The blood was still drying on the cracked stone when the message arrived.
Leon stood alone atop the shattered tower of Grannis, the wind tugging ash and dust into the open sky. Below, the fallen lay in grim lines—dragged but not buried. They weren't his men, and this was not his land. Let them rot.
A rider appeared on the stairs, dust-caked and pale, trembling beneath hollow eyes. The man didn't meet Leon's gaze as he knelt, extending a scroll with a trembling arm.
Leon held his silence, letting the weight of the moment press down, the unspoken dread hanging thick in the air. Then, slowly, he took the scroll.
Dusmir had retreated.
The seal bore Imperial authority, not the Council's. It carried undeniable weight—but reeked of manipulation, of polished panic dressed in silk.
Leon read the message twice, then again, slower. Each line confirmed what the dirt beneath his boots already told him: the enemy pulled back. No last stand. No fanfare. Just absence.
No smile touched his lips. But inside, something shifted—like iron scraping against flint.
A lesser commander would have rallied the troops, ordered pursuit, pressed the retreat, demanded more blood for the Empire.
But Leon was no lesser man.
He turned his face to the wind and let the scroll slip from his fingers. It fluttered once, then vanished into the ruined courtyard.
"Let them run," he murmured, voice low and steady. "We've already won."
No triumph. Just cold fact.
He descended the stairs, each heavy bootfall echoing, sword weight steady at his side. Dust clung to him. Smoke wrapped around him like a shroud.
He passed knights bowing silently, medics tending broken shields and broken bodies. No orders barked. No ceremony given. Only quiet reverence—not born of loyalty, but of fear.
Inside the war tent, Leon reached for the sealed black box—the only direct link to the Emperor. No Council. No intermediaries. One voice, crown to blade.
He slid the crystal key into the mechanism. A soft hum, a shimmer of magic, then the voice came through.
"Report."
Leon spoke without hesitation. "Grannis holds no value now. Dusmir has withdrawn. We could pursue, but I will not. The breach was deliberate. Engineered."
A pause.
"…By whom?"
Leon allowed a faint smirk. "Your Council. They thought to use me like a pawn on their board. And for a moment, perhaps, they did. Clever bastards."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"And you?" The Emperor's voice was cold, calculating.
Leon looked out the tent flap. The battlefield stretched like a scar across the horizon.
"I'm returning to the capital. Grannis has served its purpose. Let them believe they won something here. I've seen enough blood for a lifetime."
Silence. But Leon knew he was heard. Understood.
He added, dry amusement threading his words, "Next time they want to borrow your sword… remind them who forged it."
He ended the connection.
Then he laughed. Quiet. Sharp. Not joy. Not mockery. Just entertained.
They thought they could use him. The Council of Thorns, whispering poison behind silken curtains, trying to tame the Lionheart.
He was neither man to manipulate nor knight to flatter.
He was the Lionheart.
The Sword of Solmere.
And only the Emperor could hold the hilt without losing a hand.
Outside, the sky darkened with the promise of storm. His men straightened, waiting for orders.
He gave none.
Only turned, cloak snapping in the wind, and strode toward the waiting steeds.
Let the world guess his next move.
Let the Council wonder how much he knew.
Let Dusmir catch their breath and believe they'd survived.
For now.
When the Lion roars again,
It will be on his terms.
And this time,
He won't be leashed.
– • –
Lornwood wasn't what I expected.
Not much of anything, really—just high ground still untouched by mud and blood.
We arrived early, when the air still smelled of pine and earth, not death. The wind was sharp but clean. That was rare.
Soldiers moved like ghosts, faces hollow, voices low. Quiet orders, measured steps, no shouting. No one dared disturb the fragile silence after survival.
I hated how I'd grown used to this.
The stillness after the storm.
When your hands stop shaking but your stomach never does.
The camp was half-built—dugouts, perimeter markers, a command tent bearing Dusmir's sigil freshly painted across the canvas. Whoever held this place before left in a hurry, but not panic. We were meant to be here. Someone prepared it for us. Comforting. Suspicious. Maybe both.
Jamie walked beside me, her coat dusted with ash but steps light. She belonged here—too smart to die, too angry to stop.
She caught my gaze and smirked. "Expecting a warm welcome?"
"I expected a graveyard," I said. "This is better."
"Don't get used to it."
We reached the ridge's edge, the land dipping into a shallow valley. Below, the city stretched wide—bigger than I thought, still standing, still alive.
Market wagons creaked through the stone gate. Smoke drifted from chimneys not burning bodies. Distant hammering. Laughter. Real laughter.
"That's Harnwick," Jamie said. "Old trade hub. Been here since before the first Dusmir kings. Smug bastards—they think the war can't touch them."
I said nothing. Hope like that was dangerous.
To the west, beyond trees, rooftops of a small village—no banners, no walls. Just crooked homes and cooking fires. Forgotten, but alive. For now.
Jamie glanced back at camp. "Gerald's sending scouts to both. Supply chains, recruitment, eyes everywhere."
"Smart." I rubbed my thumb over the sword's hilt, worn smooth. "Think they'll let me join a scout team?"
She gave me a sideways look. "Trying to run off again?"
"No. Just don't like waiting."
She laughed softly. "You and me both."
A sharp whistle cut the air. A rider came fast down the slope, cloak flapping like wings. Without dismounting, he threw reins aside and stormed to the command tent.
Jamie and I followed. Not invited, but not stopped. Near death grants invisible clearance.
Gerald emerged, back straight, cold as the ridge wind. Jaxen stood nearby, a picture of war nobility—clean, collected, too proper for the filth we'd crawled through.
The courier bowed, spoke fast. "Message from the eastern front. Lionheart Order has withdrawn. Grannis is empty. No pursuit, no movement."
Jamie muttered something I didn't catch, but felt the weight of.
Gerald's face didn't move. No surprise.
Jaxen asked, formal, "Voluntary withdrawal? Confirmed?"
"Confirmed, Lord Jaxen. No resistance. They simply left."
A sharp ache settled in my chest.
Jamie's voice tightened. "That doesn't make sense. They had us pinned. They could've—"
"They didn't." Gerald's voice cut her like a blade. "They wanted us alive."
Suddenly, I thought of Melissa.
No idea why.
Maybe it was the word alive.
I looked toward the village, Harnwick's rooftops and chimneys.
We weren't done.
Just in the eye of the storm.
The quiet that lets you sleep—but only for a little while.
Gerald stood, unmoving. The wind tugged his cloak, but not his expression—chiseled, cold, older than his years, eyes like deep, glassy water.
The camp held its breath.
Then he spoke, calm and deliberate.
"Let it be known—this retreat does not mark safety. It marks uncertainty."
Jaxen nodded crisply, arms crossed like a statue.
Jamie folded her arms, eyes sharp on the courier.
Gerald's gaze stayed on the valley.
"Lionheart's withdrawal is not mercy. It's calculation."
He turned to officers. "We hold Lornwood. No advance. No outreach. No celebration."
Louder, to the gathering soldiers:
"No fires above ankle height. Lights covered after nightfall. Scouts rotate every three hours. No unauthorized contact with city or village."
He paused.
"Rest while you can. Because rest is the one thing you're always running out of."
Orders spread like wildfire. No panic—just the steady hum of trained tension, boots tightened, swords close.
Gerald turned to Jaxen. "Full city report in two days. No risks with local nobility."
Jaxen bowed. "Understood, Commander. Formal envoy by first light."
"To the village," Gerald said, glancing west. "Scout team with healer and provisions. Peaceful, prepared."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Expecting hostility?"
"Expecting desperation," Gerald replied flatly.
He stepped into the tent; the flap fell like a tomb lid.
Jamie exhaled. "No one's dying of optimism here."
I watched the camp—soldiers adjusting, sharpening blades, drinking water, not ale. A whole army reminded what survival meant.
We weren't safe.
Not yet.
But we were breathing.
That would have to be enough.
The day passed in fragments.
Not peace.
Just stillness.
Like a breath no one dared finish.
No meetings. No strategy.
Just quiet orders: "Rest. Until further notice."
The war went quiet.
Not ended.
Paused.
No drills. No formations.
Just men and women left alone with their wounds, their thoughts, and the strange hope they might wake tomorrow.
I sharpened a blade I knew I wouldn't use. Muscle memory more than need.
Jamie sketched on a scrap of parchment—maybe a map, maybe a face.
Arlan snored half-upright under a tarp, his injured leg awkwardly stretched.
No one spoke.
Later, a pot of stew circled—too salty, thin, but hot.
Food felt like more than fuel.
Laughter drifted from a small fire—genuine, cracked, tired, but real.
It did something to my chest.
Jamie noticed. "Still don't trust it?"
"Not yet."
"Maybe not ever."
She nodded.
When the sun dipped, cold settled.
Someone pulled out a battered lute, playing slow, wandering notes.
People listened.
For the first time in weeks, no one sharpened weapons after dark.
For the first time in months, I didn't fall asleep with boots on.
Morning came without horns or armor clanging.
Just birds.
Real ones.
Gerald made a quiet round, slower steps, clearer eyes.
He passed me with a nod. "Keep your men fed. Let them sleep. We wait for the capital."
That was it.
Wait.
Not attack.
Not chase.
Just wait.
And strangely, that felt heavier than any order I'd ever heard.
But we followed it.
Because sometimes, doing nothing is the hardest part of surviving.
By midmorning, the wind had shifted. It turned colder, sharper—like the very air was holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.
Jamie was crouched near the latrines, hunched over a rough, weathered map. Her fingers traced scout rotations and supply routes with practiced precision. I approached slowly, hands buried deep in my coat pockets, trying to appear casual—as if I had all the time in the world.
"Hey," I said, breaking the silence.
She didn't glance up. "If you're here to ask when breakfast starts, it's already over."
I let the corner of my mouth twitch into a half-smile. "I want the village run."
That made her pause. Finally, she looked up, one eyebrow arching in mild surprise. "Thought you hated scouting."
"I do."
"And you hate people."
"Still do."
"So what's the angle?" Her eyes narrowed, searching mine.
I shrugged, shrugging off the question like it was nothing. "Fresh air. Better than sitting around with the half-dead, waiting for the next ambush."
Jamie gave me that long, narrow stare she reserved for when she didn't believe a word but wasn't quite ready to call me out. "Gerald's assigning teams tomorrow. You want me to put your name in now?"
"I want to go early," I said, voice low. "Today."
Jamie blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Why?"
I hesitated. Too long. Too obvious. Finally, I settled on the safest answer. "Just a feeling."
"Bullshit."
I didn't argue. No point. She sighed, rolling the map up with a practiced flick and tucking it under her arm.
"You've got three hours before the next patrol rotates. Leave now, and you can be back by dusk." She leaned in, voice dropping. "But if Gerald asks, I didn't send you."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She jabbed a finger into my chest, sharp and warning. "If you die, I'm not writing your name on the memorial wall. I'll just steal your boots."
"They're not even my size."
She smirked, a spark of mischief in her eyes. "Didn't say I'd wear them."
I turned and left before she could come up with something even meaner.
I grabbed a spare satchel from the supply pile, stuffing it with half-rotted apples and the last strips of smoked meat we called food. Just enough to look like charity if anyone asked. I slung my sword across my back, tied a Dusmir patch to my sleeve—a silent badge of where I belonged—and started toward the tree line.
No fanfare. No escort. No orders.
Just me.
And a maybe.
The village didn't have a name on any of our maps. Just a faint dot nestled deep in the woods west of Lornwood—too small to burn, too quiet to notice. It took just over an hour to reach the outskirts, my boots sinking softly into the damp earth, birds scattering ahead in nervous flutters.
A thin wisp of smoke curled from a crooked chimney.
Children's voices drifted faintly on the breeze.
Alive.
I slowed as I approached the first fence. It leaned at odd angles, held together with twine and scraps of cloth. Someone had painted symbols on the weathered wood—protection glyphs, no doubt. Faded now. Wishful thinking against the harshness of the world.
A dog barked once, sharp and sudden, then fell silent. A few cautious faces peeked out from behind shuttered windows.
I didn't raise my voice. Didn't wave a banner.
Just walked slow.
A woman stepped out at last—a thin figure dusted with flour, eyes rimmed with the tired lines of too many years spent watching loss. She didn't reach for a weapon, but there was no warmth in her gaze.
"We've got nothing to give," she said flatly.
"Not asking." I held up the satchel. "Trade, if you need it."
Her eyes scanned me—noticed the patch, the sword, the dirt caked on my boots.
"You from the ridge?" she asked.
I nodded.
She hesitated, then jerked her chin toward the center of the village. "If you're not here to cause trouble, talk to the old man by the well. He keeps track of strangers."
I nodded again. "Appreciate it."
I passed her, eyes flicking to every window, every shadow. The kind of silence that could shatter at any moment. But no one stirred. No voices called out.
The village felt… tired. Like us.
Near the well, a hunched figure sat carving driftwood, his hands steady despite the years etched into his face. He didn't look up.
"I'm not here long," I said softly.
No answer.
I scanned the square once more—and then I saw her.
Across the way, carrying a bucket, head bowed low. Her cloak was a dull green, shoulders hunched as if she wanted to fold into herself and disappear.
But it was her.
Melissa.
Her hair was shorter now, thinner. But the way she moved—quiet, deliberate, as if every step might set something fragile loose—that hadn't changed.
She hadn't noticed me yet. I didn't move. Just watched.
When she finally looked up, her eyes met mine.
No gasp. No startled shock. Just a pause.
Recognition flickered. A small catch in her breath. A subtle shift—like bracing against a cold wind.
She didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just… looked.
I gave her a slow nod. Nothing more.
She held my gaze a moment longer, then dipped her head slightly—acknowledgment, maybe. Or maybe nothing at all.
Then she turned and kept walking, disappearing behind a worn plank door without a word.
No drama. No reunion.
Just a second glance in a world that rarely gives you one.
I lingered a moment, the wind tugging at my coat. Adjusting the satchel, I turned back toward the well.
Didn't say a word to the old man. Didn't ask questions.
Didn't need to.
She made it.
That was all I needed to know.