Southern Border of Ceredan

  Serain’s army was advancing slowly toward the settlement of Nahork. It was the second-to-last village before the kingdom of Solmar—the final strip of land that, just yesterday, had still been considered relatively safe.

  Now, only smoke remained of it.

  The settlement had been completely burned.

  The king knew it before he saw it with his own eyes — the scouts were far ahead of the main force, sending signals back. They reported black scars of charred ruins, bodies on the roads, and collapsed roofs a full day’s march away.

  These lands had not yet truly felt autumn.

  Green meadows were only beginning to turn yellow; the grass was tall and full of life, while the trees still held their summer colors. The contrast between living nature and the dead village was painful to look at.

  The army moved slowly, cautiously.

  The columns stretched out, the vanguard advancing with constant stops. The terrain was perfect for ambushes: hills, ravines, narrow approaches where even a small force could inflict serious damage.

  Nahork lay in a lowland.

  From the Ceredan side, it was visible as if laid out on a palm—blackened frames of houses, shattered fences, empty streets without movement or voices.

  Serain and Orven stood on the crest of a hill, unmoving. The wind carried the smell of ash even this far.

  “We’re almost at the border,” Serain said, not taking his eyes off the ruins. “And yet we haven’t met their army. Did they really go around us from the west?”

  Orven slowly shook his head.

  “Your scouts wouldn’t have missed them. I think they realized what they’d done… and hid in their deserts.”

  Serain clenched his jaw.

  “The sands won’t save them.”

  He nodded toward the destroyed settlement.

  “Look at it. They killed every inhabitant and burned the village to the ground. It’s utter stupidity. What did they gain from this?”

  “You know as well as I do,” Orven replied calmly, “the Palmers were never known for their intelligence.”

  The king fell silent for a moment.

  “Once, they were different. Before the war. They respected the deserts.”

  His voice grew colder.

  “They should never have taken the lands near the Black Forest.”

  Orven looked into the distance, where the horizon dissolved into haze.

  “They were searching for mines as well.”

  A pause.

  “They were just less fortunate.”

  The wind swept across the hill, and a thin ribbon of smoke rose once more over the ruins of Nahork.

  The army waited for orders.

  Nahir and Kael moved through the burned-out courtyards.

  The village had been dead for a long time.

  The bodies of the locals still lay where death had found them. They had been there for more than a month—skin blackened and bloated, split in places. Clothing had fused to flesh. The stench was so dense it could be felt even beyond the edge of the village, mixing with the smell of ash and damp earth.

  The soldiers worked in silence.

  They dug graves—fast, without talk, without wasted motion. It was work that had to be done so the land could become land again, not an open grave.

  Nahir, together with Kordain, did not hurry.

  He examined everybody before it was taken away. He bent down, pulled the clothing aside, and carefully studied the wounds, the position of the limbs, and the way each body lay.

  Kael lasted only a short while.

  By the third courtyard, he was sick. He retreated uphill to where Orven and his father stood. Up there, the wind was cleaner, and the smell of death reached them only dulled and distant.

  “I don’t understand,” Kael said, catching his breath. “Are their noses clogged, or what?”

  Orven didn’t even turn his head.

  “You get used to that smell after a few battles.”

  Kael grimaced.

  “I suppose doctors get used to it even without battles?”

  “Doctors,” Orven replied calmly, “can tell the approximate time of death just by the smell.”

  Kael fell silent for a moment, then sighed.

  “Good thing I was born into the royal family.”

  Orven finally looked at him and gave a short laugh.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s good that you understand that.”

  Down below, among the ashes, Nahir did not stop.

  He moved from body to body, attentive and methodical, as if reading a text written into dead flesh. The soldiers waited for his nod before lifting the fallen.

  “Is there something unusual?” Kordain asked when Nahir lingered over one body longer than usual.

  “There is,” Nahir replied without looking up. “All of them were killed by thrusting strikes.”

  Kordain frowned.

  “Spears?”

  “Looks like it.” Nahir straightened. “And the strikes were precise. Not chaotic.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “I think the Palmers were preparing for our cavalry.”

  Kordain nodded, committing it to memory.

  “Good. We’ll need that.”

  The wind passed over the village again, stirring ash and dry leaves.

  The dead said nothing.

  The living concluded.

  They finished the inspection and began leaving the village, climbing toward the hill where the king was waiting. Soldiers gathered their tools; some wiped their hands on their cloaks, others simply walked in silence, eyes fixed on the ground.

  Suddenly, Kordain stopped.

  He stepped aside and approached a collapsed straw wall that had once been part of a stable. Legs were visible beneath it.

  “There’s another one here,” he said without turning. “Don’t forget him.”

  He hooked the straw with his foot and kicked it aside.

  Kordain froze.

  This body was different from all the others.

  There were no visible injuries. No cuts. No punctures. No signs of a struggle.

  “Nahir,” he called quietly. “Come here. This one has no wounds.”

  Nahir was there at once.

  He crouched, studied the corpse carefully, then gently rolled it onto its back. There was no blood, neither on the clothes nor on the ground. The eyes were wide open, fixed, as if the person had died in a moment of absolute terror. The hands were pressed to the chest, fingers locked in spasm.

  “Help me,” Nahir said.

  Together with Kordain, he tried to pull the hands away—but they wouldn’t give. The muscles were rigid, the fingers seemingly grown into the fabric. They had to use force, straightening them one by one.

  Nahir cut open the shirt.

  Beneath the skin on the chest, a large dark stain showed through—a mass of clotted blood. But the surface was intact. No wound. No puncture. No sign of impact.

  Nahir stared at it for a long time, in silence.

  Then he said,

  “Physically, he was unharmed.”

  A pause.

  “The body killed itself. This was a suggestion.”

  Kordain exhaled slowly.

  “What kind?” he asked. “Can you tell?”

  Nahir nodded toward the dead man’s chest.

  “He was covering an imaginary wound with his hands. The brain was convinced the chest was damaged.”

  He spoke calmly, like a physician explaining a procedure.

  “The body tried to stop the bleeding. The vessels constricted. The heart worked at its limit.”

  Another pause.

  “And then the brain shut down when it ‘lost’ all the blood that, in reality, had never existed.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Kordain said nothing.

  Around them lay the burned-out remains of Nahork. Silent. Empty.

  “So,” he said at last, “they weren’t here with knives alone.”

  Nahir stood up.

  “No.”

  He looked toward the hill where the army was waiting.

  “And that’s far worse than spearmen.”

  The wind moved through the burned houses, stirring straw and ash.

  The body lay still.

  As if it really had died from a wound that had never existed.

  They stood in silence for a few seconds.

  The quiet was heavy, almost physical—until it was broken by a sentry hurrying in from the far side of the village.

  “Sir Nahir,” he said in a low voice. “There’s another body. No injuries. Could it be… imposed?”

  Nahir straightened slowly and looked in that direction.

  The body lay at the opposite end of the settlement.

  He moved quickly, without a word. Kordain followed.

  On the way, they passed ordinary deaths: punctures, ruptures, blunt-force trauma—everything familiar, everything expected from an attack with cold steel.

  But here the picture was different.

  The dead body lay on its back.

  Arms forced tight against the chest.

  Fingers locked in spasm, as if the person had been trying to stop massive bleeding.

  Nahir didn’t touch it at once. He already knew what he would see.

  It was an exact mirror of the previous case. The same posture. The same muscle tension. The same stillness around the body, as if even death here had been neat.

  “Like a ballista bolt,” Kordain said quietly. “Straight to the chest.”

  Nahir nodded.

  “Yes.”

  A pause.

  “Two of them. Killed the same way. Some distance apart.”

  He swept his gaze around.

  The other bodies—almost all of them—had puncture wounds. Spears. Pikes. Spiked weapons were prepared specifically against cavalry. Everything matched the enemy they had known for years.

  Except for these two.

  “And this…” Kordain spoke more slowly, “is on the border with a state whose army looks more like nomads. They only knew about Suggestors from rumors. Thought they were northern frauds.”

  Nahir straightened.

  “It seems the Palmers have found new allies.”

  He looked toward the hill where the king stood.

  “And the attack on Ceredan’s villages wasn’t just chaotic barbarism.”

  It was probing.

  Testing.

  And a demonstration of capability.

  Nahir exhaled slowly.

  Bad news awaited the king standing on the hill, staring at the ruins of Nahork.

  South of Korosten

  Rianes’s squad was coming out of the forest.

  This time, the scavengers were almost nowhere to be seen. Not like before—no shadows between the trees, no movement at the edge of vision. They were gone. As if someone had explained to them, clearly and convincingly, that this was not a place to meddle anymore.

  The forest released them reluctantly, but ahead, an open stretch was already visible, along with the direction toward the crossroads. That was where they were supposed to learn whether Cross had caught up with Vanat.

  Feren and Yahim hadn’t stopped talking the entire way. Words spilled out on their own—as a way not to think about what else might still be waiting ahead.

  “I still don’t get it,” Yahim said, stepping over exposed roots. “Why kill that tanner?”

  “So he wouldn’t say that Kesh brought a different engineer,” Feren answered almost immediately.

  “But why now? Why not then, right away? And where is the real engineer anyway?”

  Feren shrugged.

  “I think he’s already in the Dark Forest. Explaining to someone there how to build siege works.”

  Yahim grimaced.

  “Then why drag this other guy along and keep him in the settlement?”

  “He was meant to be handed over instead of the real one,” Feren said. “And the tanner could’ve told them the man had been swapped.”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  “But we showed up with Kesh, who actually knew the real engineer. And the whole plan fell apart.”

  Yahim fell silent for a moment, then nodded.

  “Yeah. That fits. He couldn’t lure the engineer out of the city on his own, so he used the tanner. Then found a look-alike in Zhuravnyk to replace him. And sent the real one into the Dark Forest.”

  Behind them walked the “engineer” from Zhuravnyk. He heard every word.

  But he stayed silent.

  He was frightened, confused, and had decided not to draw attention to himself until the very last possible moment.

  “But then why lead us into the Pale settlement,” Feren went on, “if he knew we came specifically for the engineer?”

  Yahim snorted.

  “Who knows. Maybe he got scared of Cross. Or maybe he hoped they’d just cut us down there and the problem would solve itself.”

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “That part you can at least explain somehow. But there’s something else.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Why send Jorung to kill the engineer?”

  Feren thought for a moment.

  “I’m not sure he meant to kill the engineer specifically. And it’s not a fact that someone from Vanat’s side hired him at all.”

  A pause.

  “Could’ve been the Palmers.”

  Yahim laughed, short and genuine.

  “Oh, come on. The Palmers? They could barely hire a donkey.”

  “And even for that,” Feren added dryly, “they wouldn’t have enough money.”

  They laughed together.

  The laughter was tense and brief, but it helped.

  Ahead lay the crossroads.

  And with it, the answer to whether Cross had reached Vanat before they did.

  Rianes walked at the front in silence.

  He didn’t join the conversations and didn’t react to the jokes—the outcome of the march was waiting ahead, at the crossroads.

  Everything would be decided there.

  If Cross was at the crossroads with Vanat, the expedition was a success. They would learn more than planned, and the long, complicated route would have been worth it.

  If Cross was there alone, it meant wasted time. A Pale position exposed to outsiders for nothing. Too high a price for empty hands.

  And if there was no Cross at all, then it was a complete failure.

  And the reckoning would not be only with the city.

  The squad reached the crossroads.

  Rianes raised his hand, forcing everyone to slow down.

  They looked ahead.

  No one.

  The air seemed to tighten. Someone held their breath. Someone instinctively reached for a weapon.

  Then—after a few long seconds—a figure emerged from the shadow between the trees.

  Cross rose onto his hind legs.

  In one hand, he was holding a body.

  It was Vanat.

  The squad immediately quickened its pace and almost ran toward the crossroads.

  Vanat was alive.

  He no longer tried to break free and didn’t resist—he only breathed heavily and stared at the ground. His mace lay nearby. Clean. Unbroken. Undamaged. Simply unnecessary.

  Suggestion against Cross was a futile effort.

  “Good work, furball!” Skeld shouted, running up.

  He thumped Cross on the back—hard, friendly.

  Cross didn’t even react.

  The “engineer” from Zhuravnyk saw Cross for the first time.

  He stopped, went pale, and froze in place, not knowing where to look.

  Feren stepped up to him.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said calmly. “If everything is really the way you say it is, nothing is going to happen to you.”

  Rianes approached Vanat and stopped in front of him.

  “What you did was pointless,” he said without anger.

  Vanat slowly raised his head.

  “I won’t tell you anything.”

  “I don’t need you to,” Rianes replied. “We’re just going to introduce you to Velm.”

  He leaned a little closer.

  “You can’t even imagine the things he can impose when he needs something. His stage is on a level your resistance doesn’t even come close to.”

  Vanat stayed silent.

  He was waiting. Maybe for a chance. Maybe for a mistake.

  But there were no chances left.

  The squad turned and started moving toward Korosten.

  The crossroads were left behind.

  The choice had been made.

  Evening settled over the city slowly.

  Guards stood on the walls and towers alongside mercenaries, peering intently into the outskirts. Somewhere below, Lenar was already issuing orders for the next day—short, precise, without unnecessary explanations.

  Olaf, together with the traders, wasn’t wasting time either: he had begun applying his own methods of pressure on The Compact even before nightfall, openly and without haste.

  The mercenaries were resting. Some sat in the tavern, others warmed themselves by fires near their tents. The evenings were growing colder, and the city was slowly shifting into night mode—calm, but alert.

  The squad reached the walls in the last rays of sunlight. The sky still glowed orange, but the shadows had already grown long and sharp.

  They were noticed at once.

  The guards opened the gate; several mercenaries stepped out to greet their comrades. Lenar was there as well.

  “I hope the expedition went well?” he asked, scanning the group.

  “Almost,” Yahim replied. “We didn’t find the engineer. But we caught an enemy agent.”

  Lenar shifted his gaze to the prisoner with bound hands. He studied him for a long moment. Said nothing.

  By the gate, the squad split up.

  Kesh went his own way.

  Yahim moved off with Lenar.

  The mercenaries and the “engineer” headed toward their camp.

  Cross surged ahead as always—as if the city were only a temporary obstacle.

  Philip and Feren followed quickly.

  Rianes and Skeld were left alone with the prisoner.

  When they reached their camp, it was already fully dark. The city was lit by torches. They stopped by the guard tower to light a lantern.

  Vanat stood in front of them in silence.

  “I’m sleeping till noon,” Skeld muttered, “and then I’m sitting in the bathhouse till evening.”

  “Agreed,” Rianes replied. “We hand him over to Velm now and—”

  “Enemy!” A sharp shout rang out from the tower, the mercenary’s voice breaking.

  Rianes, Skeld, and Vanat all lifted their heads at the same time.

  A bird landed soundlessly on the top of the tower.

  Enormous.

  Human-sized.

  It looked like something torn straight out of hell.

  Its massive wings cut through the air without a sound. The talons were unnaturally long and curved, capable of ripping a person in half. The legs were thick, almost like human arms, packed with muscles that could not belong to any creature of this world.

  But the worst part was the head.

  Human features could be read in its shape. Not clearly. Not completely—just enough for the mind to recognize them and then refuse to accept what it was seeing. The eyes were conscious. Far too conscious for a bird.

  This was Cross as he appears in horror stories.

  Not the one who lies silently by the fire.

  Not the one who obeys a gesture. Wrath of the Sky

  The kind they say still has something human in it — but no longer remembers it.

  He swung his wing, and barbed feathers burst from beneath it — heavy, fast, and driven straight at the mercenaries.

  Skeld reacted instantly.

  He snapped his shield up, covering his comrade.

  The strike came at once.

  One spike slammed into the stone wall, blasting out a chunk of masonry. Two more hit Skeld’s shield directly. The force was so insane that his arm was thrown back; the metal rang dully as it struck Rianes in the head, and both of them went down hard.

  The bird was already winding up for a second strike.

  But a heartbeat before it could loose another volley, an arrow hit it—one of the mercenary guards hadn’t frozen and fired almost point-blank.

  The spikes flew wide, smashing into stone and wood.

  A shout went up along the wall.

  Mercenaries were already rushing toward the creature.

  The bird turned its head, assessing the threat, then leapt to meet them. Its wings flared, blotting out space. The fight began.

  It was far stronger.

  It parried the mercenaries’ blows almost casually. One it knocked off his feet and hurled down from the wall into the darkness below. Another had his leg torn open by talons and fell screaming. Without even finishing them, the bird was already turning back toward Rianes and Skeld.

  It jumped in their direction, trying to reclaim the tower—the same point from which it had launched the attack.

  But its leap was cut short by Grimcross.

  They collided in midair.

  Both crashed down on the far side of the wall, straight onto the city’s market square. Stone exploded outward.

  Guards and nearby townsfolk scattered in panic. The city watch poured in from every direction—but no one dared intervene.

  This was not a fight between people.

  The archers raised their bows—then lowered them again, afraid of hitting one of their own.

  The bird used its wings to lunge sharply behind Grimcross, slipping to the flanks, striking from above.

  Grimcross answered with brute force—throwing his weight forward, crushing in close, knocking the bird off its line, denying it the chance to take off.

  They tore into each other.

  Grimcross sank his teeth in.

  The bird shredded with its talons.

  Blood splashed across the stone.

  The fight was a blunt reminder of a simple truth: in this kingdom, humans were not the ones at the top.

  The masters were wild beasts—creatures that hunted one another in the dark reaches of the continent, Lugu in their blood. And with every generation, such beings drifted further from whatever ancestors they once had.

  After several minutes of fighting, Grimcross landed a grievous blow.

  The bird screamed—sharp, piercing, a sound that cut through the entire city.

  It recoiled, beating its wings hard, and broke back toward the wall.

  Grimcross leapt after it—but fell short.

  The bird, wings laboring, cleared the wall and fled toward the mines—the same direction from which Rianes’s squad had recently arrived.

  Cross ran up onto the wall.

  But the bird was already out in the open.

  Wounded, it couldn’t fly far.

  It couldn’t climb high.

  But catching it was already impossible.

  The giant bird now flew like a chicken—low, in short bursts, for only moments at a time.

  And that was enough to vanish into the darkness.