The war camp stretched across the valley like a phantom city, hidden beneath the skeletal branches of towering trees. Smoke curled from the carefully contained fires, blending with the cold mountain air, masking the scent of men, steel, and blood. This was not a place of comfort. It was a place of preparation.
Varun moved through the rows of soldiers and spies with the ease of a man who did not need to announce his authority. He was not a king, not a ruler, but something far more dangerous. A ghost in the shadows, an architect of unseen wars, a man who understood that true power was not taken with force—it was built in silence.
The men and women around him weren't the kind that pledged loyalty to crowns. They were survivors, outcasts, warriors with no cause but the one they had chosen. They followed him because he saw before anyone else did.
And what he saw now was war on the horizon.
A cold wind whipped through the camp as he approached the command tent. The canvas flapped violently, its edges stained from years of use, from the blood of battles fought in places where names no longer mattered. Inside, the scent of old parchment and burning oil filled the space.
A map of the region lay stretched across a wooden table, its surface scarred with dagger marks where past decisions had been made. Small carved pieces—representing warriors, outposts, and the unknown forces moving across the land—were arranged with deadly precision.
Varun's gaze flickered to the southern territories, where Vihan's path was unfolding.
A shadow moved at the tent's entrance. One of his scouts.
The man bowed slightly, his face half-hidden beneath the hood of his traveling cloak. "News from the southern route."
Varun motioned for him to speak.
The scout stepped forward, dropping a sealed parchment onto the table. "Vihan and the healer continue southward. They are cautious but not hiding. The mercenary is with them."
Varun exhaled slowly. Ronan had made his choice.
It was expected. But that did not mean it was without consequence.
His fingers tapped idly against the hilt of his dagger as he studied the map. "And the lioness?"
The scout hesitated.
Varun's gaze snapped to him. "Speak."
"She moves faster than anticipated," the man admitted. "She is gathering forces—not trained warriors, but zealots. Fanatics. They are rallying behind her, believing her to be the true successor of the Phoenix."
Varun clenched his jaw.
Sharvani.
He had expected her to act. He had not expected her to act this quickly.
"She speaks of destiny," the scout continued, voice lowering. "Of the old gods. She tells them that Vihan was corrupted. That he has been tainted by sorcery." His voice tightened. "By the healer."
Varun's grip on his dagger tightened.
Aaravi.
The pieces were moving faster than even he had calculated.
He had counted on Sharvani gathering forces—on her attempting to claim what she believed was hers. But now, she was not just coming for Vihan.
She was coming for Aaravi.
"She has them convinced," the scout added. "They say she has seen visions, that the gods whisper to her. That she is chosen."
Varun snorted softly. Madness cloaked in faith was always the deadliest weapon.
Sharvani had never fought wars with armies alone—she fought them with belief.
And belief? Belief was a harder enemy to kill than any man.
The scout hesitated again. "Does she know he still lives?"
Varun shook his head. "Not yet." He let his gaze flicker over the map, to the edges where the unknown still lurked. "But she will soon."
And when she did?
The world would burn.
He reached for a nearby quill, dipping it into ink and drawing slow, deliberate marks across the parchment. "Where is she heading?"
"Toward the eastern valley. There is an old temple there—one of the last standing sites of the old faith. She's using it as a place of gathering. The numbers grow every day."
Varun's fingers drummed against the table. Sharvani was smart. By taking a temple, she would give herself more than just warriors.
She would give herself a holy war.
He inhaled deeply, adjusting the carved pieces on the board. His mind worked through the possible paths, the moves yet to be made. Vihan was not ready yet. He had survived, yes, but survival was not the same as control.
And Aaravi?
She had changed everything.
Varun had spent years ensuring Vihan would never be ruled by emotions again. Yet here he was—choosing a path because of a woman.
Was it weakness?
Or was it strength?
He wasn't sure.
But he would find out soon enough.
The scout shifted. "What are your orders?"
Varun stared at the map for a long moment.
Then, he moved one of the carved pieces forward.
"Send word to our spies in the eastern valley. I want to know who walks through those temple doors and what they whisper in the dark. We must know how deep her roots have already grown."
The scout bowed. "And Vihan?"
Varun exhaled slowly.
He would let his friend move forward, let him believe he was choosing his own path.
But paths were not chosen.
They were laid long before the traveler ever set foot upon them.
And if war was inevitable?
Then he would make sure Vihan survived it.
No matter what it took.