"Accountants with swords are harder to kill than zealots, Zafriel," Adrian muttered, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp as he leaned against a jagged outcrop of rock. "Zealots die for a god. Mercenaries only die if the gold isn't worth the blood. We don't have gold."Zafriel wiped a smudge of frozen mud from his forehead, his hand trembling despite his best efforts to remain steady. The ether felt like a dying ember in his chest, flickering with every shallow breath. "We have leverage. We have the pass, and we have enough desperation to make them fear us.""Fear? They’re professional soldiers, not conscripts," Adrian countered, crossing his arms over his scarred chest. "And we’re leading a caravan of starving ghosts who can barely lift a spear. If we charge that barricade, the Syndicate will mow us down before we reach the first row of spikes.""We aren't charging," Zafriel said, his eyes scanning the horizon where the dark, jagged teeth of the Southern Ravines cut into the bruised

 "Kill him, Adrian! Snap his neck before he signals the ridge!" Corvin’s roar cut through the freezing howl of the ravine. The former paladin stood with his broadsword drawn, the tip quivering inches from a terrified youth pinned against the jagged slate. The boy wore the red wool of a Council outrider, barely old enough to shave, shaking so violently his teeth clicked like dice. Adrian’s clawed, black-iron hand remained clamped around the boy’s collar. His grip had crushed iron gates and pulverized skull bone. Yet he didn't close his fist. "Adrian!" Corvin lunged forward, sword raised. "He’s a scout! If he marks our trail, the vanguard catches us by midnight!" Adrian didn't look at Corvin. His yellow, slit-pupil eyes stared directly into the boy’s bloodshot gaze. A wooden porch. The smell of scorched pine and fresh

 "They’re calling it 'mercy,'" Zafriel muttered, his finger tracing the elegant script on the Council’s parchment. "Three hundred gold coins and a deed to a farm in the lowlands for anyone who brings them my head. It’s not just a ransom, Adrian. It’s a bounty on my soul." Adrian didn't look up from his whetstone. The rhythmic shing-shing of steel against metal filled the cramped, freezing tent. "Gold doesn't warm a man when the rot sets in. They’ll take the coins, and the Council will execute them anyway. The people know that." "Do they?" Zafriel stood up, his joints popping. He walked to the tent flap, peering out into the swirling, violet-hued fog of the ravine. "I see the way they look at me now. They aren't looking at a savior anymore. They’re looking at a target. Every time I turn my back, the air feels heavier." "You’re being paranoid," Adrian said, though his

 "Ambush at the lower bottleneck!" The screaming scout didn't even make it fully into the tent before collapsing, two black-fletched bolts protruding from his shoulder. "Which unit?" Zafriel demanded, instantly on his feet, ignoring the blinding pain tearing through his own left side. "Third squad—scouting the pass," the scout gasped, coughing up red silt. "Inquisitor shock troops... trapped them under the rockfalls!" Adrian didn't ask questions. He was already a blur of shadow, sweeping past the tent flap into the icy violet fog of the ravine. "Adrian, stop!" Zafriel shouted, lunging after him. "Your core hasn't stabilized—" "If I stop, they die!" Adrian’s voice echoed off the damp canyon walls, hollow and vibrating with monstrous resonance. He sprinted blind through the jagged gravel, his heavy boots crush

 The heavy flap of the command tent groaned as a figure stumbled inside, collapsing before he even cleared the threshold. He wasn't a soldier; he was a ragtag mess of tattered rags and frozen mud. "Renzio?" Zafriel shoved past the desk, his boots sliding on the slick stone floor. He hauled the man upright. "What in the gods’ name happened to you? We heard you were taken at the western ridge." Renzio’s eyes were bloodshot, darting around the tent as if expecting the shadows themselves to reach out and throttle him. He clutched Zafriel’s tunic with white-knuckled desperation. "Taken? No. They didn't want prisoners, Zafriel. They wanted us to watch." Adrian loomed over them, his presence casting a jagged, unnatural silhouette against the tent wall. He didn't offer a hand, only a cold, scrutinizing gaze. "Speak plainly, Renzio. We have enough ghosts in this camp without you adding to the tally.