As he returned to camp, the older man's counsel weighed heavy upon him. Regulus's words circled Alric’s mind like shadows.

  He knew that what he was doing was wrong. The hierarchy was absolute: he was nobility, she was conquered chattel.

  Yet his will refused. He couldn’t muster the conscience to consign her to proper channels, protocol, or even Empire.

  The Southern Purge had been called by paranoia, not proof.

  He had bent to it for three years entire, yet he couldn’t bring himself to yield to such malice once more on this matter also.

  Not for her, but himself alone.

  The Seneschals would never tire of their prattle, nor of their thirst for power if no one confronted their hypocrisy.

  Especially old bastards like Vaudrel. Cowards with no face for danger who dispatch men to die for their suspicions.

  The decree had been given under false pretense, and what is order, if born of deceit?

  To bow again would be no more than complete surrender.

  Better to die, or be exiled.

  She was nothing to the Empire, but the more he questioned his motives, the more his bones rejected the notion outright.

  Something in him churned in rebellion, curdling in his stomach like poison.

  And as he walked, for a fleeting moment, a sound carried from the treeline behind him.

  A child’s laughter, clear but distant.

  He turned, fists tight, searching the darkness for a source that wasn’t there.

  Only men. Only campfires.

  What is…?

  He called a soldier over.

  “Are my eyes chasing themselves?”

  The soldier blinked, perplexed, but answered quick.

  “No, Lord Commander. They are steady.”

  Alric sensed no change in his mind either, and the soldier’s gaze was as it should.

  “Dismissed.”

  The soldier saluted and withdrew.

  He banished the thought and pressed on, turning his attention to the woman anew.

  She would remain under his watch for as long as he could retain her.

  He crossed into the camp’s heart toward his tent.

  Campfires and lit torches dotted the meadow, flaring red against the sky.

  Men sat in rings around them sharing rations and quiet conversation.

  Guards stood at intervals along the perimeter, watching the grey forest bleed into shadow for any threats.

  Alric walked among them all in silence.

  They saluted as he passed, their faces marked by the same weariness he carried. Veterans of a thousand wars, and a thousand still to come.

  He passed the supply wagons defended by tents and men. The stables where pack mules and horses resided fed and hobbled together. And the resupply centers.

  The camp had taken its breath of rest, readying for the night to come.

  The command center lay amid smaller pavilions used by the Hekatons, their forms barely visible through the dimly lit canvas walls.

  He paused before his tent, the twin-headed falcon above it hung limp in the still air.

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  The guards stood at attention, their spears held high.

  “Dismissed” he said.

  They saluted and faded into shadow between the tents.

  He set his hand on the flap, then pushed it aside and stepped in.

  Candlelight flickered across the room casting dancing shadows on the sparse furnishings.

  A brazier burned low, its coals glowing faintly against the encroaching cold.

  Priscilla sat on the cot, eyes lowered, staring at the space between her feet.

  Alric looked at her once, then crossed to the far side of the tent where his armour stand waited.

  He unfastened his sword belt and hung it up, leather scraping against steel.

  When he turned, she hadn’t moved, hadn’t acknowledged him yet. Just sat as a wounded cat might.

  Something in her stillness felt deliberate, as though she were waiting for him to speak first.

  He then stepped to the war table and spread out the Crag’s map.

  The parchment crackled as he unfurled it, revealing a mess of sketches made from half-lost tales. None of it matched what he had seen.

  Not its entrance, nor its paths. And how could it? This place visited its victims with visions of glory or honeyed oblivion.

  It was a lie on paper, given by liars who spoke truth.

  He studied the meaningless lines a moment longer, then set the map aside and glanced back at her.

  The silence mounted between them, broken only by dying coals and distant murmurs of soldiers settling for the night.

  “Why smile?” He asked at last.

  She looked up at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  “Why are you asking about a smile of all things?”

  “Answer.”

  “Have you gone mad?” she stared at him with disbelief. “Of all the things you could ask of what has happened in this cursed traed, you ask about a smile?”

  He gave no answer, gaze fixed on her.

  “What does it matter, Commander?” Her voice carried exasperation now. “It was just a moment. Nothing more.”

  “Answer it.”

  “Why should I?” Anger flared in her eyes, then dissipated in the light of realization.

  “Wait. You’re testing me again, no? You would not be so persistent otherwise. What did she do to you to make you so paranoid of me? Smile? Really?”

  Her tone carried earnest mockery in it, mixed with disbelief.

  “Answer the question, Priscilla.” He pressed her further.

  “Don’t call me by name, bastard!” she yelled. “And no. I will not. You do not own me, and I owe you nothing.”

  His jaw tightened, patience wearing thin.

  “Then you’ll be consigned to protocol. No more consideration. No more special treatment.”

  “You would hand me over for a smile?” she gave a brittle, bitter laugh. “Do it then. See if I care.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest.

  He watched her for a long moment, studying her every line.

  She did not flinch. She had meant every word.

  “Very well.”

  He turned to the entrance and raised his voice.

  “Guards!”

  Heavy footsteps approached through the camp. The sound of armour clanking and boots striking soil getting closer, filled the tent.

  “Lord Commander?” Came a gruff voice from outside.

  “Enter and escort the prisoner to holding. Regular protocol.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander.”

  The tent flap rustled as figures entered.

  Priscilla’s chin lifted, arms crossed, though her hands trembled as they gripped her skin.

  Her jaw locked, legs pressed together.

  Her eyes danced to the beat of another memory.

  The sound of armour grew louder, steel on steel, cold on flesh.

  Her breath came shallow, rasping against her throat.

  The cot offered no protection, no covering. Its ragged furs could do nothing when fingers came down. When weight came down.

  The steps filled her, swallowing her whole.

  Ears rang, vision blurred. She curled against the canvas wall, knees to chest, arms wrapped round herself.

  She lowered her eyes, praying it would all go away.

  When the sound stopped, she raised her gaze.

  No man stood there, only shadows. Columns of darkness that devoured light and hope.

  Candlelight swam through them, glittering against the void of death.

  She shook her head.

  “No…” came the whisper.

  A hand reached from the dark.

  “NO!” she screamed, voice tearing through her throat.

  A grip seized her arm and yanked her from the cot. She lashed out once, dull sound reverberating throughout the tent. Useless. Painful.

  Another hand caught her other arm and bound her.

  She writhed, teeth bared, desperate to break free.

  Her head jerked left and right, but found no way out.

  “NO! LET ME GO!!!”

  Only one thing glimmered in the abyss.

  Two silvery-grey eyes watching her from afar. Impassive. Indifferent.

  She broke beneath their weight.

  “W-WAIT! I WILL SPEAK! ANYTHING YOU WANT! JUST LET ME GO! PLEASE!”

  He raised one of his hands. The shadows stilled at once.

  “Go. Leave her here.”

  The shadows bowed their heads and melted away into nothingness.

  She sagged to the ground, arms shaking, body shivering. Her nails clutched at the furs beneath her hands as though they could steady her.

  He stepped near and looked down at her.

  “You think this cruelty,” he began, “but it is mercy. Any other Valekyrian commander would have ended you for what you spat in my face. I did not.”

  He now stood over her. “Yet I spared you. Even now.”

  Her eyes flicked up, wild and wet, but he gave her no ground.

  “You chose defiance and reaped its fruit. Remember that when next I ask.”

  “The question remains, and you will answer. If not tonight, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then the day after. But you will.”

  He turned to the war table and folded the map shut with a crack.

  Behind him, he could hear a faint sob, restrained with what strength she had left.

  He turned and saw her as she was before. On the ground shaking, curled to her side, eyes low.

  A figure carved from pain and loss.

  A single coal hissed into the fire, disintegrating into ash. Candlelight swayed across the canvas walls, shadows stretching long and thin, restless in their dance.

  Outside, the camp murmured low and a horn called once into the night, its echoes fading into nothingness.

  He closed his hand upon the map, knuckles white.

  Then set it aside and extinguished the candle with two fingers, and left only the brazier’s glow alive.

  The tent grew small.

  She retreated tighter into herself. He remained standing at the table, eyes fixed forward, still as stone.

  And between them the silence stretched, darker than any shadow the Crag had cast.