Night fell without stars.
Vale House crouched in shadow, torches doused, the sky hanging low and gray. No one slept. Armor whispered in corners, steel caught brief sparks from lanterns, and every window flickered with the ghost of firelight quickly snuffed out.
Elma stood in the old armory, running a whetstone down her blade. The sound was steady—shhh, shhh, shhh—like a heartbeat refusing to quicken. The shard burned faintly under her ribs, not angry this time, but alert.
Strike first, it murmured.
Calista entered, hood drawn, a small roll of parchment in her hand. "The scouts returned. He's camped near the riverbend with forty men. They think he'll move by dawn."
"Then we move before that," Elma said.
Calista nodded, unrolling the map on a cracked table. "He has walls of his own—wagons circled, torches every ten paces. But his left flank is exposed, here." She tapped the parchment. "If we hit from the ridge and burn the wagons, he'll have nowhere to retreat."
Elma studied her face. "You already planned this."
"I've been planning since the moment he rode away."
Elma smiled faintly. "That's why I love you."
Calista didn't return the smile, but her hand brushed Elma's briefly. "Then live long enough to say it again."
They rode out under the half-moon. Twenty riders, cloaked and silent, each carrying torches bound in oil cloth. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke. Ahead, the valley lay dark—until the faint glow of enemy fire began to shimmer against the water.
Elma dismounted at the ridge and crouched low. From here, she could see them clearly: a cluster of tents, wagons forming a rough square, and the Warlord's black horse tied near the center.
The shard thrummed louder. He's close. Burn him. Burn it all.
She steadied her breath. "Not yet."
Calista joined her, hand light on Elma's shoulder. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not proving," Elma said. "I'm warning."
At her signal, the first torch flared. Flames licked high, catching dry grass, racing down the slope toward the camp below. Within seconds, shouts broke the silence.
"Archers," Elma hissed.
A volley of arrows rained down from the ridge. Fire followed. The wagons lit up like lanterns, smoke spiraling into the night.
Below, men scrambled—some grabbing water, others swords—but the confusion spread faster than order. Horses broke free. The camp dissolved into panic.
Then she saw him.
The Warlord stood in the chaos, unarmored, cloak thrown back, face illuminated by fire. He didn't run. He didn't even shout. He simply raised his hand, and for a heartbeat, the flames nearest him bent away—like wind pushed them aside.
Elma froze. The shard pulsed violently, answering something in him.
He carries a mirror of me, it whispered.
The Warlord's eyes lifted toward the ridge—toward her. Even from that distance, she felt the weight of his gaze, sharp and knowing. He smiled, slow and deliberate.
Then a sudden crack split the night—an explosion of light as one of their own torches ignited a barrel too early. The blast threw Elma backward, dirt filling her mouth, ears ringing.
"Elma!" Calista's voice cut through the haze. She grabbed her by the shoulders, hauling her upright. "We have to fall back—now!"
Elma blinked through the smoke. The camp was chaos again, but the Warlord still stood untouched amid the fire, his men regrouping around him. The message was clear: he wasn't broken, only awakened.
She spat dirt, tasting blood. "So be it."
They retreated up the ridge, fires crackling behind them.
By dawn, Vale House was alive again—men shouting, tending burns, hauling buckets from the well. The air stank of smoke and victory that wasn't quite one.
Calista leaned against the wall, bandaging her arm. "We hurt them. Burned half their stores. But he didn't chase us."
"He's not finished," Elma said quietly. "He wanted to see how far we'd go."
Calista tied the cloth off and met her eyes. "Then what now?"
Elma's gaze turned toward the horizon where faint smoke still rose from the riverbend. "Now we stop running plans through fear. We bring the fight to him—on our ground."
Calista studied her for a moment. "You sound like Nitron."
Elma shook her head. "Nitron fought to keep power. I'm fighting so no one owns it again."
The shard pulsed, not in hunger, but in agreement.
Calista reached for her hand. "Then let's make him believe this place is cursed before he ever sets foot inside it."
Elma's mouth curved, the first true smile in days. "Let's make him know."
Outside, the sun climbed through the smoke, red and sharp as a wound. The drums hadn't started yet—but the air already carried their promise.
The first flame had been lit.