The soldier was seventeen. Same age as Axton. That made killing him harder.He knelt in monastery ruins, hands bound behind his back with rough rope that had already rubbed skin raw. Face bruised purple and yellow from capture three hours ago. Uniform torn at the shoulder, revealing pale skin that had never seen real battle. Heptarchy insignia still visible on his chest the snake eating its own tail, symbol of endless war.Except he was crying.Not brave stoicism. Not defiant silence. Not warrior's acceptance of death. Just terror raw, unfiltered, human."Please." His voice cracked like breaking glass. "Please, I have family. Sister. Mother. They're in capital. Conscripted labor. If I don't report back, they'll execute them. They'll "He couldn't finish. Sobs choked words into silence."Shut up," Lyra said coldly. She stood beside Axton, blade drawn, black Aegis faintly visible in dawn light making her seem carved from shadow. Eyes hard as winter stone. "Every sob story. Every plea. E

Axton stared at maps for six hours.Not planning victory. Planning who would die buying it.The documents from Black Archives lay spread before him fortress schematics stolen from Heptarchy's own intelligence division, guard rotations documented by spies now dead, defensive array specifications written in technical language Marcus had to translate.Everything needed to infiltrate Council of Seven's stronghold. Everything except guarantee anyone would survive attempting it.Marcus sat across table. Silent. Knowing. Understanding weight Axton carried like physical burden pressing shoulders down."The fortress has three entry points," Marcus said quietly, engineer's mind reducing impossible to tactical problems with solutions written in blood. "All heavily guarded. All monitored by surveillance arrays. All designed to funnel attackers into kill zones where defensive systems converge.""So we can't infiltrate without being seen.""Correct. Which means we need distraction. Something big en

The fortress smelled like iron and old blood.Not metaphor. Literal truth. Centuries of executions, torture, experiments all conducted within these walls, all leaving residue that never washed clean, staining stone with history written in suffering.Two teams moved through darkness approaching dawn.Assault team: Thirteen warriors led by Kaelix. Approaching main gate. Weapons ready. Death accepted. Purpose clear.Infiltration team: Twenty-four warriors led by Axton. Moving through sewers beneath fortress. Quiet. Professional. Hoping thirteen deaths bought enough time to reach Council chamber before alarm brought full defensive response.Axton's communication crystal pulsed against skin. Kaelix's voice. Calm. Final. Carrying weight of goodbye disguised as tactical update."Infiltration team in position?""Yes. Northwest service entrance. Awaiting signal.""Good. Remember mission. Reach Council chamber. Kill all seven. Don't waste sacrifices we're about to make."Pause. Father's voice s

Thirty minutes to live.The fortress shook. Not earthquake. Not accident. Systematic collapse. Every structural support failing in programmed sequence. Architect's design ensuring nothing survived, nothing escaped, nothing remained except crater filled with bodies and broken dreams.Axton stood in Council chamber surrounded by thirty-three corpses. Warriors who'd trusted him. Followed him. Died for mission that was trap from beginning. Perfect mathematics designed by mind brilliant enough to predict everything, exploit everything, kill everything.His communication crystal pulsed. Marcus's voice. Panicked. Distant. Barely audible through interference."Axton! Axton, respond! Fortress collapsing! What's happening? Did you ""Trap. Everything was trap. Council members were projections. Only Zealot was real. Thirty-three dead for one kill. Self-destruct activated. I'm sealed inside.""How long?""Thirty minutes. Maybe less."Silence. Marcus calculating. Running numbers. Finding only bad

Three days after memorial fires fell to ash, six Warborne gathered in circle.Not army. Not hierarchy. Not commander standing above followers issuing orders expecting obedience. Just circle. Six people who'd survived everything, who'd lost everyone, who refused quitting despite every reason surrendering to inevitable.Above them, moon looked small. Tired. Like it had watched too much history repeat itself, too many bloodlines collapse, too many wars continue forever consuming generation after generation without resolution.Grandmother Valeheart spoke first. Not commanding. Proposing. Offering structure instead of imposing authority."We need to talk. About leadership. About structure. About whether following single commander is wisdom or foolishness after catastrophic failure proving current system inadequate."Five faces turned toward Axton. Not accusing exactly. Questioning. Wondering. Evaluating whether boy who'd led thirty-three warriors to death deserved continuing trust or wheth