The rebellion had begun to spread. News of Alric’s victory at Harrowfield traveled faster than the rebels could have anticipated, carried by messengers, merchants, and whispers in the dark. In the days following the liberation of the village, nearby settlements sent word of their support, offering food, fighters, and whatever supplies they could muster.

  The Amber Veil was waking from its long slumber, the spark of defiance ignited by Alric’s gamble. But not everyone was celebrating.

  Iridia stood over a table in the war room they’d carved out of the rock near Harrowfield. Her expression was tight, her hands braced on the edges of the table as she stared down at a hastily drawn map of the region. Alric stood across from her, his arms crossed as he waited for her to speak. Around them, a handful of rebel leaders murmured in low tones, their unease palpable.

  When Iridia finally looked up, her sharp blue eyes pinned Alric in place. “The good news is that we’ve rallied three more villages,” she said. “The bad news is that Mordain knows exactly what we’re doing.”

  She jabbed a finger at the map, where a black wolf’s head—Mordain’s sigil—had been drawn near the Veil’s northern border. “Scouts report that a detachment of his forces is already moving south. Elite troops, well-equipped. Their orders are simple: crush the rebellion and make an example of Harrowfield.”

  The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over the group like a shroud.

  Alric frowned, his fingers brushing the hilt of the obsidian dagger at his side. “How many men?”

  “Enough to overwhelm us if we stay here,” Iridia said. “We’re talking about Mordain’s Wolves—his most loyal soldiers. They don’t retreat. They don’t hesitate. And they don’t leave survivors.”

  A murmur ran through the room as the rebel leaders exchanged worried glances.

  “Then we don’t stay here,” Alric said firmly.

  Iridia raised an eyebrow. “You’re proposing we abandon Harrowfield?”

  “I’m proposing we don’t give Mordain what he wants,” Alric said. “If we dig in here, we’ll be slaughtered. But if we move into the mountains, we can draw his forces into terrain where their numbers won’t matter.”

  “And what happens to the villagers?” Jorik, the burly fighter from the last meeting, asked. “You think they’ll just pack up and leave everything behind?”

  “They’ll have to,” Alric said. “If they stay here, they’ll be killed—or worse.”

  Jorik scowled but said nothing.

  Iridia studied Alric, her gaze unreadable. “You’re asking a lot of these people, prince. They’ve already sacrificed so much.”

  “I know,” Alric said, his voice soft but steady. “But if we want to win this war, we can’t afford to fight on Mordain’s terms. We have to be smarter than him.”

  The evacuation of Harrowfield began at dawn. The villagers moved quickly, packing what few belongings they could carry and loading them onto wagons pulled by tired oxen. The air was thick with tension as men, women, and children filed out of the village, their faces lined with fear and exhaustion.

  Alric stood near the edge of the village, watching as the column of refugees began its slow march toward the mountains. Iridia joined him, her expression grim.

  “They’re scared,” she said. “And they should be.”

  “We’ll protect them,” Alric said.

  “You can’t promise that,” Iridia said, her voice sharp. “You’re putting everything on the line here, Alric. If this goes wrong…”

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  “It won’t,” Alric said, though the knot in his stomach betrayed his uncertainty.

  Before Iridia could respond, a scout came sprinting down the road, his face pale and his breath ragged. “They’re here!” he shouted. “Mordain’s Wolves—they’re just over the ridge!”

  The words sent a ripple of panic through the villagers. Alric turned to Iridia, his jaw tightening. “Get them moving. I’ll buy you time.”

  Iridia grabbed his arm. “You can’t face them alone.”

  “I won’t,” Alric said, pulling free. “But I have to slow them down. If I don’t, they’ll be on us before we reach the mountains.”

  Alric moved quickly, gathering a small group of rebels to set up an ambush along the road leading into Harrowfield. They positioned themselves in the woods, hidden among the trees, their weapons at the ready.

  The sound of marching boots echoed through the air, growing louder with each passing moment. Alric crouched behind a fallen log, his heart pounding as the first soldiers came into view.

  They were exactly as Iridia had described—elite troops clad in blackened armor, their movements disciplined and precise. The banner of the Wolves—a black wolf’s head on a crimson field—fluttered in the breeze, carried by a grim-faced standard-bearer. At their head rode a figure clad in dark plate armor, his helmet shaped like the snarling maw of a wolf.

  Kaelion’s voice whispered in Alric’s mind, low and tense. “That’s no ordinary captain. That’s one of Mordain’s Handlers.”

  “Handlers?” Alric whispered.

  “They lead the Wolves,” Kaelion said. “And they’re not just soldiers—they’re fanatics. Be careful.”

  The Handler raised his hand, signaling for the column to halt. His voice carried across the clearing, cold and commanding. “Spread out! The rebels are close. I want their heads on spikes by nightfall.”

  Alric gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the dagger. He glanced at the rebels beside him, their faces pale but determined. “Wait for my signal,” he murmured.

  The Wolves began to fan out, their movements calculated and methodical. Alric’s heart pounded as he counted the seconds, his mind racing.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  The rebels struck from the shadows, arrows whistling through the air and finding their marks. Soldiers fell, their cries of pain breaking the silence. Alric surged forward, his dagger flashing as he cut through the first soldier in his path.

  The Wolves responded with brutal efficiency, regrouping almost instantly. The Handler barked orders, his sword cutting through the air as he rallied his troops.

  Alric fought with everything he had, the power of the Echoes surging through him. His movements were faster, sharper, more precise—but the whispers came with it, insidious and unrelenting.

  “More… Take more… Let us in…”

  He faltered for a moment, his vision blurring. A soldier lunged at him, but Kaelion’s voice snapped him back to reality.

  “Focus, boy! Don’t let them break you!”

  Alric dodged the attack, driving his dagger into the soldier’s chest. He turned toward the Handler, who had locked eyes on him from across the battlefield.

  The Handler raised his sword, pointing it directly at Alric. “You,” he said, his voice cold and metallic. “You’re the pretender prince.”

  Alric’s grip tightened on the dagger as he stepped forward. “And you’re just another pawn.”

  The Handler charged, his sword flashing in the sunlight. Alric met him head-on, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. The force of the blow sent a jolt up Alric’s arm, but he held his ground.

  The fight was brutal, each strike faster and deadlier than the last. The Handler was relentless, his strength and skill unmatched by any opponent Alric had faced before.

  Kaelion’s voice rang in his mind, sharp and urgent. “You can’t beat him like this. Call my power—now!”

  Alric hesitated, the memory of Maltheron’s whispers gnawing at him. But as the Handler’s blade came dangerously close to his throat, he knew he had no choice.

  He let the power surge through him, his vision sharpening and his movements quickening. His eyes glowed faintly with golden light as he pressed the attack, driving the Handler back step by step.

  With a final, desperate lunge, Alric’s dagger found its mark. The obsidian blade sank into the Handler’s chest, dark energy crackling as the man gasped and fell to his knees.

  The remaining Wolves hesitated, their formation faltering as they saw their leader fall. Alric raised his bloodied dagger, his voice ringing out across the battlefield.

  “Go back to Mordain,” he said, his tone cold and unyielding. “Tell him the rebellion will not be crushed.”

  The Wolves broke, retreating into the woods.

  When Alric returned to the rebel column, the villagers greeted him with cheers, their fear replaced by cautious hope. Iridia approached him, her expression a mixture of relief and concern.

  “You did it,” she said. “You held them off.”

  Alric nodded, though his body felt heavy with exhaustion. The power of the Echoes had saved him again, but the whispers had grown louder, more insistent.

  As the rebels continued their march into the mountains, Alric fell to the back of the column, his thoughts dark.

  The rebellion was gaining ground, but the cost of victory was growing higher with each battle.

  And somewhere in the depths of his mind, the Echoes waited.