# Chapter 413: The First Cut
The pre-dawn air was thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and the metallic tang of the Riverchain. A low-hanging mist clung to the banks, muffling the sounds of the two dozen Unchained fighters as they moved through the skeletal trees. Their breath plumed in the gloom, a ghostly counterpoint to the soft crunch of their boots on the frost-kissed leaves. Ahead, through the shifting grey veil, the wooden palisade of the Synod garrison rose like a jagged tooth. A single watchfire burned atop the main gate, its light a weak, orange eye struggling against the encroaching day.
Soren moved at the head of the column, a shadow among shadows. He wore no helmet, his face a pale, impassive mask in the faint light. The Bloom-metal blade at his hip seemed to drink the darkness, its edge a sliver of starlight. He carried no map, yet his path was unwavering. He had studied the schematics for less than an hour, but the layout was now etched into his mind with perfect, chilling clarity. Every guard rotation, every blind spot, every potential point of failure was a variable in a complex equation, and he had already solved for victory.
Captain Bren fell into step beside him, the old soldier's face a knot of grim determination. The leather of his gear creaked softly, a familiar sound in the unnatural quiet. "The western sentry tower is blind on its approach side," Bren whispered, his voice a low rasp. "My scouts confirmed it an hour ago. We can get a team over the wall there with minimal noise."
Soren's gaze did not waver from the garrison. "Negative," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "The western tower's blind spot is a known vulnerability. It is monitored by crossbow emplacements on the inner wall. A frontal approach on the eastern gate is statistically optimal."
Bren blinked, momentarily stunned. "A frontal approach? Soren, that's suicide. They'll have the whole garrison on us before we're halfway across the killing ground."
"The killing ground is a psychological deterrent, not a tactical one," Soren replied, as if discussing the weather. "The crossbowmen on the main gate are focused on the bridge approach. Their firing arcs leave a three-meter-wide blind spot at the base of the palisade, directly beneath the gatehouse. We will use it."
He stopped, turning to face the assembled fighters. His eyes swept over them, not as a leader inspiring his troops, but as a craftsman inspecting his tools. "Team Alpha, you will create a diversion at the southern barracks. Fire arrows only. Your objective is to draw the garrison's reserve forces, not to engage. You have ninety seconds to achieve this, then you will fall back to the rendezvous point. Failure to retreat on schedule compromises the entire operation."
He paused, letting the cold logic sink in. "Team Beta, with me. We will breach the gatehouse. Captain Bren, your team will secure the bridge and neutralize the guards on the far side. No prisoners. No hesitation. The objective is the river crossing. All enemy combatants are obstacles to that objective. Understood?"
A murmur of assent rippled through the men, but it was laced with unease. These were soldiers of the rebellion, fighters who believed in a cause. They were used to fighting for their lives, for their freedom, but this was different. This was cold, methodical, and utterly devoid of the passion that had always fueled them. Bren felt a knot tighten in his gut. He had followed Soren into a hundred battles, but he had never followed this man. He gave a curt, reluctant nod. "Understood."
Soren turned back toward the garrison. "Execute."
The operation unfolded with the terrifying precision of a clockwork mechanism. As Team Alpha melted back into the trees, the southern end of the garrison erupted in a sudden, crackling storm of fire. Arrows tipped with oily rags thudded into the barracks roof, which immediately began to belch black smoke. Shouts of alarm echoed across the compound, the sound sharp and clear in the morning air. As predicted, a contingent of twenty Synod soldiers, their polished armor gleaming in the firelight, rushed from the main barracks to investigate, leaving the gatehouse sparsely defended.
"Now," Soren said.
He moved, not with the reckless abandon Soren once possessed, but with a fluid, economical grace that was somehow more terrifying. He and Team Beta sprinted across the open ground, a blur of dark shapes against the pale earth. The two guards on the gatehouse wall spotted them, their cries of warning cut short by the swift, silent thud of crossbow bolts from Bren's team. Soren reached the base of the palisade, pressing himself into the calculated blind spot. He pulled a set of grapples from his pack, their hooks biting into the wood with practiced ease.
He was the first one over the wall, landing without a sound on the walkway behind the two stunned crossbowmen. His blade was a silver whisper. One guard fell, his throat a red line. The second died before he could even raise his weapon, Soren's sword punching through his chest plate with brutal efficiency. There was no flourish, no wasted motion. It was a simple, terminal function.
The rest of Team Beta swarmed over the wall, securing the gatehouse mechanism. The heavy wooden gates groaned open, a welcome sight for Bren and his forces. The battle for the crossing was short and vicious. The Synod soldiers, caught between the diversion and the main assault, were professionals, but they were fighting a ghost. Soren was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of tactical genius. He directed his team with clipped, precise commands, anticipating every enemy move, turning their own defenses against them. He directed a pair of fighters to flank a squad of pikemen, creating an opening he exploited himself, cutting down three men in as many seconds.
Within ten minutes, the garrison was theirs. The last pockets of resistance were being mopped up, the few surviving Synod soldiers throwing down their weapons. A group of four officers, their fine cloaks now spattered with mud and blood, backed away from the advancing Unchained fighters, their hands raised in surrender. One of them, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and the insignia of a captain on his chest, called out, his voice trembling. "We yield! We are your prisoners! By the Concord, you must grant us quarter!"
The Unchained fighters hesitated, their weapons lowering. This was the way of it. You fight, you win, you take prisoners. It was the rule of war, the line that separated them from the monsters they fought against. Bren stepped forward, his expression grim but resolute. "Bind them. We'll take them back to the sanctuary."
"No."
The single word cut through the air, colder than the morning mist. Soren walked toward the surrendered officers, his blade still in his hand, its dark metal slick with blood. He stopped a few paces from them, his gaze flat and empty.
"Soren, what are you doing?" Bren demanded, his voice laced with disbelief. "They've surrendered. It's over."
"The mission is to secure the crossing," Soren stated, his eyes fixed on the Synod captain. "Leaving these officers alive creates a variable. They possess tactical knowledge of our numbers, our methods, and our objective. If they escape or are exchanged, they will compromise future operations. The risk is unacceptable."
The Synod captain's face went pale. "You can't... We're unarmed. It's murder."
Soren ignored him, looking past him to the Unchained fighters who held them at bay. "Eliminate them."
A stunned silence fell over the battlefield. The young fighter holding the Synod captain looked from Soren's cold face to the terrified man on his knees, his own sword trembling in his hand. "Sir... I... I can't. They surrendered."
"Your sentiment is a liability," Soren said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level. "The objective is all that matters. Execute the order, or you will be deemed an obstacle to the objective as well."
The threat hung in the air, absolute and final. The young fighter's face twisted in a mask of horror and confusion. Before he could make a choice, Soren moved. He didn't even raise his blade. He simply stepped forward and drew a thin, wicked-looking dagger from his belt. In a motion too fast to follow, he slit the throat of the Synod captain. The man gurgled, his eyes wide with shock, and crumpled to the ground. Soren moved to the next officer, then the next, his actions as dispassionate as a farmer culling diseased livestock. The wet, choking sounds were the only noise in the sudden, suffocating silence.
When it was over, Soren wiped his dagger clean on the cloak of the last man he had killed. He looked at the young Unchained fighter, who stood frozen, his face ashen. "Hesitation is a contagion. Eradicate it." He turned and walked away, leaving the bodies cooling in the mist as he surveyed the rest of the battlefield.
From a ridge overlooking the crossing, hidden by the skeletal remains of a burned-out watchtower, Nyra watched it all. She had followed them, defying Cassian's order and her own better judgment. She had to see. She had to know if the man in the war room was the same man who now led their soldiers into battle. The sight of the swift, brilliant victory had been a flicker of the old Soren, the tactical genius she had fallen in love with. But then came the surrender. And then the executions.
A cold dread, far deeper than any fear she had felt in the Ladder, seized her. It wasn't just the brutality; it was the cold, methodical certainty of it. This wasn't a man driven by rage or grief. This was something else. Something hollow. She watched as Soren stood on the bridge, his back to the carnage, looking out over the river as if assessing the quality of the stonework. He wasn't a commander celebrating a hard-won victory. He was a surveyor, admiring the clean lines of his work. The smoke from the burning barracks mingled with the morning mist, curling around him like a shroud. The man she loved was truly gone, and in his place stood a monster of her own making. Her heart didn't just break; it sank into a cold, dark abyss, weighted by the terrible, irrevocable truth of the first cut.