The dawn came red — not from sunrise, but from smoke.Kael stood on the tower’s balcony, the burned pages of the Echo ledger still warm in his hand. Below, the capital stirred, unaware that its ghosts were rising again. The wind carried the faint scent of ash — faint, but enough to remind him of what he’d promised.Seris joined him quietly. “You didn’t sleep.”“Didn’t need to.”“You’ve been staring at that book for hours. There’s nothing left of it.”Kael turned the charred edge between his fingers. “Not nothing. Just enough to remember what they stole.”He watched the streets below — merchants setting up stalls, soldiers changing shifts, nobles stepping over beggars. Life moved as though the Empire hadn’t been built on bones.“They erased every name,” Kael said. “Every life they burned to build their perfect order. But I remember now. And memory is a weapon.”Seris studied him. “And what do you plan to do with it?”“Reclaim what was ours.”They descended from the tower before the gua

Kael had learned long ago that war didn’t start with swords.It started with whispers.The tavern was thick with smoke and noise — laughter, cards slapping, mugs clinking — but Kael heard everything that mattered. Every mention of troop movement, every rumor about the capital’s grain tax, every lie told too easily.He sat in the corner, cloak drawn low, fingers tapping slow against the table. Taren leaned on the wall near the door, pretending to flirt with the barmaid but watching the exits. Above them, a boy barely twelve — one of Kael’s runners — crouched in the rafters, passing signals through the shadows.The Whisper Network was alive tonight.A drunk guard at the next table slurred his words, telling his friend about a new decree — something about “special funds” for rebuilding the northern forts. Kael’s eyes sharpened. The north didn’t need rebuilding. It was gone. Burned by the same betrayal that killed him once before.“Repeat that,” Kael said quietly.The guard blinked. “Who’

Morning came painted in ash and quiet.The forge still smelled of blood, though Kael had cleaned every inch before dawn. Outside, the village stretched into its ordinary rhythm — hammers ringing, merchants shouting, children chasing stray hens — as if the night hadn’t swallowed two men whole.Kael watched from the doorway, his expression unreadable. The rain had polished everything into false peace. He wore it too — that peace — like armor.Daren sat nearby, arm bandaged, sipping bitter tea. “You’re too calm,” he muttered. “That’s when I know you’re planning something stupid.”Kael didn’t turn. “Calm keeps people alive.”“Lies keep people alive,” Daren said. “Calm just hides the shaking.”Kael allowed himself a faint smile. “Then maybe I’ve learned to shake quietly.”They walked together toward the square. Word of the break-in hadn’t spread — Kael made sure of that — but eyes still followed them. Suspicion in a small village grew faster than weeds.At the market stalls, Kael stopped b

The tavern was louder than usual that night. Too loud for comfort.Men shouted over dice, tankards slammed against tables, and the smell of cheap ale clung to the walls like rot.Kael sat in the corner booth, back to the wall, hood drawn low. His eyes weren’t on the crowd. They were fixed on the fireplace.It was dying slow — a single log cracking, embers curling like whispers. Flames always spoke to him now. Sometimes they reminded him of the pyre, the way the light had swallowed him whole. Other times, they seemed to listen. Tonight, they were waiting.Daren slid into the seat opposite him, dripping from rain. “You picked the worst place for a meeting,” he muttered.Kael didn’t look away from the fire. “No one listens here. That’s what makes it perfect.”Daren dropped a small pouch onto the table. Coins jingled softly. “Payment from Seris’s courier. She says the Crimson Guard moved their supply trains three days early. Someone warned them.”Kael’s jaw tightened. “Someone inside our

The quill moved like a blade.Each stroke was deliberate, clean, and final — a weapon wielded in silence.Lady Seris Vale sat in her study long after midnight, the candle burned low, its wax pooling like blood on parchment. She had written the same sentence six times and crossed it out six times. Words were easy for spies and politicians; for Seris, they were armor. Tonight, they felt like confession.She dipped the quill again, letting black ink soak the page. The Empire rots from the pen, not the sword.That was what her mentor had once told her. Now she finally understood.A knock sounded at her door — two slow, one fast. The signal.“Enter,” she said.A boy in courier gray slipped inside, soaked from the rain. He held out a sealed envelope stamped with a red sigil. “From the capital, my lady. It carries the Duke’s mark.”Seris took it, dismissing him with a nod. When the door shut again, she ran a finger over the seal — a stylized serpent coiled around a sword. Varic’s network. He