《BLACK MOON》 Chapter 1 1. YAN THE KNIFE WAITS IN HIS HAND. It¡¯s patient. It¡¯s ready. Yanick isn¡¯t. His fingers twitch around the handle like it might burn him if he grips it too tight. Maybe it will. His legs don¡¯t move, his chest tightens, but none of that matters because the blade is still there, staring him down, waiting for him to act. Behind him, Rayla circles like a predator deciding where to sink its teeth first. Her breathing is jagged, all broken edges, like she¡¯s been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. Every step she takes scrapes against his nerves. Her shadow flickers with the flames, appearing on his left, then his right, then gone again, like she¡¯s part of the fire itself. ¡°Pick one,¡± she hisses, the words sharp enough to cut. Yanick doesn¡¯t flinch. He jerks, a whole-body shiver he can¡¯t suppress, like her voice just unstrung his spine. She steps into the firelight, and somehow she¡¯s taller now, larger. As the flames devour the farmhouse, she grows¡ªthis towering, twisted thing made of smoke and rage. Her hand shoots out, snatching his hair, yanking his head back hard enough to make his neck scream. The stench of vodka pours out of her mouth, hot and acidic, and for a second, Yanick wonders if her breath alone could set him on fire. ¡°Pick one, or I¡¯ll do it for you.¡± Her hand tightens in his hair, then shoves him forward, down, knees cracking against dirt and ash. He looks up. There they are. Ademund. Amaia. They¡¯re kneeling, just like him. They¡¯re waiting, just like him. But they¡¯re not holding a knife. Behind them, the farmhouse groans as the roof finally starts to go. It caves in on itself, timber snapping, pieces of it crumbling into the fire. Sparks and smoke burst into the night, blotting out the stars. Yanick breathes, or tries to. The air is too thick, full of ash and heat and something that tastes like charred wood and regret. His lungs want to collapse, but Rayla¡¯s voice keeps them going, bouncing around in his skull like shrapnel. Pick. He looks at Amaia first. He always looks at her first. Her eyes hit him like a fist to the chest, and suddenly he¡¯s drowning in memories. That night. This night. Every night when things made sense, back when he thought there was still something left worth living for. She was his salvation. His second chance. The only thing that pulled him out of that endless loop of hate. She made him believe, for one stupid, shining moment, that things could be different. That he could be different. Her smile was soft, like morning sunlight. Her touch warm and real, grounding him in the grass while the stars blinked above. She smelled like lavender and sweat, like something honest. Something human. Something he didn¡¯t deserve. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°One.¡± Rayla¡¯s voice is cold now, dispassionate, but it still carves into him like the knife in his hand. He turns to Ademund. Once, he¡¯d been Yanick¡¯s shield, his guardian angel with fists like iron. That night at the city gates¡ªYanick can still see it. The mob of locals ready to tear him apart, their shouts ripping through the air. Ademund appearing out of nowhere, scattering them like leaves in a storm. He didn¡¯t just save Yanick¡¯s life; he made him believe that someone might actually care if he lost it. But the man kneeling in front of him now? He¡¯s not that person anymore. His shoulders sag. His head hangs low. He looks hollow, like someone scooped out everything strong and good inside him and left nothing but scraps. His face is all sharp angles, pain buried deep in the creases. Maybe it¡¯s anger. Maybe it¡¯s despair. It doesn¡¯t matter anymore. ¡°Two.¡± The ash is falling thicker now, swirling in the air like snow. It clings to his skin, his clothes, his hair. He remembers snow, real snow. Home. ¡°Rayla¡­¡± His voice cracks, breaking like the beams of the farmhouse behind them. ¡°Please¡­¡± She doesn¡¯t answer. Just inhales, slow and deliberate. ¡°Thr¡ª¡± ¡°Stop.¡± Yanick moves. He doesn¡¯t think, doesn¡¯t breathe. His right arm wraps around Ademund, pulling him close, and his left¡ªhis left knows what to do. The knife moves. The knife knows. A thrust. A gasp. Blood, dark and hot, pours over his hands. Ademund¡¯s eyes meet his. There¡¯s no anger. No surprise. Just understanding, quiet and heavy. When he falls, it¡¯s slow. His body crumples, blood on his chest. The same blood on the knife and on Yanick¡¯s hand. Amaia screams. It¡¯s the kind of sound that rips through you, shredding everything soft and vulnerable inside. Her scream. His scream. *** YANICK WOKE UP CHOKING ON AIR. Fire. The farmhouse. The blood. All of it cracked and blurred, fading into sterile white. His fingers found the scar on his palm, thick and ridged like old rope. Proof it wasn¡¯t just a dream. He didn¡¯t sleep again. He stared at the ceiling until the door creaked open, and the routine began. Breakfast. Shower. Clean clothes. Everything mechanical, everything normal, like he wasn¡¯t falling apart inside. Each day, he felt stronger. His arm, still trapped in its cast, didn¡¯t hurt as much. The fingers poking out from the bandages flexed without pain now. He was healing, apparently. But today was different. The guards turned left instead of right. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± he asked. No answer. The hallway stretched ahead, colder and darker than it should¡¯ve been. The lights near the floor glowed faintly, dim and useless. The guards¡¯ boots echoed like gunshots. His shoes? Silent. At the end of the hall were white doors. Chapter 2 YAN "NAME AND AGE." "Yanick." His own voice sounded foreign, dry, and cold¡ªalmost as dry and cold as the voice of the man sitting across the table. The word echoed off the walls, making Yanick flinch when it reached his ears. He tried to swallow, but his throat was as parched as paper. The saliva caught in the wrong pipe, and he began to choke, suffocating on his own breath. The man across from him didn''t react. He sat motionless, waiting, and only when Yanick''s coughing subsided did he reach under the table and place an empty glass on the surface. "Name and age," the man repeated. "Yanick Erickson. Seventeen. My god is¡ª" "I didn''t ask," the man interrupted, adjusting his pristine white gloves, even though they didn''t need fixing. They clung to his hands like a second skin. Yanick raised an eyebrow. "You don''t want to know who my god is?" "We already know." Without a flicker of emotion, the man reached under the table again and retrieved a glass pitcher, half-filled with water. He placed it next to the empty glass. "The subject of this conversation is Rayla," he said, leaning slightly forward. His eyes¡ªtwin daggers¡ªpierced Yanick. "Or rather, what you''ve been doing for her in Valhafen." "Rayla?" Yanick barked a hollow laugh. "That''s what this is about? Her?" The man didn''t answer. Yanick lowered his head, memories rushing over him like a breaking tide¡ªfresh and raw wounds. And yet they belonged to another Yanick Erickson, the one whose god was Ari. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. "My father warned me about her," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. The man''s gloved fingers tapped a complex rhythm on the strange, rough surface of the desk before him. It wasn''t metal, nor wood, nor stone. "According to our records, your father never served with Rayla," the man said emotionlessly. "That''s true," Yanick admitted. "He never even met her." "And yet he warned you..." The man sighed and poured water into the glass, sliding it toward Yanick. Then he resumed tapping, and Yanick realized the rhythm wasn''t random at all. "My father told me that if I followed her, if I gave her my service, the day would come when she''d ask something of me that would make me hate myself." The man''s sharp eyes fixed on him. "Start at the beginning." Yanick closed his eyes, and the dam broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks like rivers. "I can''t..." "It''s all right," the man said, his tone softening. "Take your time. Just breathe. Deep breaths. Look at me and follow my lead..." Yanick inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his chest fully expand. He held the breath for a moment before slowly exhaling through his mouth, feeling the tension drain with it. He repeated the process until his body began to relax. *** HE STUMBLED AS HE STEPPED onto the wooden pier, even though the ground beneath him was solid. His body still swayed, accustomed to the relentless rocking of the ship. He turned, shielding his eyes from the sharp light of the setting sun that rose behind the ship. In its glow, standing on deck, was Big Mike, nodding at him slightly. Yanick returned the nod and headed toward the city, now bathed in twilight. He kept his eyes down, avoiding the stares of passersby, though he could feel their gazes on him. He stood out¡ªof that, he had no doubt. His pale skin and nearly white hair contrasted sharply with the dark hair and skin of the locals. Tugging his hood tighter over his head, he quickened his pace. The deeper he ventured into the city, the fewer people he encountered. They turned down side streets, disappeared behind tall stone buildings, as though they were hiding from him, disgusted or afraid. Yanick tried to tell himself it was a coincidence, but the nagging thought of rejection clung to him like a shadow. On one street, he noticed a hanging tavern sign. The setting sun''s light reflected off it, making the text hard to read, but the crude image of a beer mug, clutched by some predatory bird, was enough to confirm it was the place he sought. He stared at the sign and walked straight into something solid. He bounced back as if he''d hit a wall. "Watch where you''re going!" a voice barked. The "wall" turned out to be a group of broad-shouldered, dark-skinned boys, barely older than him. The one standing closest reached for his belt and pulled out a long wooden club. "Let''s dance," he said, baring his teeth in a grin. Chapter 3 YAN THE FIRST BLOW was like an order to his body: fall. Even knowing it was coming, he didn¡¯t have time to dodge. He hit the pavement. The guy with the club stood over him, tapping the weapon against his own palm, as if to show he was in control. He grinned, his teeth glaringly white against his dark skin. A circle quickly formed around them. Not too tight. There was still time. And they wanted to have their fun. The crescent Moon climbed the sky, its silver grin seeming to join in their laughter. The blow to the nose is an instant break from reality. A crunch, a snap, then a warm flood gushes down your face. Vision blurs. Eyes tear up. Breath hitches. Pain drills into your skull, scattering thoughts, leaving only raw, suffocating agony. Yanick had been here before. He knew how to make this pain useful. The academy taught him how to take a beating and turn it into something else. Slowly, Yanick pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He moved cautiously, blood dripping onto the pavement in thick, black droplets. His hands hovered just above the ground, fingers grazing stone like a man too dazed to stand. Except he wasn¡¯t dazed. He was counting their shoes. Seven pairs. Too many. The bleeding ceased. The world sharpened. He was ready. The Club Guy stepped in first, confident, deliberate. Yanick watched his boots - cracked leather, dried mud, peeling soles. A street rat who had played the executioner before. He knew the role. He liked it. Weapon in his right hand. That meant if he stepped left, he¡¯d kick with his right. If he stepped right, the club would come down. He stepped right. The club swung. Yanick rolled. Wood cracked against stone, and the attacker hissed, shaking out his numbed fingers. Perfect. Yanick rolled back in, wrenched the club free, and before the others could react, he struck. Target: kneecap. Crack. The guy howled. Yanick lunged, driving the club¡¯s blunt end into another¡¯s groin. A choked-off scream. The circle wavered. A gap. A chance. He ran. ¡°Get him!¡± No looking back. No hesitation. Just run. Maybe he should¡¯ve looked back. Maybe then he would¡¯ve seen the kid with the slingshot. Seen the rubber stretch, the stone aimed at his skull. He didn¡¯t see it. He felt it instead. Impact at the base of his skull. A coal-brick to the brain-stem. Legs turned to liquid. The ground lunged up to greet him, slamming into his face. Then came the shouts, the laughter, the kicks of worn-out boots. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. All he could do was curl up, cover his head, and pray to Ari not to book him a spot in Valhalla just yet. The kicks stopped coming one at a time. They melted into a single, endless wave of assault. Pain blurred into more pain, a ceaseless, rhythmic beat on his ribs, his back, his legs. But god Ari must have heard him. His voice shouted: ¡°Enough.¡± Yanick looked through his fingers. Not a god but a man stood there, apron smeared with flour. He didn¡¯t look like much. Average height, average build. But his presence was a knife in the gut of the moment. The air changed. Then he moved. Fast. Precise. A step, a feint, a strike. No wasted effort. A hand deflected a punch, an elbow cracked against a jaw, a boot found the soft give of a rib-cage. He was in control of the rhythm, making them dance to his tune, cutting them down one by one. They were a mob a second ago. Now they were bodies on the ground, groaning, clutching their wounds. ¡°Ade, stop!¡± Club Guy spat blood, smearing it across his sleeve. ¡°We¡¯ve had enough!¡± The baker headbutted a boy he was holding by the collar. Unnecessary. That one was already so beaten he could barely stand. ¡°I warned you,¡± the baker said, voice rough, breathing hard. ¡°Didn¡¯t I warn you?¡± A kick to Club Guy¡¯s ribs. A punctuation mark. ¡°We¡¯re gone,¡± Club Guy wheezed. ¡°Next time, I send the Nordlings after you.¡± *** ¡°That¡¯s what he said?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Yanick answered. ¡°How many Nordlings did you see there?¡± ¡°None.¡± ¡°So there aren¡¯t any in Valhafen?¡± ¡°Not that I saw. Except¡­¡± ¡°Except who?¡± For the first time, Yanick heard something in the man''s voice. A crack in the calm. ¡°Their father was from the North,¡± Yanick said. ¡°Ademund¡¯s.¡± ¡°And his sister¡¯s.¡± Ama. Yanick frowned. He hadn¡¯t mentioned her yet. The part where he met Amaia. The part where everything changed. *** He closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, hers was the first face he saw. A few timid sun-rays peeked through the gaps in the curtains, their gentle glow hesitant, as if too considerate to flood the room with brightness and disturb Yanick¡¯s rest. Pain was not so polite. It barged in, immediately reminding Yanick that the world exists and he needs to be dragged back into reality. His whole body throbbed, one giant bruise stitched together with pain. Every breath was a fight, his nose clogged with dried blood. He ran his tongue over his teeth, panic coiling tight in his gut. No gaps. Thank Ari. Then he tried to inhale. Nothing. Air stuck halfway down, his throat locking up. Panic. Choking. Caring hands found him, lifting him, easing a pillow under his head. Then, a voice. Melodic, like mother¡¯s lullaby. The kind that pulls you back from the edge. ¡°You¡¯re safe now.¡± Chapter 4 YAN Yanick stirred awake in the dim light, his senses sluggish and his body weighed down, as though it had rebelled against him. The air brimmed with the sharp, earthy aroma of herbs, yet underneath it drifted a faint, sweet note¡ªsomething softer, almost intimate. Lavender, perhaps? Or a fragrance more elusive, something that hinted at a human touch. Each breath burned like fire, and pain throbbed in his ribs and face, spreading through the body in relentless waves of heat. He tried to move, but a sharp spasm in his side forced him into a muffled groan, which echoed faintly off the walls. "Easy now," a soft, calm voice said nearby, unnervingly familiar, like he¡¯d heard it before¡ªin another life, perhaps. "Now¡¯s not the time to play the hero." A figure emerged from the shadows. Her dark, curly hair fell over her shoulders, and her large, almost hypnotic eyes glimmered in the candlelight. For a moment, Yanick couldn¡¯t tell if he was awake or dreaming. "It''s you¡­" he croaked, throat dry and rough. "I saw you in a dream." She sat at the edge of the cot, her nearly symmetrical face leaning toward him with a mix of concern and amusement. There was something in her gaze that made the pain fade, if only for a moment. "It wasn¡¯t a dream," she said softly. "I¡¯ve been taking care of you for a few days now." "Days?" Yanick tried to sit up, wincing as his muscles loudly protested. Everything hurt, but the pain was manageable now¡ªnot enough to stop him. "You were pretty banged up. Lucky my brother showed up when he did." It all came flooding back. The mob, Club Guy, the beating. The laughing moon. This wasn¡¯t a dream. "Your brother? The chef-assassin?" Her lips curled into a smile¡ªgentle, but with a hint of mischievous humour that didn¡¯t go unnoticed. "Chef-assassin," she echoed with a light laugh. "He¡¯ll love that." Something stirred inside him at the sight of her smile, something deep and unfamiliar that had nothing to do with the lingering aches or exhaustion. It was¡­ something more. Something that gnawed at him from the inside, waking up something long-buried. Something he needed. Something he missed, even though he¡¯d never known it before. They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet between them weighted with meaning. Yanick¡¯s heart pounded harder, as if his body knew something his mind hadn¡¯t yet grasped. "Drink," she said, breaking the silence as she handed him a cup. Her fingers brushed against his, soft and delicate. That fleeting touch sent a shiver through him, a mix of surprise and something harder to ignore. Yanick sipped, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat, momentarily soothing the fire there. But the true comfort wasn¡¯t from the water. Their eyes met, holding longer than necessary. The world shrank to that single point¡ªher deep, dark gaze and the quiet rhythm of her breath, closer than it needed to be. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "Thank you," he began, but she raised an eyebrow, cutting him off before he could finish. "No need." "I don¡¯t mean the water, I mean¡­" "I know. Neither I nor my brother leave people to rot in the streets. We¡¯re not that kind of people." Yanick handed the cup back to her, but as she reached for it, his hand lingered on hers. The warmth of her skin seeped into him, and in that moment, no pain mattered. All he could feel was her presence, undeniable and near. *** The silence was shattered by a different voice, cold and clipped. "I didn¡¯t ask about your romances," the man interrupted, leaning in so close that Yanick could feel his breath on his face. "Focus on what you¡¯ve been doing for Rayla" Yanick clenched his jaw, fighting back the irritation surging through him. "Ademund and Amaia brought me to their farm the same day," he began reluctantly, averting his gaze from the interrogator¡¯s piercing stare. "I needed time to recover. Once I could move around, I started¡­ exploring." "Exploring?" The interrogator¡¯s tone dripped with sarcasm. "Discreetly asking questions," Yanick corrected, ignoring the man¡¯s contempt. "I talked to the workers, the neighbour¡­ about the Nordlings. And I explored the house." "Explored." The interrogator arched an eyebrow, his smirk mocking. "And what did you ¡®explore,¡¯ exactly?" "Ademund and Amaia spent most of their time in the city, running the tavern. They wouldn¡¯t come back until well past midnight, sometimes even at dawn. I was bored. I didn¡¯t even suspect¡­ that their father was the one Rayla was after. That he was the monster¡­" The interrogator jerked back abruptly, as if stung. "Wait. So did you meet him or not? Don¡¯t test my patience, Yanick." Yanick glanced at him sideways, waiting just a moment too long before answering. "In one of the rooms, I found some papers. In a desk drawer. The language¡­ it was strange, incomprehensible, but¡­" He hesitated, recalling the details. "There was a symbol on them. The same symbol Nemeth and his armies used during the Great War." The interrogator¡¯s face hardened. "Black Moon?" His tone shifted from cold to furious. Yanick could feel the tension in the man¡¯s voice¡ªthe anger. This was an opening. If he played this right¡­ There had to be a way out of here. "Black Moon?" the man repeated, louder this time. ¡°That was the symbol you saw?¡± "Yes," Yanick confirmed quietly. The interrogator leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing further as though he were trying to see through Yanick, to uncover every secret he held. "Did you find out what those documents contained?" Yanick shook his head, though he knew far more than he wanted to admit. "The next day, I went with Ademund and Amaia to the city. I visited the port, to the place where I was supposed to report my progress." Chapter 5 YAN ¡°YOU HAD ONE JOB.¡± Rayla narrowed her eyes. Her husky voice was quiet, but the sound of it sent a chill down his spine. ¡°One job, Yanick. And what did you do? Instead of focusing on the mission, you get yourself tangled in a romance. And with who? That bastard¡¯s daughter.¡± Yanick clenched his fists, fighting the rising frustration. He knew too well Rayla had no tolerance for unnecessary words. It was better to keep the mouth shut now than provoke one of her outbursts. ¡°Relax,¡± Big Mike interjected, ever calm, as if nothing happening around concerned him directly. Yanick envied that kind of detachment. He¡¯d give anything to approach things the same way right now. Hearing Rayla spit out Ama¡¯s name with such disdain ignited a silent rebellion inside. The words dug into his stomach, tightened around the throat, but he didn¡¯t have time for personal battles. The mission was more important. ¡°I am relaxed,¡± Rayla replied through gritted teeth, though her tone betrayed the tension, like she was holding back something much more than just emotion. ¡°I think we shouldn¡¯t jump to conclusions,¡± Mike added, his voice as steady as ever. Rayla shot him a cold look. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have to,¡± she said, enunciating every syllable. ¡°If this idiot had just brought the documents.¡± She snarled the last words and fixed a furious gaze directly on Yanick. ¡°Maybe yes, maybe no,¡± Mike mused. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s just letters to him, nothing important. We don¡¯t know.¡± Rayla scoffed, her voice sharpening further. Her tone almost turned into a growl. She was a wolf on the hunt. ¡°How the hell is it even possible that you¡¯ve never seen him? Your little damsel¡¯s father?¡± Yanick shrugged, masking the irritation growing inside. ¡°He¡¯s away a lot,¡± he answered quietly. ¡°Travels often. Business, apparently.¡± Rayla flicked a glance toward Mike, who nodded a few times, as if piecing together the next move. Maybe she was officially in charge of the group, but in reality, it was Big Mike who was the brains of this operation. ¡°We need to find out what those documents are,¡± Mike finally said after a long silence that felt like an eternity. ¡°How?¡± Big Mike turned to Rayla, waiting for her call. She hesitated but then nodded in approval. ¡°Might as well,¡± Mike said. ¡°The kid can be trusted. He proved many times before. Even today, by coming here.¡± Rayla exhaled sharply, squinting as if Yanick had long since used up whatever trust she¡¯d had for him. ¡°Of course,¡± Yanick replied, meeting her gaze. ¡°I¡¯ll do what needs to be done.¡± Big Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rectangular metal object, smooth and glinting in the candlelight. ¡°Here,¡± he said, handing it to Yanick. ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°The Spy¡¯s Mirror.¡± Yanick raised an eyebrow, feeling the cool metal between his fingers. ¡°Don¡¯t look into it like a normal mirror,¡± Mike said. ¡°It won¡¯t reflect your face. Just place your finger here and hold it. You hear that?¡± Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The device gave a faint vibration and emitted a melodic sound, like the chimes of a harvest festival procession. ¡°And then?¡± Yanick asked, still examining the strange object. ¡°Then you say, ¡®snap.¡¯¡± At those words, the device let out another sound, this time like glass shattering against stone. ¡°And that¡¯s it?¡± Yanick glanced at Mike, unsure. ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± Mike confirmed. Yanick studied the Mirror, its surface resembling liquid obsidian, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. A mix of fascination and unease coiled in his gut¡ªthis thing held more secrets than just musical chimes and vibrations. ¡°How do I know it worked?¡± Yanick asked, his voice betraying a hint of hesitation. ¡°How do I know I did it right?¡± ¡°For safety, do it a few times,¡± Mike advised. ¡°Just make sure you aim this side of the Mirror at the documents. Not too close. Like this.¡± Big Mike demonstrated the ideal distance using his enormous hand as an example. ¡°And how do you actually see anything in this weird mirror?¡± Yanick pressed, curiosity and doubt mingling in his voice. Rayla smirked mockingly. ¡°Not your problem. Just bring it back.¡± *** ¡°WAIT,¡± THE MAN INTERRUPTED. He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. Yanick raised an eyebrow. ¡°This Big Mike¡­¡± the man spoke in an indifferent tone, but Yanick picked up on the subtle shift. A small crack in the facade. ¡°What did he look like?¡± Yanick smirked slightly and leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. ¡°I thought Rayla was the focus of our conversation,¡± he said, giving away no more emotion than necessary. The interrogator frowned, clenching his fists. ¡°You don¡¯t want to piss me off,¡± he said slowly, emphasising every word. ¡°Trust me.¡± Yanick met his gaze, counted silently to five in his head, then spoke. ¡°Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair, short, cropped. Skin¡­¡± He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. ¡°Light, but not like a Nordling. Almost white, but you can tell it¡¯s not natural. More like¡­¡± The man stiffened. ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know how it¡¯s possible, but Big Mike looks like a Svart whose skin has been lightened somehow.¡± A heavy silence fell over the room. The interrogator¡¯s face paled. Something in his eyes shifted. Not just anger now, but something deeper. Unease. ¡°Did he have a tattoo on his wrist?¡± The question came quickly, his voice giving away everything. Yanick nodded slowly. His face remained neutral, though inside, the hope of escape was already tapping its foot impatiently. ¡°Old runes,¡± he said. That was all it took. The interrogator shot up from his chair, knocking it over. Without another word, he stormed out the room, nearly slamming the door off its hinges. Yanick waited a few seconds, listening. Nothing. No footsteps in the hall. Slowly, he rose and approached the desk. Embedded in the surface was a Spy¡¯s Mirror, a massive slab resembling polished obsidian. Dark and lightless. He searched the first drawer of the desk. Nothing. The second one. Empty. The third one¡­ His eyes lit up. Chapter 6 YAN BIG MIKE PULLED ON a white glove like a priest preparing the sacrifice for Ari. Slow, solemn, like each finger held a prayer. Yanick and Rayla watched in silence as the cloth touched the surface of the Mirror of Spies. The black glass flinched. Then it glowed. Not bright, just a throb of pale light, like the breath of a beast stirring in its lair after too long asleep. Mike¡¯s finger moved. The mirror obeyed. Strange little paintings appeared. Square, sharp, neat as coins laid on a tomb. He tapped one of them. The picture changed. Scrolls. Pages. The very same writings Yanick had uncovered at the farm. ¡°What witchcraft is this?¡± Yanick asked, throat dry, pulse quickening like a deer hearing twigs snap behind it. Rayla smirked, leaning over Mike¡¯s shoulder, eyes glinting. ¡°No witchcraft,¡± she said. ¡°You still think the world is ruled by spells and charms? Grow up. There is much more. Maybe you¡¯ll learn one day.¡± Big Mike said nothing. Not to her. Not to Yanick. His eyes stayed fixed on the mirror, tracing the pages as they slid past. His face like a stone. His breath still. Now and then, he muttered something, too low to catch. Maybe prayers. Maybe curses. Time crawled. Yanick felt it stretch, heavy and slow like wet wool. Rayla fidgeted. Tapped her foot. ¡°Well?¡± she snapped. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. She might¡¯ve watched the pages dance, but the truth in them stayed locked to her. The words were written in a tongue she didn¡¯t know. Mike didn¡¯t answer. ¡°Speak,¡± she pressed. ¡°Silence,¡± he replied, quiet but cutting. Rayla sighed. Turned. Walked to the table. Uncorked a bottle. Poured something thick and bitter into a tin cup. The smell punched the air. Something sharp. Something that had burned plenty of throats before. Yanick never liked the smell of alcohol. Boys giving him a hard time in the academy always reeked of it. Mike kept reading. They kept waiting. Yanick breathed shallow, heart tapping out battle-drums. Rayla sipped. Impatient, coiled. Then, at last, Mike waved his hand over the mirror like a candle-snuffer, and the light inside it vanished. Gone. Dead again. He tucked the glass back under his cloak, as though hiding a blade. ¡°What did you see?¡± Rayla asked. Mike looked at her. Then at Yanick. ¡°A great deal,¡± he said, voice flat as iron. ¡°More than we hoped. Or feared. Their plans stretch farther than we thought. But there is something more important than that. And more pressing.¡± Rayla¡¯s hands curled into fists. ¡°Tell me.¡± Mike breathed deep. The kind of breath you take before giving bad news to a king. ¡°He never left,¡± he said. ¡°The old serpent¡¯s still there. Nemeth never left the farm.¡± *** THE GLOVE MADE IT EASY. Pulled from the drawer, slipped on like a stolen skin. Just one touch, and the mirror stirred¡ªlit up with tiny, perfect paintings, each no bigger than a coin. Yanick leaned in. Eyes flicked over the symbols. He¡¯d seen some before, in Mike¡¯s mirror. The jagged wheel. The chalice. The lightning mark. Runes. An upside-down droplet. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. That had to be it. He pressed his finger to the sign. The surface shimmered. Shifted. A map appeared¡ªlong hall, side passages, a gate at the end leading¡­ somewhere. Maybe out. Maybe not. A tiny blue dot kept blinking on the parchment-light. Yanick realised that this hast to be this room. The room he¡¯s in right now. He scanned the plan once again, trying to memorise as much as he could. He yanked the glove off, stuffed it beneath his shirt, against his skin. Then proceed to open the door. The corridor was silent. Too silent. Like the stone itself was holding its breath. Yanick moved. First step, then another, then he was running. Light on his feet, fast but not frantic, as if speed alone could make him invisible. Right. Straight. Right again. Every turn carved from the half-remembered map in his skull. He didn¡¯t question it. There was no time, no room for doubt. Doubt is a trap. The air tasted of dust and something else. That strange material that this place was built with had this peculiar smell. Not unpleasant, but Yanick couldn¡¯t describe it as pleasant either. This smell was unnatural. His boots made barely a whisper against the floor, but his heartbeat wasn¡¯t so polite. It pounded against his ribs like it wanted to break out and flee without him. His breath came short, sharp, ragged. Not enough air in this place. Not enough time. Then there were voices. Muffled. Distant. But real. He stopped. Pressed his back to the cold wall. Listened. Nothing ahead. Nothing close. Not yet. Left. He turned. Moved again. Quicker now. And he saw the light. Pale. Cold. A silver promise pouring through a wide stone arch. It flooded the hallway like moonlight at the end of a tunnel. Open space beyond it. Open meant escape. Open meant air and sky and maybe, just maybe, freedom. His legs carried him faster. Almost there. Hope bloomed too early. It choked his throat, made him clumsy. He pushed himself. Only few more steps until¡­ ¡°Halt!¡± The word didn¡¯t sound like a voice. It sounded like a command carved into the world itself. Yanick swerved, instinct taking over. But too late. A blow struck him from behind, without shape, without sound, just power. Pure, raw, merciless. It knocked the breath from his lungs. Slammed him into the wall like a puppet with cut strings. His shoulder cracked against the stone. The world spun sideways. His knees gave out. He tasted blood. Metal and heat and shame. Still on the ground, Yanick lifted his head, vision blurred. A figure advanced. Armour glinting, face hard, eyes colder than steel. In the guard¡¯s hand, a rod. Short. Simple. Spitting flickers of light that didn¡¯t belong in this world. It buzzed, hissed, crackled like a beast barely held in check. Not magic. Not natural either. Something worse. Behind the first guard, more shapes emerged. Boots hit the stone like war drums. They came fast, sure, without hesitation. Yanick tried to crawl, to stand, to do something, anything, but his body betrayed him. Muscles gone slack. Chest heaving. No strength. No air. Just pain. A pair of boots stopped inches from his cheek. ¡°Take him,¡± came the order, flat and final. Rough hands seized his arms. Callused, unkind. Yanked him up like he weighed nothing. Feet dragged against the ground. His head lolled, the world bleeding colours. The light faded behind. The hallway darkened again. With eyes closed he saw the moon laughing at him. Chapter 7 YAN THE SUN WAS FASTER. It fled toward the horizon in a blaze of fire and blood, victorious and cruel, dragging the day behind it like a slaughtered beast. Yanick¡¯s shadow stretched across the dirt like spilled wine, long, twitching, unreal. The shadow moved. The shadow whispered. It warned him. Warned him of the mocking moon, already rising, already smirking, ready to seize the reins of the darkening sky. The farm loomed ahead. Salvation or damnation? Both. It shimmered in the haze like a mirage from a sailor¡¯s tale¡ªan oasis that might vanish the moment you reached for it. Still too far. He couldn¡¯t stop. Not now. Why? The question ground against his skull like broken gears. Why weren¡¯t they at the tavern? Why today? Why now? And then came the thunder. Low. Heavy. Not sky-born. Not weather. Heartbeats¡ªmassive and furious. Not his. Not human. First one like a warning. Second, like a sentence. Third¡ªclose. Too close. Not thunder. Not drums. Horses. His legs burned. Lungs tore. Heart became a mad thing, a hammer in a box. But still he ran. Again. A little more. Just a little¡ª Then the thunder circled him, wrapped him in dust and dread. The road vanished beneath his boots. And he knew. He wouldn¡¯t outrun them. Rayla¡¯s voice cut through the dusk like a whip: ¡°Take him!¡± She was first. Always first. Her voice raw and ragged from the chase. Behind her Varn, silent as the grave, eyes like blades. Eloen, lean and wordless, his braid snapping like a weapon. Brask, old but fast, the kind of old that still remembers war. Thirra, grinning like she¡¯d lost something important¡ªher mind, maybe. Koleth, burning without speaking, eyes full of fire. And then the horse. Right in front of him. Breathing hard. Waiting. Yanick skidded, barely stopped himself from slamming into it. His knees gave out. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. From the saddle, Big Mike looked down at him. Still. Emotionless. A statue. A verdict. ¡°Turn back,¡± he said, calm as always. Like he hadn¡¯t just chased a boy to the edge of a dream. Yanick lifted his face. His eyes were full of pleading. Fear. A dying spark of hope. ¡°Promise me,¡± he choked. ¡°Please¡­ promise me you won¡¯t hurt them. Promise you won¡¯t hurt her.¡± Mike didn¡¯t answer. Not right away. The silence lasted too long. It had weight. It meant something. ¡°Go back to the ship,¡± he said finally. And then he turned. Rode away. Didn¡¯t look back. The dust fell. The sound faded. The sun was gone. And so was the shadow. Only Yanick remained. On his knees, surrounded by silence at the place where dreams ended and destiny began. *** HE OPENED HIS EYES. But not the world. The world stayed shut. The room was tight as a coffin padded for madmen. A cage without bars. Every surface was wrapped in the same suffocating material: floor, ceiling, walls. Padded, smothered, dead. Like a fairground freak cage, but instead of howling beasts, you were meant to sob quietly into your own silence. It stank. The same smell like the corridors, just way more intense. No windows. No doors. No shadow. And that wasn''t the worst of it. Yanick didn¡¯t cast a shadow. Like some damn vampire from a village folk tale. Like the light, this strange, humming, watching light, wasn¡¯t real at all. Not sunlight. Not torchlight. Something else. Something colder. Something divine and artificial, pretending to be warmth, but blind to him. Watching everything. Except him. He screamed. A short, raw burst. Like a wolf chewing through its own leg in a trap. ¡°Quiet.¡± A voice. From beyond the wall. Low. Tired. Yanick shut his mouth. Collapsed. Sank into the mat like a man who already knew his execution date. He lay still. Stared up. Didn¡¯t blink. Then another voice. Soft. Different. Not an echo, not a memory. Not his mind cracking. A whisper. A breath against the wall. ¡°Hey. Are you there?¡± From the right side. Same wall. Different voice. Or maybe just a different version of the same broken man. ¡°Come closer,¡± the voice said. Not angry. Not asking. Just¡­ expecting. Yanick crawled. The soft floor burned against his skin. His knees complained. His ribs throbbed. But he obeyed. Because there was nothing else to do. ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± he whispered. ¡°You¡¯re the boy, right? With the broken arm?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Yanick said. No point lying. ¡°Why were you running?¡± ¡°I have to get out,¡± he said. ¡°How¡¯d you escape the questioning room?¡± Yanick hesitated. But the voice didn¡¯t sound like a guard. Not the kind with keys or a schedule. The tone reminded him of someone. The man behind the wall sounded almost like Big Mike. Calm, commanding. But not cold. And definitely caged. ¡°The man left the room. I found a glove in his desk. The white one. I used the Spy¡¯s Mirror. I found the layout.¡± He stopped. Was that too much? Too fast? Too honest? But the man didn¡¯t sound like someone who would punish him for the truth. ¡°What did you use?¡± the voice asked. ¡°The Mirror of¡­¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± the voice cut in. Quick. Sharp. Nervous, almost. Not like Mike would¡¯ve done. ¡°Do you still have the gloves?¡± Yanick reached under his shirt. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out. ¡°One.¡± ¡°One?¡± ¡°The other didn¡¯t fit over the cast on my broken arm.¡± Silence. Not the good kind. The thick, stale kind. Like a fog made of sweat and dust and waiting. Yanick didn¡¯t dare break it. He waited. Until finally¡­ ¡°Listen carefully. Do exactly what I say. Exactly. You got it?¡± Yanick nodded. Then remembered the man couldn¡¯t see him. ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°Put on the glove. Go to the wall on your left. There¡¯s a panel. Place your hand on it¡ªthird square from the right. Fourth from the bottom. Then¡­¡± Chapter 8 AMAIA ¡°NAME AND AGE.¡± ¡°None of your business,¡± Amaia snapped, her voice like brittle glass. ¡°Every day it¡¯s someone new asking the same thing. Ask the one who questioned me yesterday.¡± The woman behind the desk stood up. Not rushed. Not angry. Just¡­ deliberate. She crossed the short space to Amaia¡¯s chair, steps soft but echoing. There was something off about the way she moved. It was graceful, too graceful. Like those dolls on the market, mimicking a dance. But it really was the puppeteer pulling the strings. Before she could flinch or recoil or even ready herself, the puppeteer pulled the string hard, and the woman¡¯s hand cracked across Amaia¡¯s face. The slap came clean and sharp, a burst of heat and pain that lit up her skull. If it weren¡¯t for the armrests, Amaia would have crumpled to the floor like broken lace. She bit down hard on her lip, swallowing the cry that rose to her throat. Her eyes stung with tears, but she refused to let them fall. Her cheek throbbed. She could feel the bloom of pain there, swelling like something alive. But she wouldn¡¯t touch it. Wouldn¡¯t give the woman the satisfaction. There was a skilled artist behind her too, holding the strings steady. The woman returned to her seat behind the desk, her every movement smooth, composed, almost ritualistic. She placed her gloved hands on the polished surface. White gloves. Cold authority dressed in civility. ¡°Name and age,¡± she said again, voice calm, impersonal. Amaia swallowed her pride with her spit. The taste was bitter, metallic. But she didn¡¯t make her wait. The puppeteer pulled her head up, so she could look the woman in the eye. ¡°Amaia,¡± she said. ¡°Everyone calls me Ama. I¡¯m eighteen.¡± The woman smiled, but it wasn¡¯t a smile that meant kindness. It was the kind of smile you see in paintings of gods punishing mortals. ¡°Your father is Nemeth,¡± she said rather than asked, just stated, like reading the label on a jar. ¡°And you have a brother, Ademund. He should be sixteen now.¡± ¡°Had,¡± Amaia whispered, lowering her gaze. ¡°I had a brother.¡± ¡°My condolences,¡± the woman said, without even pretending to care. Amaia said nothing. She remembered what her father used to say: Don¡¯t show all your cards, Ama. Let them guess. Let them work for it. Especially if they¡¯re your enemy. And this woman, this machine wrapped in that same strange fabric they gave Amaia to wear; that woman, a living sculpture of order and discipline, was undoubtedly her enemy. Her father used to say something else too. Something stranger. The Black Moon will rise, and when it does, we must be ready for when it comes. She never fully understood what he meant. It had always sounded like myth. Like prophecy. He believed his whole live, that this will turn the tide of the world. That it will shake its pillars. The gods will fall and their rule with them. But now, with everything crumbling, with grief and pain hanging from the ceiling like smoke¡­ she wanted it to come. She wanted the Black Moon. Maybe it would scatter all this madness away. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. *** THE FIRE WAS DYING OUT. Dull embers blinked like tired eyes under the weight of ash. Amaia sat wrapped in silence, but she could feel his gaze. She knew Yanick was watching. Even from across the camp, even with the others sprawled around him, bundled in furs like cocoons, she was certain he was awake. Everyone else slept. But not him. Not after what he¡¯d done. No one with a soul could sleep after something like that. And yet¡­ Her heart still whispered his name. Betrayer. Murderer. Yanick. Farther off, near the edge of the trees where the horses were tethered, Rayla lay alone. She hadn¡¯t eaten with them. She hadn¡¯t spoken a word. She¡¯d simply spread her bedroll in the dirt like it didn¡¯t matter and vanished into her sleep like a ghost. There was no doubt to whether she was asleep. Of course she was. Rayla wouldn¡¯t be troubled by nightmares. One more death meant nothing to her. A monster like that didn¡¯t even blink at blood. Amaia closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to think of anything else. Anything but the image of her brother lying in that pool of red. His limbs at impossible angles. His face empty of breath. She focused instead on the rope binding her legs and arms. One end of it attached to a tree. At that tree stood the boy guarding her. In fact he was leaning against it. Heavily. Koleth was his name. The one who always worked his mouth. Even in the dark, Amaia could see how much it cost him just to stay upright. He looked ready to fold in on himself. They hadn¡¯t stopped riding since the night before. Not really. Only once, briefly, at the river to refill their water. And then on again, hooves pounding, fatigue weighing down every moment. Several times, that tall man they called Big Mike had ridden up to Rayla, muttering something. Rayla then snapped at him, sharp like a beast, her arms slicing the air with annoyance, gesturing too much. Afterwards, she¡¯d bark orders for everyone to dismount and walk, so the horses could rest. Amaia remembered the last time they stopped. Rayla and Mike had argued for nearly half an hour. Rayla may have commanded the group, but Mike¡­ he seemed like the only one with any sense. Even someone like her had to listen to reason. Eventually. ¡°Get some sleep,¡± a voice murmured. Amaia turned her head slightly. Big Mike wasn¡¯t talking to her. He was addressing the boy by the tree. He tapped gently on the boy¡¯s shoulder. It took a moment before Koleth understood, his brain sluggish with exhaustion. ¡°Go on,¡± Mike repeated. ¡°You¡¯re done.¡± Koleth nodded in thanks, dragging his feet as he moved toward the others. He didn¡¯t even bother with a blanket, just collapsed onto the ground and passed out like a stone dropped into mud. Amaia¡¯s own body felt like it had been hollowed out. The riding. The walking. The crying. All of it. She was too tired to think, too broken to sleep. Big Mike came closer, added a few logs to the fire, and watched the flames grow. The warmth reached her legs like a quiet breath. Then he pulled something from his belt. Something that looked like a strip of cloth or leather. Big Mike tapped his fingers against it a couple of times, then slid it over his eyes like a blindfold. Amaia frowned. How could he see anything with his eyes covered? But somehow, Big Mike moved easily through the camp, stepping over limbs and satchels, circling them like a watchful guardian. Or a shadow. When he finished his round, he came to sit beside her. Even seated, he loomed tall. Solid. He draped a fur cloak over her shoulders without asking. The weight of it was comforting in a way she didn¡¯t expect. ¡°You holding up?¡± he asked softly. She didn¡¯t answer. Just stared into the fire, jaw clenched. ¡°I know you¡¯d probably rather I left you alone,¡± he said after a pause. ¡°But I want to tell you a story. A bedtime story, I guess. Might help you sleep. You should try to rest. We¡¯ve got a few more days ahead of us.¡± Still, Amaia said nothing. He continued anyway. ¡°During the Great War,¡± he began, his voice barely more than a whisper, ¡°I served in the same unit as Yanick¡¯s father. I¡¯m not proud of what we did back then. But we followed orders. Terrible ones. All in the name of the Black Moon.¡± Amaia didn¡¯t react, didn¡¯t move. But her throat ached from the effort of holding back tears.Big Mike went on. ¡°There was a village,¡± he said. ¡°We rounded everyone up. The cleansing. We¡¯ve been told to call it the cleansing. Men, women, children. Maybe a hundred in total. We were to take them to a barn on the outskirts. Always the furthest building, so the fire wouldn¡¯t spread to the rest of the town. That decision wasn¡¯t ours. It came from above.¡± Amaia¡¯s breath caught. ¡°I was walking in the rear with Erick. I mean with Yanick¡¯s father. In front of us was a man carrying a child, maybe five years old. His wife had been killed earlier, during the initial sweep. I remember because he begged for her life. She¡¯d spat in the officer¡¯s face. And that officer buried his mace in her head.¡± He paused, the silence stretching like a wound. ¡°As we walked, Erick tripped the man. Sent him crashing into the tall grass. Then he bent down and whispered something I couldn¡¯t hear. The next second, he started screaming and stabbing the ground like he¡¯d lost his mind. The man used the moment to crawl away with the child. Toward the forest. Eric was already covered with blood of the people we slaughter earlier. No one questioned whether he killed that man or not.¡± Amaia turned her head, slowly. ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡± she asked. Her voice cracked. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. Mike didn¡¯t look at her. ¡°When Yanick wasn¡¯t sure whether to join us,¡± he said, ¡°I told him that story.¡± Chapter 9 AMAIA ¡°WHAT''S GOING ON?¡± Rayla hissed, stepping forward. ¡°You were supposed to wait at the port.¡± ¡°Wait¡ª¡± the dwarf wheezed. He looked more exhausted than the horse that had carried him, and the beast had done all the actual work. The dwarf clutched his chest like his heart might give out right then and there. ¡°Just... give me a moment.¡± Amaia stared at him, stunned. This wasn¡¯t what dwarves were supposed to look like. Not the way the old songs told it. Proud, iron-built warriors with braided beards, silver-threaded cloaks, and voices like anvils ringing in mountain halls. Not the way her father had described them either. Filthy little gremlins with beady eyes, sticky fingers, and the morals of a sewer rat. This one looked more like a collapsed puppet than a warrior or a thief. He moved like something broken inside, hunched, coughing, one hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to hold his ribs together. His armour didn¡¯t match. One shoulder was covered in a rusted pauldron too big for him, the other in what looked suspiciously like a cooking pot hammered flat. His beard was a patchy mess, half singed, half stuck with crumbs, and his helmet sat askew on his head like it belonged to someone else entirely. The smell of damp leather and burnt oil clung to him like a second skin. And yet¡­ there was something almost adorable about him. Like a child dressed up for a festival, pretending to be fierce. The oversized belt, the crooked sword, even the way he blinked up at them from beneath his shaggy brows, it was all so small. So desperately theatrical. Amaia could almost laugh, if the situation weren¡¯t so dire. ¡°There¡¯s movement gathering along the shore,¡± the dwarf said between gasps. ¡°Mixed forces. Mostly Nordlings. With the Black Moon emblems. But there¡¯s a lot of Svarts among them. Someone¡¯s pulling them together.¡± ¡°Who?¡± Rayla barked. The dwarf shrugged weakly. ¡°Don¡¯t know. But they¡¯re not waiting. If we don¡¯t move now, we¡¯ll be cut off. Even the sailors from the ships going to Lunareth seem to be rushing.¡± Big Mike, who until now had been leaning against a tree with his usual lazy calm, straightened up suddenly. ¡°Do the Nordlings bother them?¡± he asked. ¡°Apparently not,¡± the dwarf replied. ¡°You know, when you see Svarts and Nordling together, you might think they¡¯ve united against the Faithful, but no. They just ignore them.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have time for this,¡± Rayla snapped. Her eyes were on Amaia, cold and calculating. ¡°Get ready to move. We need to smuggle her somehow. Nemeth has to be there, at the port. He will be looking for her.¡± She didn¡¯t raise her weapon, but she didn¡¯t have to. Her voice alone made Amaia¡¯s blood run cold. She was so close. Amaia could feel the firelight on her back and the edge of Rayla¡¯s shadow falling over her. But hope was rising inside. Father was near. He will protect her. He left you, an intrusive though appeared in her head. On the farm, he chose to run away. He could save you then, he won¡¯t save you now. They would be leaving soon. Another sleepless night. Another chance to disappear. The dwarf coughed hard and spat. ¡°Captain won¡¯t wait. He¡¯s readying the ship. We need to reach the port before sunrise.¡± Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Port. Amaia¡¯s heart thudded. A port meant ships. Ships meant escape. With father or without. ¡°And if we don¡¯t make it?¡± Big Mike muttered. The dwarf glanced at him and shrugged. ¡°Then we will take one of those holy vessels,¡± Rayla said and everyone froze. Amaia didn¡¯t know what that meant, but Rayla seemed to be the only one who viewed this option as something worth pursuing. ¡°If we miss it,¡± Rayla repeated the idea, ¡°we¡¯ll take one of the ships heading for Lunareth.¡± ¡°You¡¯d dare steal a god¡¯s ship?¡± the dwarf whispered, as if afraid even the trees might hear. Rayla turned on him, eyes burning with something ancient and furious. ¡°Not steal,¡± she said. ¡°I will take it as if it was my own. There are no gods.¡± Amaia didn¡¯t breathe. Didn¡¯t move. But her thoughts were already running ahead of them. Port. Sunrise. Chaos. And a moment, just one, was all she would need. One misstep from Rayla. One blink. And Amaia would run. They rode in silence after that. Even Rayla kept her mouth shut, eyes fixed ahead like she was hunting something just beyond the horizon. The dwarf had vanished back the way he came, and with him went whatever shred of calm still clung to their group. The wind grew colder as they climbed. The trail narrowed, edged with loose stones and brittle shrubs that snapped under the hooves. The horses snorted and shifted uneasily, as if they too felt the pressure building in the air. Amaia¡¯s legs ached. Her spine burned. But she kept her head down and followed, pulse steady, mind running faster than the path beneath them. Her hands were bound, tied to the horn of the saddle and Big Mike rode in front of her, leading her horse by the reigns. She wasn¡¯t thinking about the gods. Or her father, or the army. Or even the chance of dying. She was thinking about when. When the next mistake would happen. When someone would look away. It didn¡¯t take long. Rayla pulled up her horse first. One by one, the others followed suit. And then Amaia saw it. They reached the cliff just as the first colours of morning bruised the sky. Amaia pulled her horse to a stop, heart pounding. Not from the ride, but from what she saw below. So much for escape. A whole army. Rows upon rows of movement, banners flapping in the salt-thick wind. Soldiers clustered around fires, sharpening blades, breaking bread, praying to gods that no longer listened. She could see tents like anthills, cannons half-assembled, war beasts being fed raw meat straight from the hook. Even from here, it looked endless. Amaia¡¯s gut twisted. This wasn¡¯t just a border skirmish. This was a war being born. And they were riding straight into its lungs. Even if her father was there, amongst these troops, maybe even commanding them, how could she get to him? Without falling pray to those men. Rayla was already scanning the terrain, calculating. ¡°Damn it,¡± she barked. Her voice was all muscle, no patience. ¡°They will see us if ride down from here. We¡¯ll take the lower trail around the ridge. Single file. No stops.¡± And so they rode single file along the cliffs, with the sea yawning beneath them like a hungry god. The army they¡¯d seen from the hilltop stretched like a tide along the coast, tents, banners, firelight blinking in the fog. Amaia let herself sag in the saddle, pressing a hand to her side. ¡°Mike,¡± Rayla called back, ¡°Something¡¯s moving in the treeline.¡± That was her opening. Amaia hissed through her teeth and slumped farther. Just enough to draw attention. Just enough to look real. ¡°You okay?¡± Big Mike asked. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know. It¡¯s tight. My ribs feel¡ª¡± She let her voice break, added a cough for good measure. ¡°Mike, I need you,¡± Rayla didn¡¯t even look back. ¡°Handle it, Yanick,¡± Big Mike said and rushed to the front of the column. ¡°Just don¡¯t slow us down. If you have to just carry her on your back.¡± Yanick dismounted quickly, reaching for Amaia¡¯s reins with one hand, the other already moving toward her arm to help her down. She did not say a word to him since that night on the farm, and she was determined not to say anything to him ever again. She convinced herself that fate just put him now in front of her. To take the revenge. For Ademund. ¡°Here,¡± Yanick said. ¡°You need to stretch it. Just breathe through it. I¡¯ll help¡ª¡± His belt knife was right there, tucked at his hip, forgotten in the shuffle. A small thing. Easy to miss. She didn¡¯t miss. But there was Big Mike¡¯s bedtime story. What if it was true? What if Yanick actually had the guts to to the same thing his father had done. Her fingers closed around the hilt. In one breathless motion, she pulled it free and drove it into the meat of his side, not deep, not deadly, but enough to buckle his knees. She took her revenge, but not fully. He cried and grabbed her wrist. They struggled. Horses reared. Stones crumbled underfoot. Amaia shoved with everything she had, catching him off-balance, off-guard. The edge of the cliff loomed. Gravity did the rest. First a stagger. Then a slip. Then they were tumbling. The others where shouting something but the wind tore the sound away as branches cracked, brambles ripped at her clothes, and Yanick¡¯s weight slammed into her side again and again. They were rolling down and the voices of Rayla and her band were fading away. There was only Amaia¡¯s voice now, her scream and fast, twisting through thorns and shadow, down toward unknown. And through the blur of it all, blood, wind, pain, Amaia smiled. Because it wasn¡¯t a perfect plan. But it was hers.