Milan arrived in a very different forest.The place was dead. The trees stood naked, stripped bare as if a harsh winter had swallowed every leaf. Scattered all around were shallow pits filled with black, stagnant water. The soldiers were nothing but charred armor and ash.
Milan moved among the remains, unbothered by the stench of burned flesh. Freniud walked at his side, eyes narrowed, boots crunching over scorched bones. Serra stayed behind with what little was left of their men—her face pale, hands trembling.
"What the hell happened here?" Freniud muttered, crouching to brush ash off a cracked helmet.
Milan didn't answer at first. He nudged a breastplate with his boot, eyes scanning the dead grove.
"This is what you claim you don't want to believe.Feniurd"
Freniud frowned..
"Fire did this. Why wouldn't I believe it?"
"Ekatulia is far from here," Milan said without looking at him. "Even if she were at the camp, she'd be nowhere near this place. Something I don't know is wandering these woods."
Freniud spat on the ground. "You've got a child's imagination. I can't assume what I can't see."
"That's your problem, Freniud," Milan shot back. "And I don't want to hear it again."
Freniud crouched near one of the black pools, dipping a finger into the foul water. "If you want my opinion—some fire tore through here, burned everything alive. But this…" He gestured at the pits. "This doesn't add up."
Milan folded his arms. "It means someone walks this land and the land does not know them. Everything they touch rots. Wherever they step, they leave their mark behind."
Freniud snorted. "We can't chase every stray flame in these woods. Some fool probably left his campfire burning. The blaze did the rest."
Milan glared at him. "Don't be a fool, Freniud. Look at your men. This wasn't nature. This wasn't man. They tried to fight—and found something they couldn't name."
Behind them, Serra shivered. Freniud glanced at her, then leaned closer to Milan. "If we take her back to camp, I won't promise they won't have their way with her. The men are hungry for women. Better we send her to the convent first."
"She stays with me," Milan said sharply. "The convent's in Galomé. I need rest. The king wants answers when I execute the prisoners."
Freniud scoffed. "The king wants answers but sends his witnesses to die. Makes no sense."
"Ekatulia has a lot to explain."
Freniud tilted his head, his voice dripping with scorn. "Tell me, Milan. How do you plan to pull confessions from someone with no tongue to speak?"
The priest's lips curled into a faint smile. "A trick I learned from an old friend."
Hooves thundered in the distance. Fifteen riders broke through the trees, their armor clattering. At the head rode Kletus—the young captain, clean-shaven, long blond hair tied behind his shoulders. He placed a hand to his chest when he saw Milan and Freniud, then glanced at Serra, who shrank behind the remaining soldiers.
"I see you brought cargo," Kletus said, nodding toward Serra.
Milan stepped closer. "Do you know what happened here?"
Kletus took a breath. "The last survivor killed himself. They found him in his tent, sword through his chest. Before he died, he claimed two people a man and a women—attacked them. The guy carried a dagger and managed to wound some of our men. The girl… she used some kind of black powder. Said it ate through skin like acid. That boy who killed himself still had the powder burning through his flesh. He couldn't stand it. ."
Freniud barked out a harsh laugh. "Instead of bread, you gulp wine, Kletus. You're drunk."
"I don't know what's happening," the captain muttered, ignoring Freniud. "But I doubt this girl could turn an entire forest to ashes."
Freniud gestured at Milan with a mocking grin. "According to our priest here, it's just another day."
Kletus scanned the charred branches. "I swear by my rank—something walks this place. Something marked by the devil."
Milan sighed. "I fear you're right Captain."
"My men are searching for these two," Kletus added.
"Call them back," Milan ordered. "No one leaves the camp until I speak with the witch."
Kletus squared his shoulders. "Begging your pardon, your Holiness, but I was ordered—"
Milan stepped closer, his tone ice. "I was ordered to execute everyone in the camp. The king's demands. Do you want to defy the crown, Captain?"
Freniud let out a low chuckle, stepping up to Kletus. "Tell me, fool—what did you do with the prisoners?"
Kletus didn't flinch. "I obeyed. Rounded up anyone who might know something about the attack. I concluded that if this boy exists, he's the same bastard who struck at the royal carriage. I'm not as stupid as you, Freniud."
Steel rasped as Freniud's hand found his sword. Kletus mirrored him. Both men glared, teeth bared.
"Try it," Kletus hissed.
Milan raised his hand, tired. "Kill each other if you must. At least the king will know neither of you is worth his trust."
The swords stayed drawn a heartbeat longer. Then, reluctantly, both men sheathed them. Milan mounted his horse.
"Enough childish games. Cross me again, and I'll have you executed alongside the prisoners—for treason."
They rode on in silence, leaving the dead grove behind. Serra clutched her cloak tighter, trailing after Milan's horse as dusk bled into the sky.
Minutes crawled by before they reached the camp — a broad clearing cluttered with tents. Soldiers milled about in twos and threes, eating or washing at barrels rigged from wine casks. Some lay half-asleep under the trees, boots off, blades close. Bamboo cages lined up like cattle pens. Close to two thousand men filled the space, voices and smoke mixing in the dusk.
When they reached the largest tent, a bed, a single chair, and a round table were carried inside. He dropped onto the mattress, sweat glistening on his brow. She stayed standing, hands clasped.
Freniud pushed through the flap without knocking.
"You didn't tell me there was a kid among the prisoners."
She flinched at the sound. "They'll spare the child, won't they?"
He didn't answer her. His tone was dry as he waved Freniud away. "See that the soldiers are ready. The moment darkness falls — it ends."
Freniud grunted, cursing under his breath as he left. Serra sank into a corner, hugging her knees, eyes heavy with dread.
"Don't worry about the child," he said, glancing at her. "She'll be brought here. She'll stay with you — for now. But don't ask me for promises."
A sliver of hope softened her eyes.
Out by the cages, Freniud lingered. His eyes landed on the girl — hair a bird's nest of yellow, feet bare in the dirt. The old woman slept behind her, snoring. Molava , bruised but proud, watched him through the bamboo slats, eyes sharp. She pushed herself up, wincing.
"The stink's worse than yesterday. Makes sense — filth like you always arrive before the smell does. Molava referring to Freniud.
He bared his teeth in a grin. "Glad to see you chipper. Maybe you'll grin just as wide when they drop your head in the ditch."
She smiled back, cold. "I'll dream of your city burning. That'll keep me warm in the ground."
His gaze shifted to the girl. She met it without blinking.
"They told me there was a girl here, not some feral beast."
The child's voice was acid. "A beast that eats soldier meat. You taste like spoiled pig, I bet."
A low laugh rattled her throat. Molava smile.
"Pity," he said, eyes narrowing. "Almost thought I'd spare you. But you're both gutter filth. Freniud said
She cocked her head. "Says the mongrel hiding behind bamboo sticks."
."Funny. You killed a man when they caught you. They say you handle a blade like a Roman. Show me."
Two guards hauled her out, shoving her ahead. Soon enough, a circle of soldiers formed on an open field, hungry for blood. She slipped through the ring, eyes fixed ahead, seeing Molava armored in battered scraps, head high.
Freniud stepped forward, sword in hand. "Roman steel. But you're no Roman."
"You know nothing about me. You're a stray dog like them. Do they muzzle you too, or do you bark on command?. Molava smile.
Freniud threw the blade at her feet. "Every beast bows at my feet. Pick it up. Crawl if you have to, mutt."
She flicked the sword aside with her foot, laughter rippling through the men. Then she crouched, picked it up herself..
"Be grateful," he said. "I gave you what you wanted."
She spat in the dirt. "I'd rather drink cobra venom, wash it with hemlock, be crucified twice — than thank you, forest vermin."
He ignored her and turned to Kletus standing nearby. "Pick one of yours. End her."
"Milan wouldn't approve."
"You think I care? Milan's neck deep in his own shit."
"Then I'll do it myself," Kletus said. "She killed one of mine. She'll die by my sword."
"Careful, Captain. Don't flatter yourself — this thing knows no honor."
"Then she'll die without it."
He drew steel, stepping in. She braced — one foot forward, one back, blade lifted overhead, point to the sky. She lunged first, swing at his head. He blocked, slammed his boot into her ribs. She rolled, spitting blood. Again she came. Again he beat her down. The ring of soldiers hooted with every fall. Freniud watched, bored.
She lifted the sword once more.
"Enough games," Kletus said. "You're ready to die now."
She held, waiting.
"Changed your mind?" he taunted. "Fine. I'm coming to you."
He stepped — she lunged. Blade feinted high, slipped low, kissed his cheek with steel. Blood burst hot across his face. He roared, swinging wild. Steel bit her back, her arm, her thigh. She fell, gasping.
Kletus raised his blade for the final cut — but Freniud caught his wrist.
"You're leaking red all over. Go fix it."
"After I finish her. Out of my way."
Freniud leaned close. "Don't be stupid."
Past Kletus's shoulder, the priest watched. Face like a storm. Freniud barked an order — the guards dragged her away.
Back in Milan's tent. Freniud and Milan meet again
"My word means nothing to you?"..Milan is furious.
Freniud crossed his arms. "Only meant to scare her."
"Don't let it happen again. She'll die properly. Your games aren't my concern."
"As you wish."Silence crackled between them.
"Tonight, gather them all. The women die. The girl — the king decides."
A soft voice rose from the corner. "You should beg him to spare her." Serra said.
Both men turned. "Your opinion isn't needed. My hands are as tied as yours. Back to your work."Milan demanded.
Freniud waited, jaw tight. The priest's voice was flat. I sent a plea for the child — but pleading means little to a king."
"Cowardice," Freniud spat. "Call it what it is." He stormed out.
"That savage — knows nothing but hate.. Tell Safris he's wrong, he'll prove you wrong in blood. ."
Serra folded cloth in her lap. "That's why you'd send me away."
"To the convent. Far from this filth. No stain can reach you there. Your father's name still shields you — even Safris remembers that. But your blood runs wide. Brothers, sisters you've never met. If one is guilty, you all hang. But you — in the convent — you live."
A breath, honest and small: "Forgive me… since I was a girl I dreamed of silk halls and royal duties. I'll wear the cloth with pride. But I can't kill that dream."
"Time will bury it, child."
She smiled faintly, watching him scribble letters to men who'd never care.
"That woman out there — I think she wants to live. But hate keeps her chained. Do you think something happened — something to make her hate Fondeur so deeply?"
"Everyone has a wound," he said without looking up. "Not everyone finds ears to listen. Now — finish your work. Night comes fast."
. "Yes, Your Holiness."
Rain beat the cages in thick sheets. Freniud crouched, pushing bread and broth through the bars. The girl grabbed for it, but the older woman stopped her, glaring.
"You'd drink poison if I gave it to you, wouldn't you?" he said. "But you care for her — so you watch every bite."
He took the bowl, sipped it himself, shoved it back. The woman looked at the girl — who snatched the food quick as a rat.
"Got your senses back just in time," he murmured. "Kletus nearly turned you into mud.
She sneered. "Be useful, then. Tell me his face is rotting off." Molava said.
I think your girl will hang. Freniud looking at Miera.
"She doesn't fear it. Talks to death like an old friend. Look for a child — you stupid filth.
"Funny. Beast calls me filth. Freniud smile.
"Funny — filth calling anything filthy."Molava smiled back.
He barked a laugh.
Her eyes glittered. "Tell me — you his dog? Or do they keep you leashed for fun?"
He stiffened — she rose, slow, grinning wider.
"Big armor. Empty skull. Nothing to your name. They dump you here 'cause you're too dumb to die proper."
The slap cracked. She hit the mud. Laughed anyway.
The storm hammered on. Inside, Serra sat alone on the single chair, watching him lean into the shadows.
"If you'll forgive me…" Her voice was careful, soft. "God proposes. We obey. He plays, and we pretend we're righteous. If you doubt which side the scale tips tonight — remember this: you only think of God when you need a guide. If you fear His wrath… your heart is still near Him."
. "Wise words. Wasted on this filthy place. You dream of being a royal lady — but God dreams better." Milan said.
Light flickered in her eyes. "Thank you. For guiding me."
He studied her face a long moment. "Your father told me once he filled your head with ideas so you'd never lean on another soul. Fondeur's finest philosophers taught you. He made sure of it."
She didn't flinch from the memory. "He was a true philosopher. Loved books more than men. He served you, but he always wanted more — so he made me his last thought. That's why I read. I lived in the library — every word was a prayer. My teachers are gone now. The books stay. This generation doesn't care for truth."
A flicker of pride crossed Milan's eyes. "You're a voice of memory in a world drowning in lies."
"That's why I'd rather live in old words than drown in new ones. Serra said with pride.
He leaned back, . "Then tell me — speak of our empire. This new age."
She rose and began to pace, robes brushing the damp earth floor like a scholar at the lectern. "Safris sits the throne. Four heirs — two by his queen: Grecia and Gigna. Perfect royal blood. Nivia and Marcus are the others — Nivia, the daughter of a royal lady . Marcus, son of a woman they called a prostitute — executed for her trouble."
She caught herself, hand to her mouth. "Forgive me. Rumors." Serra is now afraid
"Truth is truth. Say it." Milan smiled.
She forced herself to go on. "Six clans: Murmulla, Gentú, Esparza, Galomé, Fondeur, Protis. Fondeur in the center — Rome at its hip, our shield and sword. The others guard the coasts. Protis stands alone — border to Turkey, half Greek, half traitor. Turkey came once for our soil. The Pope carved peace from blood. But Protis clings to Turkey's breast — enemy in name, Greek by claim. I don't know how they endure."
His tone slipped in, gentle but sharp. "And the invasion? Safris' crown?"
"When the Turks came, Safris called for the clans. Only Galomé answered. The rest wanted him dead — new crown, new king. He was just a prince then, father on death's door. Betrayal bloomed like mold. He had twenty thousand. The Turks had eight hundred thousand. So he hid in the forests. Archers bled them, vanished like smoke. Days turned to months. No victory — just a slow bleed. Rumors broke the Turks — Rome would marry its steel to our blood. They said Gigna would wed Otis, Rome's general. Turkey fled. The rumor was false — but truth followed. Gigna did marry Otis. She was only a child."
Amusement glinted in his eyes
. "You admire wisdom."Milan Said
A blush stained her cheeks. "And Safris — king by dawn."
"After the war, he turned. Broke the other clans with Rome and Galomé at his side. Fondeur crowned itself Greece. The rest bent the knee. Nivia rules Murmulla. Marcus,Gentú. Grecia Galomé. Esparza spared — proof we can show mercy. Their princess is the only one of them not bound by Fondeur's blood."
"And Protis?"
She paused at the tent's flap, thunder rolling behind her. "Smallest clan. Never kneels. First to open the gates when the Turks came. Claimed by Turkey — but they swear they're Greek. I don't understand how they stand at all."
His voice cut her still. "If you were royal — whom would you serve?"
She stepped close, the truth quiet but sharp. "Grecia."
He laughed once — . "Grecia? Good thing I pushed you away from that path."
"Nivia's a shadow. Gigna's the king's favorite. Sagraria promises freedom yet would be first to be executed. But Grecia — Grecia is the empire. Her name is the nation. She commands half the army. Power beats in her veins."
He let out a sigh, old and heavy.
"There's no worse enemy than your own blood. Father and daughter — each hungry for the same throne. That's why I say it again: the convent was right for you. Safris knows well — his own child is his greatest threat."
A wet gust hit the flap. Freniud pushed through..
"It's ready. We wait for your word."