The smoke lingered long after the sun rose, curling in pale tendrils over the riverbanks. It clung stubbornly to the reeds, drifting lazily toward the east, as if Aereth itself were unwilling to let go of what had been burned. I watched from the watchtower at Grayford, cloak tight around my shoulders, boots cold against the wooden floorboards. The river below flowed on, indifferent, carrying ash and cinders toward Qashir—a river that had witnessed centuries of death and diplomacy, and would witness more.
It should have brought satisfaction.
It didn't.
Below, the camp stirred. Men moved with routine, boots crunching in mud, the scrape of sharpened blades cutting the silence. Faces were pale, hollowed by exhaustion. They no longer spoke of victory—only of endurance. The word had been lost somewhere between the burned villages and the first cries of Lethren Ford.
Ril appeared at the top of the tower steps, breath ragged, eyes alert. He had slept less than I had, if that were possible, and it showed. A shadow of doubt lingered behind his sharp features.
"The evacuation columns reached the inner villages," he said, his voice low, carrying over the wind. "Most made it, some didn't."
I nodded. "Numbers."
"Seventy-three missing. Likely captured… or dead."
"Likely both," I muttered.
He hesitated. "The villagers… they know who gave the order."
Of course they did. Orders had consequences, and I had handed out consequences with a steady hand that day. The fires of Lethren Ford still burned in the memories of every Kaeldorian soul, even those who survived.
"They curse your name," Ril whispered. "Some openly. Others just bow their heads when soldiers pass."
"I can live with curses," I said. "I cannot live with Qashiri banners over Kaeldorian soil."
Ril said nothing. He no longer argued. War had stripped away the part of him that once believed in honor and fairness. What remained was something harder, sharper. A soldier.
The first horn sounded—a single, low note, deliberate, precise. Not an alarm. Not a call to arms.
A messenger appeared soon after, mud-caked and breathless. He dropped to one knee, eyes wide with urgency.
"Sir," he panted, "Velmoran envoy. Requests audience."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Velmora had chosen to appear now, just after the Qashiri tests and the burning of our villages. Timing, as always, was precise.
"Bring him," I said. "No ceremony. No banners. Nothing."
Lucien arrived before the morning fog had fully lifted. Dressed for diplomacy but smelling faintly of incense and authority, he bowed low enough to seem respectful, high enough to make clear he thought himself superior.
"Commander Valen," he began smoothly, "Aereth watches your river closely these days."
"Aereth should mind its own rivers," I replied, voice low and sharp.
He smiled faintly. "If only rivers obeyed the kingdoms that claim them."
Inside the tent, maps lay across the table like a battlefield in miniature, marked, remarked, and re-marked. Lucien traced lines with a thin finger, eyes scanning as if he could see the future written in ink.
"You've abandoned the southern villages," he said casually. "Bold. Cruel. Efficient."
"You didn't come to critique my morality," I said.
"No," he said, smiling. "I came to discuss your future."
I leaned back, measuring him. "That sounds like a threat."
"An opportunity," he corrected. "Velmora prefers stability. Qashir disrupts trade. Draeven disrupts everything. Kaeldor stands between chaos and convenience."
"And you want me to die buying you time," I said evenly.
Lucien shook his head. "No. Endure. There is a difference."
He pushed a sealed scroll across the table, weight heavy with significance.
"Intelligence," he said. "Qashiri movements, Draeven supply routes, names of men who will betray you."
I didn't touch it.
"And the price?" I asked.
His eyes never wavered from the maps. "When the time comes, you will open your northern crossings. Quietly. No fanfare. No armies, no armies marching openly."
I regarded him steadily. "So you are already planning the next war."
"In Aereth," he said softly, "there is no other kind."
He left soon after. I stared at the empty doorway, the wind carrying the smell of ash from burned villages. I knew then that Velmora had already begun its work in the shadows.
Ril, quiet as ever, sat across from me. "Can we trust him?"
"No," I said. "But we can use him."
The first strike came at dusk, subtle as a whisper, and twice as lethal.
It wasn't Grayford they attacked. It wasn't our river line.
It was our men.
Qashiri riders slipped through marshes where the mud swallowed sound. They struck at supply wagons, butchered sentries, and vanished before alarms fully rose. There was no battle, only erosion. By nightfall, we had lost three wagons, twelve men, and, far worse, the fragile confidence of the soldiers who had survived Lethren Ford.
I walked among the wounded as torches flickered, listening to low groans and whispered prayers. One young soldier, barely older than Ril had been when he first joined the camp, clutched my sleeve with shaking hands.
"They were already behind us," he whispered. "They knew where we'd be."
I nodded silently. He did not need me to answer. Tarek al-Rhazim had moved beyond testing. He was now shaping the battlefield with patience and calculation.
By dawn, I summoned the captains. Some arrived angry, others fearful, all exhausted.
"We march east," I said. Silence greeted me.
"Into Qashiri territory?" one captain asked sharply. "Are you mad? Half our men haven't slept properly since Grayford."
"Not to invade," I said. "A strike. Precise. Limited. Controlled."
"Why?" another captain asked. "The river is ours. Why risk everything?"
I stared at the maps, tracing the eastern ridge and the marsh paths where Tarek's men had moved unseen. "Because Qashir believes we are anchored to the river, that we can only defend. Tomorrow, we show them we can choose the battlefield."
They exchanged uneasy glances. They understood consequences, but this was bold, dangerous, and unpredictable.
"And if it fails?" a third asked.
I met his eyes and said what I had been telling myself since Lethren Ford burned.
"Then Aereth will forget my name sooner."
One by one, they nodded.
Orders went out quietly. No horns, no fanfare, no ceremonial march. Five hundred men moved east, under cover of reeds, carrying only weapons and the determination to survive.
Night fell without fires. We moved silently, and I felt the subtle shift that separates defense from action. Each step forward was a choice, each breath a risk. I thought of the villagers we left behind. I thought of Ril, standing beside me as we crept through mud and reeds. I thought of Tarek al-Rhazim, calm, confident, and waiting somewhere beyond the marsh.
"Do you ever wonder how this ends?" Ril asked in a whisper.
"Yes," I said. "Often."
"And?"
I stared into the darkness, imagining maps yet to be drawn, names yet to be cursed. "It doesn't," I said finally. "It just becomes something else."
Far to the east, a flicker of fire cut the horizon—scouts, careless or baiting us.
I smiled thinly. Let Tarek al-Rhazim believe he was hunting me. Tomorrow, Aereth would learn that rivers can move, and Kaeldor had learned how to strike quietly.