through the night, muffled only by Vlad's hand. Blood streamed down the man's forehead into his eyes.
"Quiet," Vlad murmured. "Your friends must hear you later, not now.
The man whimpered uncontrollably, body spasming.
Vlad continued with precision—methodical, unfazed.
He snapped the man's right leg with a swift stomp.
Then cut behind the knee of the left so the muscles tore.
The guard collapsed, legs ruined, unable to stand or crawl.
Still breathing. Still conscious.
Vlad wiped his blade clean on the man's tunic.
"You will live," he said quietly. "Because messages must breathe."
He stepped back and examined his work—one man nailed to a wheel, crippled, broken, left alive as a grotesque warning.
Perfect.
Then Vlad finished the sabotage:
He cut the support ropes of the supply bridge.
He shoved boulders down onto the wagons.
He scattered the spilled grain into the ravine stream.
He broke the axle completely.
By the time the sun rose, the entire supply route would be blocked.
Vlad looked at the tortured soldier one last time.
"When they find you," he said, "you will tell them I smiled."
Then he stepped into the shadows and vanished.
At dawn, I saw it—a distant flicker of commotion, shouts echoing faintly through the forest.
Orin rushed up. "Chief! Something's happening at the ravine!"
My heart raced. "That's him. He did it."
A villager pointed. "Look—their patrol torches are scattering!"
Vlad appeared behind me as silently as he had left.
The man didn't breathe hard. Didn't sweat. Didn't look tired.
"It is done," he said.
"What happened?" I asked.
He smiled faintly.
"They will not eat well today."
I swallowed. "And… the army?"
"Unsettled," Vlad said. "Afraid. Angry. Confused."
Lira stepped closer. "Did you kill anyone?"
"One," Vlad said. "Slowly. The rest I left trembling."
Lira flinched. "Liam… are we becoming monsters ourselves?"
"No," I said. "We're surviving monsters."
The Summoner's Ledger pulsed:
[ENEMY SUPPLY LINE DISRUPTED]
[SIEGE DELAY: +3 DAYS]
[ENEMY MORALE: SHAKEN]
[DAYS UNTIL NEXT SUMMON: 15]
Three days.
Three precious days.
I looked out over the forest where Vantor's men scrambled like ants.
"We can survive this," I whispered. "We have to."