The spoils of Elaron became the poison that seeped into the rebellion's heart. Where there had been unity forged in shared hardship, now there were hierarchies, allocations, and the subtle, corrosive politics of a court-in-waiting. The granaries, once Rotard's, now fed the Red Cloak. The armories provided real swords to replace rusted scrap. The treasury, its locks forced, spilled silver and gold that Oleik meticulously cataloged for supplies and salaries. For the first time since the fall, they were not just survivors; they were a power. And power, Retour was learning, was a shadow that twisted everything it touched.
Roty watched this new order take shape from the edges, a spectator to his own diminishing relevance. He saw the way the refugees and soldiers looked at Retour now—not as a man, but as a symbol. The name "Red King" was no longer a whispered prophecy but a title spoken with fervent conviction. They brought him gifts: a loaf of bread still warm from a liberated bakery, a cloak patched with careful hands, a small, clumsily carved wooden bird from a child. Retour, trapped in the hollowed-out shell of himself after the siege, accepted these tributes with a distant, weary nod that Roty interpreted as regal expectation.
"He consumes everything," Roty muttered under his breath, the words a bitter mantra. He sat on an overturned barrel in a dusty courtyard, sharpening his favorite knife with long, aggressive strokes. The metallic shhhk-shhhk-shhhk was the rhythm of his resentment. "First, he consumed my sister's faith. She looks at him as if he's the answer to every prayer we ever whispered in the dark. Now he consumes the people's hope, their loyalty, their very will. What remains for me? The leavings? The crumbs from his gilded table?"
Ciski found him there, the setting sun casting long shadows that seemed to cling to her brother's hunched form. Her own joy at their victory was tempered by a cold dread she couldn't shake, a dread that now focused squarely on Roty. "This bitterness, brother... it's a rot. You have to cut it out before it consumes you, too."
"Cut it out?" Roty let out a short, harsh bark of laughter. "Look at this, Ciski! We bled for this city, and for what? To crown a new master? He is becoming the very monster we set out to destroy! Did you stand at that gate? Did you see what he did? That was not a battle. It was an execution. The gate didn't shatter; it ceased to be. The men behind it weren't killed; they were erased from existence. And you... you stand there and you defend it!"
"I am defending our future!" Ciski's voice dropped to a fierce, urgent whisper, her eyes flashing. "I am defending the children in this city who can now play in the streets without fear! The families who can break bread without listening for the sound of marching boots! Yes, his power is a horror. But he is horrified by it, too! Can't you see it eating him alive from the inside? He is a prisoner in his own skin, and you would condemn the jailor along with the jail?"
"You're blind!" Roty surged to his feet, sheathing his knife with a violent, final thrust. "He plays the tormented prince while he gathers all the strings of power into his hands. He's no different from Rotard. Just... prettier."
The fracture became a chasm later that afternoon. In the great hall of the former garrison captain, now their war room, Oleik unveiled his new organizational chart, etched onto a large slate. It was a thing of cold, logical beauty, outlining supply lines, military districts, and chains of command. Ciski's name was written high on the slate. "Commander of the Eastern Reach," Oleik announced in his flat, filtered tone. "With authority over all liberated territories east of the Serpent River. You will report directly to the strategic council."
It was Dean, clapping a heavy hand on Roty's shoulder, who delivered the news as if it were a cause for celebration. "Your sister has earned a great command, lad. You should be proud. The family name carries weight again."
Roty didn't hear the pride. He heard the structure. He saw his sister's name inscribed above his own, a formal, public declaration that she was closer to the center of power, to Retour, than he would ever be. The gnawing jealousy and wounded pride that had festered for weeks finally hardened into a cold, irrevocable resolution. The thought, once a dark whisper, now became a clear, calculated plan.
That night, beneath a sky choked with clouds, he moved like a ghost through the conquered city. He knew the sentry rotations, the blind spots in the newly established perimeter. He slipped through a postern gate near the tanneries, the stench of chemicals and decay masking his passage. He followed the polluted creek that fed the city's moat until he reached a crumbling watermill, its great wheel skeletal and still. A figure leaned against the rotting frame, armored in the distinctive, practical plate of Kora's personal guard—a lieutenant, by the insignia.
"The Usurper's favorite hound," Roty greeted, his voice low and tight.
The lieutenant, a woman with a pale, severe face and a thin scar bisecting her chin, didn't smile. "The discontented outcast. You requested this meeting. Your information had better be worth the risk."
"The main force moves out at dawn," Roty said, the treason feeling like a physical weight in his chest. "Retour will be with them. Oleik's plan is to use the old elven paths through the Stonewood Forest to flank your positions at the Serpent's Fork. It's a clever move. It's also your best, and likely only, chance to catch him in the open, away from fortifications." He forced himself to meet her cold, assessing gaze. "You can end this tomorrow."
The lieutenant's lips curled into a faint, predatory smile. She tossed a small, heavy leather bag at his feet. It landed with a thick, metallic chink. "The Usurper appreciates... pragmatic individuals."
Roty bent and picked up the pouch. The solid heft of the gold coins within was a tangible reward, a thing of value that was unquestionably his. But as he straightened and turned to disappear back into the night, he saw the look in the lieutenant's eyes. It wasn't camaraderie or even respect. It was the detached, clinical look of a falconer rewarding a bird of prey for a successful hunt. He wasn't an ally; he was an asset. A thing to be used. The gold in his hand suddenly felt like the first link in a chain.
Back in the small, barren room he'd been assigned, the pouch hidden beneath his bedroll, the fleeting sense of power evaporated, leaving only the cold, leaden reality of his actions. He lay in the dark, the sounds of the sleeping city a mockery. He had bartered it all—his honor, his sister's love, the lives of the men and women he had fought beside—for a moment of spiteful validation and a bag of yellow metal. The victory at Elaron had given them a stronghold, but Roty's betrayal was the flaw in the foundation, the crack that would bring the entire wall crashing down.