The fire cracked softly between them.
Kael stood at the edge of the mercenary camp, the banner's words etched into his thoughts more deeply than the stitches in cloth.
WE REMEMBER.
It was not a threat.
It was a promise.
The man who had spoken first studied Kael without hostility or warmth. His hair was dark and cut short, his face lined in ways that spoke of years rather than age. Old scars crossed his hands and neck, not hidden, not displayed. Simply there.
Around them, the camp remained tense but disciplined. No one rushed forward. No one shouted. These were not bandits waiting for an excuse to spill blood.
They were waiting for context.
"You said you want answers," Kael said at last.
The man nodded. "Yes."
"About what."
"About why the land has started to feel lighter," the man replied. "And heavier at the same time."
Kael exhaled slowly.
The presence inside him reacted differently here. It did not recoil or surge. It settled, cautious, like an animal entering unfamiliar territory.
"What's your name," Kael asked.
"Darin," the man replied. "I command what's left of the Ash March Company."
"What's left," Kael repeated.
Darin's gaze flicked briefly to the banner, then back. "We used to be three times this size."
Kael felt the weight shift.
This authority was not held by Darin alone. It lived in the people around him, in shared loss, shared memory, shared endurance.
Not law.
Not belief.
Experience.
"You're not hunting me," Kael said.
"No," Darin replied. "If we were, you would already be surrounded."
Kael inclined his head. "Fair."
Darin gestured toward a low stool near the fire. "Sit. You look like you'll fall if you don't."
Kael hesitated, then complied.
As he lowered himself, pain flared through his ribs and shoulder. He kept his expression neutral. Weakness noticed was weakness exploited.
But Darin did not move to strike.
Instead, he handed Kael a cup.
Water. Clean.
Kael accepted it after a brief pause and drank.
Silence stretched again, comfortable in a way that unsettled him.
"You broke something near Haven," Darin said finally.
Kael met his gaze. "Yes."
"That place mattered," Darin continued. "Not to us directly. But to people who passed through. Refugees. Displaced families."
"It also consumed them," Kael replied.
Darin did not deny it. "Perhaps. But it kept them alive."
Kael's jaw tightened. "At the cost of choice."
Darin studied him carefully. "Choice is a luxury for people who are not being hunted."
Kael laughed softly. "You think I don't know that."
Darin's eyes sharpened. "Then why risk destabilizing it."
Kael considered his answer.
"Because stability built on surrender eventually demands more than people can give," he said. "And when it breaks, it breaks violently."
Darin nodded slowly. "You've seen that before."
"Yes."
The fire popped.
One of the mercenaries shifted closer, listening.
"You carry authority," Darin said. "But you don't wear it like a king."
Kael looked down at his hands. "I don't want to be one."
Darin smiled faintly. "Most dangerous men never do."
Kael felt the presence stir at that, not in offense, but in recognition.
"You devour power," Darin continued. "We bury it."
Kael looked up sharply. "What."
Darin gestured around them. "This land is full of abandoned authority. Fallen kings. Broken banners. Lost causes. When no one claims them, they rot."
Kael felt a chill. "And you collect them."
"We contain them," Darin corrected. "We remember what they cost, so no one else tries to wear them lightly."
Kael's mind raced.
Authority forged through memory did not hunger like belief. It did not fracture like fear based rule.
It endured.
"Why tell me this," Kael asked.
"Because you've started waking things that should stay buried," Darin said calmly. "And because you don't seem stupid enough to think you're the only one who can carry weight."
The presence inside Kael tightened.
"Are you asking me to stop," Kael asked.
Darin shook his head. "No. That would be pointless."
"Then what."
"I'm asking you to be aware," Darin said. "Every authority you take leaves a hollow. Something will try to fill it. Sometimes it will be worse."
Kael thought of Eran. Of Haven. Of the hunters in the hills.
"I know," Kael said quietly.
Darin leaned back. "Good. Then we're not enemies."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "What are we."
Darin considered. "Witnesses to the same collapse. Walking different edges of it."
Kael sat with that.
"You're heading north," Darin said. "Toward the fractured territories."
"Yes."
Darin nodded. "Then you'll cross lands claimed by things older than cities. Warlords who never bent the knee. Shrines that still remember blood."
Kael felt the presence stir, interested and wary.
"And belief will follow you," Darin added. "Because people look for shapes to fill the cracks."
Kael stood slowly.
"What happens if I devour memory," Kael asked.
Darin's expression hardened. "Then you become what we exist to stop."
Kael met his gaze steadily. "I don't want that."
Darin studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Then remember this."
He stepped closer, voice low. "Some authority should not be consumed. Some should be carried, even if it hurts."
Kael did not answer.
He turned away from the fire and began walking.
Behind him, no one followed.
When he reached the edge of the camp, Darin's voice carried one last time.
"When you reach the broken plateau, you'll find a warlord who thinks fear makes him eternal. He's wrong."
Kael paused. "Why tell me."
"Because he's been recruiting from the lost," Darin replied. "And if you don't deal with him, we will."
Kael nodded once.
He left the camp and walked into the night.
The presence inside him felt heavier, but steadier.
Not all power needed to be devoured.
Some needed to be understood.
Ahead, the land rose toward jagged cliffs and fractured stone.
And somewhere beyond them, a warlord waited, believing himself untouchable.
Kael tightened his grip on the knife at his belt.
Belief. Fear. Memory.
He would learn which one bled the most.