The realization of this knowledge tasted like bile. The curve of the Blackridge Pass, the hidden ford at the Vaelgard border, the old mining tunnels, the forgotten springs.
It all belonged to the dead boy whose corpse he wore. Aerion's lip curled.
Does it matter?
A tool was a tool. Memory, instinct, flesh, all were the same in the end. He would use every scrap he had. He drew paths and features that only a native of these lands would know.
Eana crouched beside him, her shadow falling across the crude map, looking at the lines he drew. "You're marking the outposts," she said in a soft voice.
Aerion didn't look up.
"The weak ones first." His stick moved, marking a small dot in a remote valley. "Their supply lines are thin here, and their garrisons are new."
His mind worked fast, seeing the weaknesses and how to exploit them. He thought of the tools from the last convoy; they would be useful. They could build bigger and stronger things with them.
Garren lumbered over, scratching his belly. His heavy boots scuffed the ground.
"The Vaelgard patrols here," he grunted, jabbing a thick finger at a winding path. "Twice a week, always at dusk. And it consists of a handful of riders."
His information was crude, but it was still raw data. Aerion absorbed it, etching it into the dirt. It added to his growing picture.
"And the villages?" Aerion asked in a flat voice.
Eana's eyes met his, and her voice was flat too. "They are loyal and won't help us. They do fear the Vaelgard, but they also fear change."
"They will," Aerion said in a low voice, his tone chillingly certain. "When they have no other choice."
He drew a circle around a cluster of small marks. These were villages. He knew their names, their people, and their fears. He had seen them in Aerion's broken memories.
Then, a memory surfaced, of simple people who lived quiet lives, who had done no wrong.
Aerion smeared the map with his boot, trying to make the memory fade. A cold calm settled over him.
These people were just pieces on a board. He would move them, break them, or use them as he pleased.
He would exploit their loyalty to their empire. He would open their eyes, or he would close them forever. He weighed the risks and the gains of both options.
The Vaelgard were strong, but their control was fragile in the deep valleys. This was a chance to test his ability to break something from the inside, not with a blade against a soldier, but with fear against common folk.
***
They rode at dusk, when the sky blended into night.
Aerion led. His mount's hooves crushed the brittle grass. Behind him, the others followed like shadows.
The air grew colder, and the sounds of the wilderness were hushed. They rode silently through rough terrain. The only sound was the soft creak of leather and the steady breathing of the animals.
Kairos felt the cold mountain wind on his face. It sharpened his senses, pressing against the internal fire that pulsed constantly within him, reminding him of the power he wielded.
Then, a child's laughter drifted on the wind. Faint at first, then growing clearer. His grip on the reins tightened.
A village nestled in the valley lay ahead. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of roasting meat carried on the wind.
It smelled of home, of peace. The distant hum of voices reached them, simple sounds of ordinary life.
Garren grinned and hefted his axe. His face was grim, his eyes hard. "Easy pickings," he grunted in a low voice, filled with rough eagerness.
Eana said nothing, but her fingers tapped the hilt of her dagger. Once. Twice. Her small face remained still, but her eyes watched Aerion, waiting for his command.
Ryn shuddered slightly behind them and drew deeper into his worn cloak. Mira held the child close. Both remained silent. They knew better than to speak.
Aerion exhaled slowly, listening to a voice within his head. And the visions resurfaced, about the people that were living in the village.
"Don't."
The plea came from the body's true owner, sharp, filled with desperation.
For a heartbeat, just one, Aerion hesitated.
The familiar ache in his bones sharpened, and the cold fury of the dragon rose within him. He felt pure hatred for the world that had allowed his fall.
Aerion's plea was a mere whisper against Kairos's immense power. It was a pathetic attempt to hold him back. But he had made his decision.
Then, he kicked his horse forward. The animal surged, pulling him toward the warm lights of the village.
The scent of food grew stronger.
Aerion pressed on.
***
Later, the fires burned low. The air stank of iron and charred flesh. Kairos stood at the edge of the village square, blood dripping from his hands and armor.
The distant sounds of crying children and the groans of the dying broke the silence.
"They won't forget this." Eana's voice was flat, emotionless. She wiped her blade clean on a corpse's shirt while looking at the ruined homes and the broken bodies scattered around.
"Good," Aerion said coldly.
Garren laughed and kicked over a bucket of well water. It sloshed across the dirt, mixing with the blood. His face was grim, but a new flicker of light burned in his eyes. He was beyond fear now. He was part of it.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, then spat onto the ground, watching the dark stain soak into the dirt.
The voices inside Aerion's head were silent now, and he smiled, a thin, cold twist of his lips. Deep satisfaction was written in that smile. He was just getting started.
The village was quiet now, except for the embers that still glowed in the wreckage.
He looked at the few villagers still alive. Their hands trembling, their faces were pale, and their eyes wide with terror.