Chapter 124: A Whisper in the Wind

The rain hadn't stopped for hours.

It was a cold, biting rain that seeped into bones and eroded spirits. The villagers moved like ghosts through the muddy streets, fixing shattered roofs, burying the dead, nursing the wounded.

But underneath the surface of rebuilding, tension thrived like mold.

The mercenaries — the ones who had come smiling with promises of strength — now moved through Ashford like predators in a cage too small. They demanded food. They took what they pleased. Fights broke out daily.

And Elias?

He felt like he was trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.

---

Kaelen had been the first to openly voice what everyone else was thinking.

"They'll kill us in our sleep if it suits them," he said one night, tossing a knife into the dirt at his feet. His usually calm face was tight with suppressed rage. "You know it, Elias."

Sophia, sitting by the flickering fire, nodded grimly. "They're not allies. They're vultures."

Elias raked a hand through his rain-dampened hair, frustration etched deep into the lines of his face. He had aged in these three days. His youthful idealism had been battered down to a thin, stubborn core of grim determination.

"They're dangerous," he admitted. "But if we act too soon, we'll start a war we can't win."

Sophia leaned forward, eyes intense. "Then we find the ones who can still be reasoned with. Split them apart. Turn their greed against them."

Kaelen smirked humorlessly. "That sounds more like something I'd suggest. Maybe you're finally learning."

Sophia shrugged. "Desperate times."

And they were desperate.

Supplies were low. Morale was lower. Hope — real hope — was bleeding out fast.

---

That evening, a strange thing happened.

As Elias patrolled the outskirts, he found himself joined by one of the mercenaries — a woman he hadn't paid much attention to before.

She was smaller than the others, wiry, with a sharp, fox-like face and short black hair slicked to her scalp by the rain. Her skin was copper-brown, and her eyes were quick, darting, never resting.

Name: Mira Valen

Age: 28

Profession: Scout, tracker, thief when necessary

Attitude: Wry, cunning, calculating, yet oddly loyal once she decides you're worth it

Flaws: Deeply cynical, greedy, a survivor first, trusts almost no one

Without invitation, Mira fell into step beside Elias.

"You look like a man carrying too many stones," she said, tone light but edged.

Elias didn't answer immediately.

Finally, he muttered, "Maybe because I am."

Mira chuckled, a dry, almost musical sound.

"I like this village," she said after a moment. "It's stubborn. Bleeds but doesn't die. Reminds me of home."

Elias side-eyed her. "And where's that?"

She shrugged. "Gone. Like most good things."

He studied her for a beat longer, then asked bluntly, "Why are you really here?"

Mira smiled, all teeth. "Survival, same as you."

But there was something else in her eyes — a flicker of something rawer, deeper.

Maybe — just maybe — an ally hidden among enemies.

---

Later that night, huddled in the half-ruined chapel that now served as their council room, Elias made his decision.

"We can't wait anymore," he said. His voice didn't rise, but it filled the space with steel. "They'll eat us alive."

Kaelen's mouth quirked into something between a smirk and a snarl. He'd been waiting for this.

Sophia straightened, fire flashing in her stormy gray eyes. "What's the plan?"

Elias leaned over the map spread across the altar.

"We sow distrust among them. Feed their greed. Turn them on each other. Mira—" he hesitated, then said it anyway, "—might help."

Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Trusting a snake?"

Elias shook his head. "No. Using a snake to bite another."

Outside, the rain pounded the broken stones.

Inside, plans were laid — plans that would either save Ashford...

Or finish it.

---

At that very moment, miles to the north, in the cold marble halls of King Aldred's court, a messenger knelt before the throne.

"My lord," he gasped, soaked and mud-splattered from hard riding. "Ashford still resists."

The king, lounging with a goblet of dark wine in hand, smiled.

"Ashford," he mused aloud. "How quaint."

He motioned to a figure standing in the shadows — tall, broad-shouldered, armored in black and crimson.

"Prepare my champion," he said lazily.

The figure stepped forward.

A man — or monster — known across the kingdom as The Butcher of Baelen's Cross.

Where he walked, no survivors remained.

Ashford had survived kingsmen, mercenaries, and betrayal.

But soon, it would face something far, far worse.

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