Chapter 4: Ash Feeds the Root

The wind coming off the Ironreach cliffs had teeth.

Thorne stood at the edge of the battlements, cloak heavy with frost, watching the sun drag itself up through a haze of smoke and cloud. From up here, the city looked like it was still burning. Maybe it was.

Below, his soldiers were rebuilding what they'd broken. Stone by stone. Wall by wall. They'd razed the old rule to the ground—now they had to survive what rose in its place.

She didn't flinch once, he thought, jaw clenched. Even as she lied, she meant every word.

Selene Varrow had left two nights ago, vanishing down the pass like a shadow sliding back into a bottle. She'd said nothing as she rode out—just a glance. Cool. Knowing.

She still knows how to make me hesitate. That's her weapon, not the blade at her hip.

Behind him, boots scuffed against stone.

Riven Sol approached, hood drawn low, cloak frayed from long travel. Riven always moved like he was trying to stay unseen—even in plain sight. He carried secrets like other men carried steel.

"She was scouting," Riven said without preamble. "Not just posturing."

Thorne didn't turn. "What did she take?"

"Three guards' patterns. Our grain counts. And the name of whoever's feeding us weapons out of the Black Straits."

Thorne exhaled slowly. Not surprise—confirmation.Of course she took it. She doesn't need keys to open doors. She just walks through them like they were always hers.

"Do you want her hunted?"

Thorne finally turned. "Not yet. Let her return. Let him think I swallowed the bait."

Riven nodded, but didn't leave. He waited, eyes searching. "And if she comes back?"

Thorne looked past him, over the scorched rooftops and smoke-choked sky.

"If she comes back," he said, voice flat, "she'll be carrying either an offer… or a knife."

Meanwhile — High Ridge, South of Ironreach

Vael Corren sat beneath a half-dead tree, staring at the map he'd drawn into the dirt with a stick. His horse chewed bark nearby, and a half-finished bottle of wine sat beside him.

"You going to sell him out?" asked Taren Mourn, crouching beside him.

Vael smiled faintly. "Not yet. I want to see if he builds something worth stealing first."

Taren gave a low chuckle, then stood. "You're going to get your throat opened if you wait too long."

"Maybe," Vael said. He looked down at the map again.

Then, to no one: Or maybe I'm the only one here who remembers this isn't a war—it's a game. And I never bet until I see the last card fall.