Dawn crept in slow and pale, the sky just beginning to bleed from black into gray when something nudged my cot.

  Hard.

  “Oi. Wakey wakey, you lovebirds. We’re breaking camp.”

  I groaned, half-awake, half-dreaming. Sophie stirred against me, then immediately smacked the offending hand away.

  “Five more minutes, you oaf,” she muttered, burrowing deeper into my chest like a determined animal.

  Lucius clicked his tongue in mock offense. “The nerve of this girl.”

  I cracked one eye open and saw him standing there, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as he looked down at us.

  “I’ll be up soon,” I said, my voice rough with sleep.

  Lucius sighed theatrically. “Fine. I’ll give you ten—for little Sophie.”

  Sophie made a small, triumphant squeal against my chest, like she’d just won a campaign. I felt it vibrate through me and couldn’t help smiling.

  Then Lucius’s tone shifted—just enough.

  “Thomas,” he said, more serious now. “Meet me in the command tent. Marcel and Faust’ll be there. I want you with me.”

  That cut through the last of the haze.

  Sophie lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes as I brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Sounds important,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Feels like it.”

  She nodded once, already sitting up. “I’ll pack our stuff.”

  I watched her for a heartbeat longer than necessary—apron folded beside the cot, hands already moving with practiced efficiency—then swung my legs over the side and stood.

  Armor went on piece by piece, familiar weight settling against my body. I strapped my sword at my side, then hesitated for a brief moment before fastening the SIN into place. The metal felt heavier this morning. Or maybe that was just me.

  I glanced back once more.

  Sophie looked up and caught my eye. She smiled—soft, tired, real.

  That steadied me.

  I ducked out of the tent and headed toward the command tent as the camp came alive around me—men shouting orders, tents collapsing, wagons creaking into motion.

  Whatever Lucius wanted to say—

  —it wasn’t just about marching orders.

  And as the morning light broke fully over the camp, I had the distinct sense that another turning point was waiting just ahead.

  The canvas walls of the command tent muted the noise of the camp outside, leaving only the low murmur of voices and the scrape of boots on packed earth.

  Lucius stood near the center table with Marcel and Faust, all three bent over a spread of maps marked with charcoal and weighted at the corners by daggers. Commander Yanna waited for me to step fully inside before she spoke.

  “Good,” she said flatly. “You’re here.”

  She swept a gloved hand across the table and pulled one map forward.

  “Bredford Castle.”

  The name sat heavy in the air. Even I had heard of it—an old imperial stronghold, rich, well-defended, and fed by endless tithes drawn from half a dozen surrounding towns.

  “Bredford supplies the Empire’s holdouts throughout Darwick lands,” Yanna continued. “Grain, coin, arms, priests. As long as it stands untouched, the Empire can afford to bleed us slowly.”

  She looked up, eyes sharp.

  “I don’t intend to let them.”

  Faust leaned closer, studying the markings. “You want chaos before the siege.”

  “Yes,” Yanna confirmed. “I want their gates weakened. Their storehouses burned. Their ledgers turned to ash.”

  Marcel let out a low whistle. “That’ll starve half the garrisons south of here.”

  “Exactly,” Yanna said. “Once Bredford’s tithes are gone, the Empire can’t resupply its forces. Their soldiers will panic. Their priests will lie. And their allies will realize the Empire bleeds like everyone else.”

  Lucius tilted his head, a familiar grin tugging at his mouth. “Fighting dirty, I see, Yanna?”

  She met his gaze without blinking. “It’s the only way to get the Empire off our land.”

  She tapped the map again, harder this time. “They started this. We’re finishing it. Darwick will be free of the Pontiff’s influence—or it will burn trying.”

  Lucius chuckled softly. “You want Devils in sheep’s clothing.”

  Yanna nodded once. “I want the Empire to choke on its own arrogance.”

  She began pointing to routes and districts. “Several small teams. No banners. No armor. You’ll go in disguised as merchants, pilgrims, refugees—whatever fits the road. Once inside, you wait. Learn routines. Identify targets.”

  Her finger landed on a cluster of buildings near the inner wall.

  “These storehouses go first.”

  Then the gate mechanisms.

  “Then,” she said calmly, “you disappear in two weeks the main army will catch up to you all.”

  The tent was silent for a moment.

  Faust crossed his arms. “High risk.”

  Marcel nodded. “High reward.”

  Lucius’s eyes flicked to me then—measuring me.

  “This isn’t a charge,” Yanna added. “It’s patience. Subtlety. If any of you get caught—” she didn’t finish the sentence.

  She didn’t need to.

  Lucius straightened and clapped his hands together once. “Well then,” he said cheerfully, “sounds like my kind of trouble.”

  His gaze settled on me again, heavier now.

  “Looks like your education continues, Thomas.”

  I looked down at the map—at Bredford Castle, at the thin lines marking roads and gates and weak points.

  No horns.

  No banners.

  No glorious charge.

  Just shadows, lies, and fire.

  And somewhere in my chest, unease twisted with resolve.

  If Juniperhollow had taught me how war ended—

  Bredford would teach me how it rotted from the inside out.

  Lucius gathered us just outside the camp while the rest of the Red Devils broke down tents and packed wagons for the larger march. About twenty of us in total—lightly armored, cloaks dull and travel-stained. No banners. No red bandanas in sight.

  Merchants. Pilgrims. Refugees.

  Liars, every one of us.

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  I found Sophie near the medical tents, tying off the last bundle of supplies. She looked up when she heard my boots and didn’t say anything—just stepped close. I kissed her forehead, lingering a second longer than I meant to.

  “Come back,” she whispered.

  “I will,” I said, because it was the only answer I could give.

  She squeezed my hand once and let go.

  Lucius waved us forward. “Mount up.”

  Horses waited for us—good ones, too. Not parade stock, but strong, restless animals used to distance and noise. I swung into the saddle of mine, and the damned thing nearly leapt straight into the air.

  “Easy—easy!” I yelped, grabbing the reins as the horse tossed its head and stamped.

  Laughter broke out immediately.

  “Ashe,” someone called, “is he supposed to fall off before or after we cross enemy lines?”

  The horse gave me a long, unimpressed side-eye.

  Lucius leaned back in his saddle, grinning. “You gotta give it a name, Thomas. Otherwise it won’t listen to you.”

  I frowned, still wrestling the reins. “Trotter.”

  Lucius winced. “Boring. Try again.”

  “Sebastian,” I said.

  A few groans answered me.

  “Are you serious?” one of the Devils muttered.

  “How about Lucius?” I offered.

  “Hey!” Lucius protested. “Absolutely not.”

  I thought for another moment, then shrugged. “Gino.”

  Lucius winced. “Ugh. Well… it’s something.”

  The horse snorted, stamped once, then settled. As if approving. Or resigning itself.

  “There,” Lucius said smugly. “See? He likes it.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but Gino stopped trying to throw me off, which felt like a small victory.

  We fell into formation as a covered wagon creaked forward ahead of us—the disguise that would carry us through the outer roads toward Bredford. Merchants on paper. Pilgrims, refugees, traders in grain and cloth.

  Devils in sheep’s clothing.

  Lucius spurred his mount forward. “All right, Devils. Stay close to the wagon. Eyes open. Mouths shut.”

  Ahead of us, a broad, unremarkable merchant wagon creaked onto the road—canvas drawn low, crates stacked just high enough to hide what it carried. Our cover. Our lie.

  We fell in around it, cloaks pulled up, heads down, a traveling knot of nothing worth noticing.

  As we rode east toward Bredford, the camp noise faded behind us, replaced by the steady clop of hooves and the rattle of wheels. No cheers. No glory.

  Just the road—and the quiet certainty that this time, the fire would start from within.

  ***

  I nudged my horse closer to Ashe’s, keeping my voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

  “Does riding ever get easier?” I asked. “Feels like Gino’s trying to kill me.”

  Ashe let out a quiet chuckle. “You just gotta trust him better. Horses feel it when you don’t trust them.”

  I snorted. “That’s unfortunate. I don’t trust anything with legs anymore.”

  He smiled at that—small, real—and for a moment we rode in silence, the wagon creaking ahead of us, hooves thudding in a steady rhythm.

  Then the words slipped out before I could stop them.

  “I had a friend once,” I said. “Mara was her name.”

  Ashe’s posture changed—barely. Just a slight tightening in his shoulders.

  He nodded once. “Yeah?”

  “She used to ride like it was nothing,” I went on, a faint smile tugging at my mouth despite myself. “Had a little pony from her family farm. She’d ride it all the way to my house just to drag me out to the lake. Said I walked too slow.”

  Ashe’s lips curved again, softer this time. Warmer.

  “She was a natural,” I said. “Never afraid of falling.”

  For half a heartbeat, Ashe looked at me—really looked at me. Something flickered in his eyes, bright and fragile.

  Then he looked away just as quickly, jaw tightening.

  “So what happened to her?” he asked.

  I swallowed.

  “I found her body,” I said quietly. “Charred. In her family home. Near her parents.”

  The road seemed to stretch wider between each hoofbeat.

  “I see,” Ashe said after a moment. “I’m… sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah.” My voice came out rough. “She did leave me a gift though.”

  I reached inside my tunic and drew out the necklace. The small wooden beads, the colored stones, the little gold bird twisted into clay—worn smooth from being handled too often.

  Ashe's eyes widened, just slightly.

  “That looks…” He hesitated. “That looks precious.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  There wasn’t anything else to add.

  I tucked the necklace back beneath my armor, the weight of it settling against my chest where it always did. Ashe stared ahead now, hands tight on the reins, expression carefully blank.

  But his riding faltered for just a moment.

  The wagon rolled on.

  The road stretched forward.

  And between us rode a silence heavier than words—one of them carrying a memory he believed dead, the other carrying the truth and choosing, once again, not to speak it.

  I rode beside him a little longer, the road quiet except for the wagon’s creak and the steady rhythm of hooves, small conversations from the others.

  “What about you, Ashe?” I asked. “Where did you come from?”

  He looked surprised—just for a second.

  Then he thought for a little while longer.

  “I’m from a small fishing village,” he said at last. “Near Hollenburg.”

  I nodded, letting him continue.

  “The Church came for tithes,” Ashe went on, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Fish, coin, labor. Things we didn’t have enough of.” His jaw tightened. “When we couldn’t meet their demand… they torched it.”

  The words were flat. Practiced. Like he’d said them before in his head, if not out loud.

  “They burned the docks first,” he added after a moment. “So we couldn’t flee by water.”

  I felt something cold settle in my chest.

  Ashe didn’t look at me.

  “Lucius found me a few days later,” he said. “Half-starved. Still trying to dig through the ruins like there might be something left.” A pause. “He took me in. Trained me.”

  That explained more than he probably intended.

  The skill.

  The fury.

  The way he fought like there was nothing behind him worth protecting anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  He nodded once. “Seems to be a common story.”

  We rode on in silence after that. Not an awkward one—just heavy.

  The wagon rolled ahead. The sky darkened inch by inch. And for the first time, I realized that whatever masks Ashe wore, whatever truths he buried—

  He wasn’t running from his past.

  He was carrying it the same way I carried mine.

  Just with a different name.

  ***

  We made camp miles outside Bredford, far enough that the glow of its walls was only a pale smear against the horizon. The city loomed there—rich, fed, arrogant—unaware that knives were already being sharpened for its belly.

  Lucius called us forward just before nightfall.

  “Ashe,” he said, voice shifting into command. “You’re leading this one.”

  Ashe stepped up without comment.

  Lucius gestured to me, then to two others. “Thomas. Hugo. Mateo.”

  Hugo was built like an ox—thick arms, broad shoulders, grin always a second away from trouble. Mateo was his opposite: long-limbed, sharp-eyed, already scanning the roads like he expected arrows to come flying out of the dark.

  Hugo cracked his knuckles. “Can’t wait,” he said, teeth flashing. “Empire won’t know what hit ’em. Think about the looks on their faces when their precious grain goes up in smoke.”

  Mateo shot him a look. “Let’s just be quick about it, yeah? We’re deep in Empire territory. I’d rather not die screaming in an alley because you got excited.”

  Ashe raised a hand slightly, quiet but firm. “We’ll get it done. Focus on the task. Lucius said the northeastern grain houses and mills need to burn. That’s our priority.”

  Lucius nodded approvingly and handed Ashe a rough sack. Inside it clinked softly.

  “Tinder, oil, rags,” he said. “And these.”

  Marcel stepped forward and opened the sack wider, revealing carved masks—simple, crude, but unsettling. Each shaped like an animal.

  “For night work,” Marcel explained. “If anyone sees you, they won’t see you.”

  Hugo reached in first and pulled out the lion, placing it over his face with a low laugh. “Fitting.”

  Mateo took the jackal, turning it in his hands thoughtfully before nodding. “I’ll be sneaky.”

  Ashe hesitated only a second before lifting the lamb. He slipped it under his arm without comment.

  That left one mask in the sack.

  I reached in and pulled it free.

  A donkey.

  The other devils broke out in laughter immediately.

  “Of course,” Hugo wheezed. “Perfect.”

  Even Lucius cracked a grin. “Don’t look so offended, Thomas. Donkeys are stubborn. Hard to kill.”

  “Lucky me,” I muttered, tucking the mask into my satchel.

  Lucius sobered quickly. “You’ve got two weeks. Darwick forces and the rest of the Devils will be here by then. Until that time—mingle, scout, listen. Learn the city. But don’t get into trouble.”

  His eyes lingered on me a second longer than the others.

  “When it’s time,” he added, “you strike fast and vanish.”

  We mounted up under the fading light, the masks tucked away for now, the sack of fire slung over Hugo’s shoulder.

  As we turned toward Bredford, its towers rising like teeth against the dark, Ashe looked back once to confirm we were following.

  “We move quiet,” he said. “No heroics.”

  I tightened my grip on the reins, the donkey mask bumping against my side.

  Quiet work.

  Fire in the dark.

  And a city that had no idea it was already condemned.