The next morning, Aron and Lina moved with care, keeping off the main road. The land was too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant danger.
The air smelled of burnt wood. Every so often, Aron would see the black smoke of a ruined farm or a village that had not survived the Puppet Master's rise.
"Do you think anyone still fights him?" Aron asked as they walked through a field of dead grass.
Lina kept her eyes sharp on the horizon. "Some do. Small bands. Hidden groups. But they're scattered. Afraid."
Aron shook his head. "That's what he wants — for us to be afraid, to hide. We should stand and fight."
Lina gave a bitter laugh. "With what? Our bare hands?"
Aron fell silent. His fists clenched at his sides.
---
By midday, they reached the edge of a small village. The houses were simple, made of wood and stone. Chickens clucked in the empty streets. No people. No sound but the wind.
"Stonehill," Lina whispered.
It felt like a ghost town.
They moved carefully, checking for signs of life. Then they saw it — a mark painted in black on the wall of the largest house. The shape of a broken crown.
"The Puppet Master's sign," Lina said, her voice low.
Aron felt sick. "What does it mean?"
"It means his men came here. Took what they wanted. Left this as a warning."
---
Suddenly, from one of the houses, they heard a sound — a soft cry.
Aron drew his short blade, taken from a dead raider the night before. Lina readied her dagger. Together, they crept toward the sound.
Inside, they found an old woman sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth. Her hair was gray, her clothes torn.
"My sons… they took my sons…" she wept.
Aron knelt beside her. "Who took them?"
"The men with the masks… they came last night. Said they serve the new king. Said they needed strong hands to build his fortress."
Lina cursed under her breath.
"Which way did they go?" Aron asked.
The woman pointed east. "Toward the hills. Please… bring them back…"
---
Outside, Aron's jaw was tight with anger. "We can't leave them to that monster."
Lina grabbed his arm. "Aron, you can't fight them. Not yet. You're not ready."
"I can't just stand by!"
"And if you die? What then? The people need a leader who lives, not one who throws his life away."
Aron turned to her, his eyes burning. "Then help me. Together, we can do something. Anything."
---
Far away, in the dark hall of the ruined palace, Jaren stood at his map table. He moved a wooden token toward the hills — the mark of a new fortress rising from stone.
A soldier entered and knelt. "The prince was seen near Stonehill. He lives."
Jaren touched the cracked silver mask on his face. "Good. Let him try. The boy will learn what happens when he plays at war."
The Puppet Master smiled behind the mask. The game was going as he wished.