The dawn came pale and cold, the mist clinging to the valley floor like a stubborn shroud. The camp stirred with unease, for word had spread quickly of the council’s decree: Michael, the returned husband of Lady Clara, would not remain idle. He had volunteered—or, some whispered, been compelled—to prove his loyalty in a mission few others would dare to accept.It had been Lord Davenport, ever suspicious, who pressed the issue during the heated debates. “If the boy truly wishes to silence doubts, let him do so with action. Send him into the wolves’ den, where his loyalty may be measured in blood.” His voice had been laced with scorn, but it was Clara’s father who finally nodded, not with malice, but with weary pragmatism.Thus the task was given: Michael would lead a small escort to intercept Jonathan’s latest supply train rumored to be passing through the old pass—a route treacherous with cliffs, bandits, and, if intelligence was correct, a hidden guard. Success would cripple Jonathan

The caravan camp glowed faintly beneath a silver moon. Torches lined the outer posts, flickering in the wind, their smoke curling into the night sky. Inside the largest pavilion, Clara sat with her advisors, her face pale from the day’s march but her spirit unbowed. Michael stood at her side, quiet but steady, the weight of new expectation pressing against his chest.Reports of the ambush still circulated in hushed tones. Survivors spoke of his courage, how he had led the charge that turned defeat into survival. For the first time in years, men looked at Michael with respect instead of pity. And yet, even as hope began to kindle, something colder crept into the camp.It began with a whisper.Two guards, speaking by the fire, murmured that Michael had been seen walking away from the enemy lines before the ambush struck. “How else could he have known their numbers?” one asked. “Too neat, too perfect.”By morning, the whisper had grown. A servant delivered bread to the council tent, mutt

Jonathan sat in his pavilion, the distant roar of the crowd reaching him like the echo of a storm he had already predicted. His lips curved in a thin, controlled smile as a squire breathlessly entered.“My lord, the trial is done. Michael bested Captain Rhogar. The camp… they cheer his name.”Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, though his composure never broke. He dismissed the boy with a flick of his hand. Alone, he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.“So. The weakling rises,” he murmured. “Let them cheer. A single victory cannot unmake the truth I planted.”He rose, pacing slowly. The canvas walls of the tent fluttered with the breeze, carrying in faint chants of Michael’s name. To others, it might have sounded like triumph; to Jonathan, it was opportunity.He knew men. He knew how quickly adoration turned to fear, and fear to resentment. The stronger Michael appeared, the easier it would be to brand him as something unnatural—favored not by skill, but by dark providence. Already the

The chamber lingered in silence long after Michael’s words faded into the thick air. The parchment, with its foreign seal now broken, lay like a serpent coiled on the table—silent, deadly, waiting for someone to act.Jonathan’s fingers drummed lightly against the arm of his chair. His eyes flickered between the elders, measuring each furrowed brow, each trembling lip. He could sense the hesitation; it was fertile ground for manipulation.Finally, he stood, the faint scrape of his chair against the stone echoing like thunder. “Let us speak plainly. We are at war, whether we wish it or not. These are not days for sentiment. The enemy has demanded Michael as a token. If we refuse, we risk being seen as liars and cowards. If we send him, we gain their trust—and perhaps their mercy.”Several elders nodded quickly, eager to align with strength. One of them, a gaunt man with sharp eyes, leaned forward. “Jonathan is right. A single life weighed against the safety of many? The choice seems cle

The council chamber had long since emptied, its air still heavy with the echoes of debate. Clara and Elias had departed to oversee preparations for the decoy caravan, leaving Jonathan alone in the shadows of the high-vaulted hall. He lingered, pacing slowly across the polished stone, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable, but in his eyes, a storm gathered.“They defy me,” he murmured, his voice low, more hiss than word. “Again and again, they choose the weakling’s path—words and whispers when steel and fire would bring an end to this.”His mind turned bitterly toward Michael. The man whom all had called useless, a burden, an afterthought—now suddenly he was the axis upon which everything turned. Michael’s fate dictated war or peace, ruin, or survival. Jonathan’s lips curled with disdain.“They protect him,” Jonathan said softly, as if speaking to the empty chamber. “But I will make him the key to their undoing.”He walked to the long table where maps still l