The march eastward carried them into lands untouched by rebellion but scarred by neglect. Fields lay fallow, villages hollowed by famine. The nobles rode in silence, their eyes sharp, waiting for Kael to falter.
At the edge of the plains, the army reached an abandoned fortress. Its walls were cracked, its gates half‑rotted, yet banners of the Empire still hung limp from the towers. Kael ordered the men to make camp inside. Garrick frowned at the choice.
"This place is a tomb," he muttered. "The men will feel it."
Kael shook his head. "Then let them feel it. Better they learn to march through silence than be broken by it."
That night, the nobles gathered in the fortress hall. Candles sputtered against the damp stone, shadows stretching long across the walls.
One noble, Lord Veynar, spoke with disdain. "You feed peasants, you shelter soldiers in ruins. This is not command. This is charity."
Kael met his gaze. "Charity does not win wars. Endurance does. If the men can sleep in ruins and rise ready to fight, they will endure anything."
The nobles murmured, some scoffing, others thoughtful. Garrick leaned close, whispering, "You gave them survival. Now you must give them purpose."
At dawn, Kael ordered drills in the courtyard. The men trained until their arms shook, until sweat streaked their armor. He walked among them, correcting stances, steadying blades.
Rowan's absence was felt like a wound. Some soldiers still doubted, whispering that Kael's fire was all that held them together. Others began to see something more: a leader who bled beside them, who demanded not spectacle but strength.
One soldier, young and raw, dropped his sword. Kael picked it up, pressed it back into his hands. "Hold it until your arms break," he said. "Then hold it longer. That is how you survive."
The boy nodded, jaw tight, and lifted the blade again.
By evening, a rider approached the fortress gates under a banner of truce. A rebel envoy, cloaked in dust, demanded parley.
Kael met him in the courtyard. The envoy's voice was low, mocking. "You think fire will save you. Fire consumes. It leaves nothing but ash. Join us, and you will not burn."
Kael's hand tightened on his sword. "Ash feeds the soil. Fire clears the rot. If you fear it, then you have already lost."
The envoy's smile faltered. He turned his horse and rode back into the dusk, leaving unease in his wake.
That night, Garrick sat beside Kael on the battlements. "You gave them more than survival today," he said. "You gave them a reason to believe. Even the envoy saw it."
Kael stared at the horizon, where rebel fires burned faintly in the distance. "Belief is fragile. Tomorrow, it may break."
Tharos stirred below, ember eyes glowing. Belief is fire. Feed it, and it endures. Starve it, and it dies.
Kael closed his eyes, the beast's words burning into him. He was no longer marching for survival. He was marching to prove that fire could endure without consuming everything it touched.