The return was met with quiet glances from the men. They had seen their commander and the prisoner ride in soaked through, garments heavy with silt and stalk.

  A few restrained smiles passed through the ranks, but nothing more. It was a brief easing of breath rather than laughter.

  After the Crag and its shadows, seeing the Lord Commander touched by the same mire as them, allowed a fragile hope take root in their midst.

  One that they were not alone in this dreadful ascent. That they still had their commander beside them, and that they were still human under all the fire and fog they had endured thus far.

  Regulus shared none of it. His face was stone, marked by indignation.

  Veracles allowed a faint smile before turning to his duties once more, while Klethiar and Vargo were absent, hearing of the return only later through half-whispered reports.

  When they found Alric, he was washing the mud from his arms at a basin inside a tent the men had raised in haste. The prisoner was nowhere to be seen.

  The officers exchanged brief glances before approaching.

  Alric turned to them.

  “Speak.”

  “My Lord,” Klethiar began, voice uncertain. “We heard reports that you returned with the prisoner drenched in mire, so we came. Has anything happened in the field where you went?”

  Alric resumed cleaning himself of the sludge, rinsing his hands once and drying them on the edge of a nearby cloak.

  “Nothing worth report.” His tone was quiet but final.

  Klethiar looked at Vargo once and kept his peace.

  Vargo was about to speak when the sound of approaching footsteps reached them. They turned.

  Regulus emerged, posture straight. He halted beside the two officers, eyes fixed on Alric’s mud-streaked form.

  “Lord Commander,” he said, voice measured. “Word travels quickly through the ranks. They say you returned to the column in sight of all, yourself and the prisoner alike, both drenched.”

  He paused, air frosting beneath his stare.

  “I do not question your judgement, my Lord. But your conduct regarding the prisoner has become irregular. Such a sight unsettles the men, it makes them wonder, makes them speak. They look to you for constancy after the Crag’s illusions, and I would not see that steadiness compromised by personal indulgence.”

  “Mind your measure, Lariante. You speak to a superior in both rank and calling, not a son.” Vargo interjected, rising from where he had been leaning.

  “Regulus, with respect,” Klethiar added, “if the men’s faith in the Lord Commander can be shaken by a little mud, then our troubles run far deeper than you fear. They followed him through the Hollow Crag. A wet cloak will not undo that.”

  Regulus turned to him.

  “You speak true, Klethiar. But you miss the heart of it. Even the finest blade will chip if pressure falls on the wrong place. And I would see that strain avoided altogether. Why test the men’s faith needlessly?”

  His eyes lingered on Alric once more, voice low. “The Empire does not forgive easily, my Lord. You know it as well as I. Do not give it cause to question you.”

  “Your concern is noted and understood, Regulus. But while we discuss appearances, the men still linger between life and death, Crag and reality, light and dark.”

  Alric replied reaching for his change of garment.

  “Form the ranks. We move now.”

  Regulus regarded him a moment too long before inclining his head.

  “As you will, Lord Commander.”

  He turned and stepped through the tent flap.

  Vargo and Klethiar’s eyes followed his figure until the canvas fell closed behind.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The two remaining officers bowed in silence, then went as well, leaving Alric alone within the patchwork of canvas and leather.

  Not long after, the horns sounded thrice across the floodplains, and the column stirred back to life.

  Priscilla returned from the medicae’s tent, cleaned and rebandaged. The women on duty brought her forward through the ranks to where Alric waited at the head of the column.

  He offered his hand, and she took it, steadying herself on the saddle’s bow.

  Alric raised his hand and gave the signal to move. Orders passed from man to man, and the march resumed beneath a pale blue sky. Hooves struck the sodden earth, wagon wheels groaned, and the breath of thousands rose like autumn fog.

  The land no longer stank of the Crag’s visions, but of grass, iron and rain. The wind had grown gentler, and its passing carried the scents of the living world.

  Alric felt them as one feels warmth after long absence, strange and unyielding in its unfamiliarity.

  To the north, the floodwaters thinned into shivering veins that caught the light as molten glass, winding through the fields like blood through body.

  Hours bled into one another as they trod the wet roads until nightfall came.

  Fires began to kindle to life like a nascent constellation. The rise on which they stood became a star in the swallowing darkness.

  Men sat low, eating rations. They spoke in low hums, eyes tainted by withering exhaustion.

  They were too weary for song, but too aware of what crawled beneath their dreams. So they ate and waited for their turn to come and go.

  Within that shifting sea of tents and smoke, the command pavilion rose apart. Inside there were four men.

  Alric, Veracles, Vargo and Klethiar.

  The lone brazier at the center burned low, hissing coals swaying in the heat. Shadows leaned long upon the walls of the tent, bending with each gust of wind.

  For a time none spoke, save for the creak of leather and the rustle of canvas.

  “Shouldn’t Regulus be present also?” Klethiar asked, breaking the silence at last.

  Veracles shook his head. “No. He excused himself from this council. He needs only the outcome, not the reasoning. In the end, he will know why we speak, and why he does not.”

  Klethiar nodded, eyes catching the firelight’s glow.

  “Did you find anything?” Vargo began, voice expectant.

  “I did.”

  “Then speak.”

  Veracles drew a parchment from his satchel and laid it upon the table.

  “Our woes stem from the edict’s absolutes,” he said. “We must create room for exception.”

  He unfurled the scroll with a crack. The firelight slid across the geometric lines; the same pattern found in Khal-Drathir’s bastion floor.

  “According to the Lord Commander’s reports, Molvane was found bound to a chair beside a ritual circle formed of black powder. Furthermore, nothing in our archives matches the design sketched by the scouts. It is new and without precedent.”

  He looked between them.

  “And new means dangerous. Unpredictable. Uncontrolled.”

  Klethiar spoke. “Then you suggest we bind her to the circle as witness?”

  Veracles inclined his head. “Something of that sort. The court will despise ignorance more than her survival. We turn their fear to our use. Their need for control will become our justification for why she lives despite the edict’s absolutes.”

  Alric folded his arms. “Continue.”

  “Her continued breath will be bound to the circle in Khal-Drathir. She will be proof of a Hex never before seen by the Empire, and its effects on the mind.” Veracles continued.

  “They will inquire about it, interrogate Molvane, and see for themselves the curse’s dark outcomes. Furthermore, since you passed it yourself, my Lord, they will turn their eyes to you as well. You will shape the account as you see fit by either disproving or confirming what serves you best. In doing so, you will prove your loyalty not only to the edict, but to the Empire also.”

  Klethiar leaned forward slightly. “Wouldn’t that make her more danger than boon in their sight? If she is bound to the curse, they could very well call for her execution and for the Lord Commander’s censure for bringing corruption upon the capital.”

  Veracles turned to him.

  “They very well might. But better to guide the knife, than to let it fall where it will.”

  A long silence followed.

  “Let us say it works and she lives.” Vargo said at last. “What then? Will she rot in some dungeon beneath the capital?”

  “Most certainly yes. She would be a living specimen, nothing more than stain-touched cattle to dissect for anomalies.”

  “That is not what I envision.” Alric interjected, voice like steel.

  “Then we must persuade them to place her under your care.”

  “How?” Vargo asked.

  Veracles placed his hands on the table. “We will do so by petitioning for a temporary field observation order. That will make her a subject of study supervised by you alone, my Lord. The court preseves its need for control, while we preserve the narrative. If it goes according to plan, you will be named her custodian. Procedure will be plain and official, and whatever else transpires will appear detached from personal mercy or indulgence.”

  Alric let a long breath pass through him before answering, thoughts shifting in his mind like dried mud. Then he let his arms fall to his sides.

  “So be it. Write the document. I’ll seal it when you finish.”

  Veracles retrieved another parchment from his satchel that bore the twin-headed falcon insignia on its corners.

  “As you command, my Lord.”

  He took quill in hand. The scratching of ink filled the tent, mingling with the hiss of coals. Time passed unnoticed until he lifted his head once more.

  He rolled the parchment tight, poured a measure of wax across the seal, and presented it to Alric.

  “Here, Lord Commander. The document.”

  Alric’s gaze fell on it dreadful. In his mind, it spelled treason. Against the Emperor who had raised him since boyhood with his father. Against the court that had used him. Against the truth he now buried in ash. Yet he did not waver.

  He pressed his signet into the wax, red spreading like blood across a wound.

  “It is done,” he said.

  Vargo shifted his stance. “So be it.”

  “So be it.” Veracles echoed.

  Klethiar looked between them, uncertainty softening his voice.

  “Are we certain this is the road we should tread?”

  No one answered him.

  The fire guttered once, then fell to embers, shadows growing still. Beyond the tent came the distant murmurs of distant men with the first howl of winter wind.

  His question went with the scattering of the light.