Chapter 20: Secret Missives and Seeds of Doubt

The damp chill of the old cellar beneath the ruins of an abandoned barn crept into my bones. It was the best temporary hideout we could find after the devastating loss and utter failure of our assault on the military outpost. A single oil lantern flickered dimly, casting a wavering glow over the pale, exhausted faces of the few survivors huddled in the corners—less than half of what we once were. The air was thick with the scent of earth, mildew, cheap herbal poultices, and the faint metallic tang of blood still fresh from some of our wounds. The heaviness of despair hung so thick it choked the breath from our lungs.

I leaned back against the icy stone wall, eyes fixed on the dancing flame without purpose. My body still ached from wounds both old and new. My ribs, once crushed by an enchanted mace, protested with every sudden movement. But the pain inside, the ache of the heart, was far worse. Images haunted me—comrades falling amidst the chaos, screams cut short, the panic in their eyes when our magical defenses crumbled like dry leaves. That shameful defeat played over and over in my mind, each cycle a blow to my pride, a reminder of my failure as a leader.

The fury I felt toward old Thorn still burned like hellfire, but now it was laced with bitterness and a gnawing suspicion. Who? Who was the traitor? Why had their defenses been so impossibly tight? How had they known our attack route? And most crucially... why had the magic we'd been relying on faltered so catastrophically at the key moment? The energy shield that should've withstood their assault vanished like a soap bubble. My suspicion turned to Seraphina Vanya—the noble-born spellcaster. Was her magic merely ornamental? Or had she weakened it on purpose? Or perhaps someone within our ranks sabotaged her enchantment? The thought twisted in my gut, made me want to slam my fists into the wall until the doubt stopped screaming.

But then my thoughts circled back to another name—the one that boiled my blood most of all—Elara Meadowlight. That meddlesome scholar! Hatred surged so sharply that my fists clenched of their own accord. Ever since she showed up, things had gone from bad to worse. She prowled the forests, claiming to be some guardian of nature, acting like the woods belonged to her alone—when they were ours! This land, this forest—it was the legacy, the pride, the birthright of House Stonehand, stolen by tyrants!

She rambled on about balance, energy, the "spirit of the wild," as if any of that mattered while my people bled in the mud. We were fighting for something real—land, vengeance, survival. What had she done of any real value? Hiding like a woodland beast, poring over dusty tomes, gathering "evidence" that no court would ever recognize. Her ways were weak, cowardly. She had no idea what it meant to lose everything. No sense of the rage that comes from being trampled underfoot. She viewed the world through the lens of a comfortable scholar, not a warrior who knew the stink of blood and the taste of dirt.

Maybe she was the reason for our defeat. Maybe she gave Thorn information—by accident, or worse… on purpose. The thought festered like poison in my heart.

I was drowning in a whirlpool of dark thoughts and seething fury when soft footsteps echoed on the cellar stairs. Old Borin descended quietly, eyes somber as he took in our wretched state. He walked over to me and held out a small roll of parchment sealed with deep blue wax, stamped with the image of a hawk clutching an olive branch—an unfamiliar crest, but one that radiated old power.

"Someone sent this for you," he whispered. "They said it's from your… 'ally.' The same one as before."

My brow furrowed as I took the scroll, my heart sinking deeper into the mire. The same ally—the one who offered help before, the one who warned me about Elara. The one whose offer I accepted out of desperation laced with distrust. This was their first message since our crushing defeat. Did they still want to work with us? Or was this some cruel gloat?

Carefully, more carefully than before, I broke the wax and unrolled the fine parchment. The handwriting was as elegant as ever—but this time it carried urgency and a sharper edge:

> To the Leader of Stonehand,

I grieve for your loss and that of your followers. This costly lesson proves how ruthless our enemy is—and how deeply their eyes have infiltrated every corner. I hope you now understand: charging in blind, without precise intelligence and meticulous planning, is no better than walking into the abyss.

Nevertheless, I still believe in your courage—reckless though it may be—and I still see you as the only true counterforce to the tyrant Thorn. (Certainly not that starry-eyed academic.)

Thus, I reaffirm my previous offer. The first shipment of aid will arrive soon. Expect:

- Lightly enchanted steel weapons (swords, axes, arrowheads—enough for your remaining force)

- Dry rations and basic medicine, sufficient for two weeks

- A detailed map of the outer military encampments, including weaknesses and guard rotations

These will be stashed at the ruins of the old watchtower west of Oakhaven Village on the night of the dark moon—three nights from now. Send only one person you trust most, at midnight sharp. No followers. Tell no one unnecessary. Be vigilant—the enemy watches.

I hope this aid proves my sincerity, and that you use it wisely. Be patient. Wait for the right moment. Do not strike in haste.

The best revenge is one delivered cold—and with certainty.

P.S. I've received troubling intelligence regarding Meadowlight's recent movements. She seems to be tampering with some… force deep in the forest, using questionable methods. Trust her at your peril. She may be more dangerous than we thought.

—Your Ally

My pulse quickened as I finished reading. A torrent of emotions surged through me: excitement at the promise of real, tangible aid—weapons! food! intelligence!—tempered by the wariness of such a covert delivery method. And, yes, a grim satisfaction that my ally still viewed Elara as a threat—now with even more troubling news to justify it.

The old watchtower ruins… I knew the place well. Isolated. Forgotten. But easy to ambush. Sending someone alone on the night of the dark moon—it was either a test of trust or a trap.

My gaze swept the dim room once more, studying each survivor. Who could I trust now, after what we'd been through? Trust had become precious—rare.

Old Borin? Loyal, yes—but too old for a mission that demanded stealth and agility. The others? I knew too little of them. And some… I trusted even less.

Then my thoughts landed on Leon. The quiet fisherman. A master of stealth and short blades. He'd fought alongside us from the beginning—and had come out of our last skirmish without a scratch, thanks more to wits than strength. He rarely spoke, but there was a steady loyalty in his eyes. Of all of them, he seemed the best choice.

"Leon," I said softly.

The fisherman looked up from the shadows, his grey eyes meeting mine, alert.

"I have a mission for you," I said, steadying my voice. "A dangerous one. But vital—for all of us."

I beckoned him closer, handed him the secret letter, and began explaining the plan with all the clarity my weary mind could muster. Accepting help from this mysterious "ally" was another gamble—but this time, I felt like we might finally have a card in our hand.

Whether that card led to victory—or to a ruin deeper than before—remained to be seen.