Road of Knives
The glen was too quiet.
That was the first clue.
The second was the mule: its reins cut, saddle gone, hind leg twitching in the dust. It had been looted and left behind to suffer.
That meant the ambush had already started.
Darin had only five men with him. One was a drunk. One had never held formation steel.
None of them outranked him.
But they all looked at him.
And he understood, in that moment, that rank doesn't matter when knives are already out.
He moved.
Not with noise—not with orders.
He pointed. Gestured. Tapped once on Harl's shoulder, twice on Dren's wrist. He used rock signs, glen-speak—the old poacher signs his uncle once used back near the orchards.
They spread.
The first enemy was hidden behind the low root shelf.
He wasn't armored. Just a bandit with a noble ring on a string and desperation in his eyes.
Darin didn't hesitate.
He dropped to one knee, flung his belt knife in a tight arc—and when the man flinched, Dren speared him from behind.
Clean. Quiet.
No scream.
Just dust.
The second group didn't go so quietly.
They rushed the forward wagon, yelling something about "justice," about "food," about "no tax from graves."
That made it worse.
It meant they weren't just bandits.
They were locals.
By the time it was over, two of Darin's five were bleeding. One died.
But the wagons were intact.
And every man who walked back that morning walked closer to him than to the ranking officer waiting with the tally scroll.
Raive met him with a long look.
"You broke four protocols."
Darin didn't reply.
"You disobeyed formation order, skipped return signal, gave field command without writ—"
Darin nodded.
Then tossed down the looted noble ring, blood still wet on the chain.
Raive stared at it.
Then said, "Good."