The moon should have been bright by now.
Instead, she hid behind a thin veil of cloud, pale and indistinct, as though shy or unwilling to look down on what had passed beneath her. Her light reached the ground only in fragments, silver slipping through breaks in the sky and catching on wet leaves and dull armor.
The camp was small.
It lay in a shallow fold of land beyond the southern road, far enough from the city lights that the capital had become only a suggestion on the horizon. No tents had been raised. No banners planted. Just men, women, and children gathered around a single bonfire, its flames low and carefully fed.
Alaric sat near the fire with his soldiers, armor loosened but not removed and his helmet set beside him, steam rising faintly from the bowl in his hands.
Stew.
That was what Marcus had called it.
Alaric lifted a spoon, tasted it, and paused.
It was hot. Salty. Thick with roots he couldn't name and meat that had clearly given up its identity long before the pot.
"…This tastes like you cooked it," Alaric said.
Marcus, crouched opposite him with his own bowl balanced on one knee, snorted. "That's because I did."
"That explains the suffering," Lieutenant Rook said dryly, blowing on his spoon.
Marcus shot him a look. "You ate two servings."
"I need to live," Rook replied. "Not endorsement."
A couple of nearby soldiers chuckled softly, shoulders relaxing as they ate. After hours of holding formation and counting shadows, even bad food was grounding. It reminded them they still had mouths. Still had hands that shook only from fatigue, not fear.
Alaric leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire sink into his bones. His legs ached. His shoulders felt like stone. When he closed his eyes for half a second, the darkness behind them threatened to pull him under.
He didn't let it.
"How far did we make it?" he asked.
Marcus swallowed, then answered. "Far enough that no one followed. Not far enough that I like stopping."
Rook nodded. "Southern patrols won't sweep this deep tonight. Too many blind routes."
Alaric grimaced faintly. "We'll move before dawn."
"Of course we will," Marcus said. "You planning to sleep at all?"
Alaric glanced around the camp. Servants sat in small clusters, wrapped in borrowed cloaks, sharing food and murmured conversation. Some were already asleep where they sat, heads resting against walls, packs, or one another. A few soldiers stood watch at the perimeter, silhouettes barely moving.
"I'll rest," Alaric said. "Sleep can negotiate with me later."
Marcus huffed. "That's what your father used to say."
Alaric's mouth curved slightly at that.
His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the edge of the firelight.
Lia sat there, her boot off, knee bandaged with surprising care by one of the elder maids. The woman muttered as she worked, scolding even as she tightened the wrap.
"I told you," the older maid said, tightening the bandage, "being young doesn't mean you're unbreakable. And hauling half the pantry proves nothing."
Lia winced. "I wasn't hauling half."
"You were limping before we'd gone a mile," the maid replied. "That counts."
Lia muttered, "I said I could handle it."
"You said plenty," the maid said dryly. "Sense wasn't among them."
Lia glanced up and caught Alaric looking.
She straightened immediately, wincing as she did. "My lord—I'm fine. Truly."
Alaric opened his mouth to reply—
Marcus cleared his throat loudly.
"Well," Marcus said, eyes fixed pointedly ahead, "would you look at that."
Alaric frowned. "What."
"Looks like our lord has finally noticed a woman," Marcus continued, deadpan. "Thought we'd lost you to maps and misery forever."
Rook nearly choked on his stew.
Alaric snorted. "Shut up."
Marcus grinned. "Just saying."
"I'm worrying about my servants," Alaric said flatly.
"Of course you are," Marcus replied. "Very noble. Very convincing."
Alaric shot him a look. "What, you want me worrying about you instead?"
Marcus didn't miss a beat. "Absolutely not."
A few of the soldiers nearby laughed quietly, like men testing whether laughter was still allowed.
Alaric shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
"Is she going to be able to walk?" he asked, more seriously now.
The elder maid answered without looking up. "She'll walk. She'll complain. She'll walk anyway."
Lia nodded quickly. "I will."
Alaric inclined his head. "Good. But next time, you listen."
"Yes, my lord," Lia said, softer now.
The fire crackled.
For a moment, no one spoke.
The wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of damp earth. Somewhere beyond the camp, an owl called once, then fell silent again.
Rook stared into the flames. "They didn't stop us."
Marcus grunted. "No."
"They didn't even care," Rook continued.
Alaric answered quietly. "That's what worries me."
Marcus glanced at him. "Because it means they weren't meant to."
"Exactly," Alaric said.
Silence settled again.
When the stew was finished, bowls were passed back. Someone added another small log to the fire. Cloaks were adjusted. Watches were quietly assigned.
Near the far edge of the camp, a woman lay curled against a stone wall, her back to the fire. A child rested against her chest, eyelids fluttering as sleep finally claimed him.
She brushed his hair back gently, careful not to wake him.
"Mama," the child whispered, voice thick with exhaustion.
"Yes," she murmured.
He shifted closer. "Are we safe now?"
The woman paused.
Then she kissed his forehead and held him tighter.
"For tonight," she said.
---
While Alaric and the column rested beneath a clouded moon, the capital did not sleep.
High above Sanctum Cathedral, the ravens finally moved. They lifted as one from the pale stone, wings beating once, twice, then scattered across the night sky like torn shadows. They flew low, purposeful, toward the Noble Quarter.
They descended where the noise had already ended.
A raven settled first, talons scraping wood.
Then another.
They settled atop a head.
The head did not belong to a body anymore. It rested on a royal pike, the wooden shaft planted into the churned earth before the walls of Valenroth Manor.
The man's face was slack, eyes half-lidded, features already stiffening into something that no longer remembered pain. The raven pecked once. Then again.
More pikes stood nearby.
Some with beards still flecked with grey. Some barely past boyhood. All faces that had once walked the manor halls, stood watch at its gates, eaten at its tables.
All faces Alaric would have known.
The ravens spread themselves among them, hopping from spike to spike, feathers rustling softly as they fed.
Below, the manor lay broken open.
The great doors had been smashed inward, wood split and torn like bark after a storm. A battering ram sat abandoned before the entrance, its iron head darkened and scuffed, resting on the ground as if exhausted by its work. Splintered stone and shattered timber littered the courtyard.
Inside the courtyard, soldiers moved through the wreckage.
Royal Guard armor caught the torchlight—clean lines, measured steps. City guards followed, less precise, boots crunching over splintered wood and broken stone. Aurelion infantry filled the rest of the space, spears stacked, shields resting, men rotating through watch as if this were any other secured site.
They searched.
Doors were forced. Chests cracked open. Floors pried up where hollow echoes suggested secrets that were no longer there. Papers were gathered, stacked, discarded again by men who did not know what they were looking for but knew they were expected to find something.
They found nothing.
In a side hall, a clerk stood beside a long table.
He held a parchment, smudged, written in a careful hand not his own.
His finger moved slowly down the list.
Names.
One by one.
Nearby, wounded soldiers were being treated where they lay.
Some sat against walls with sleeves cut away, blood crusted at the edges of hurried bandages. Others lay flat, eyes closed, breathing shallow. A few shapes had already been covered and left untouched, armor still on, as if rest might wake them.
Not far from the treatment line, Lieutenant Veyrin Holt sat against a cracked pillar, its surface blackened by age. A bandage wrapped his head, dark where it covered his left eye. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, staring at the ground without seeing it.
Along the far edge of the courtyard, a pair of soldiers stood apart from the others.
They wore Royal Guard colors.
They had once trained under Marcus, years ago, on the borders. Their hands shook slightly as they gripped their spears. One swallowed hard, his stomach turning as his eyes flicked involuntarily toward the line of heads. He looked away immediately.
Near the shattered doorway, Ser Jorren Kael stood apart from the others.
A Sanctum cleric had just finished speaking to him, hands folded, head inclined. The cleric moved on without waiting for a response.
Jorren did not follow.
He stood with his helm tucked under one arm, eyes fixed on the manor façade. On the scars left by the ram. On the places where defenders had held long enough to matter but not long enough to survive. His jaw was tight. His eyes held something unsettled.
Around him, soldiers continued their work.
Only the sound of boots on broken stone, the rustle of parchment, the distant flap of raven wings.
And above it all, the manor stood empty.
Silenced.