The world narrowed as we rode.

  The cold scraped against my face, sharp and relentless. Frost rimed the reins in my gloves, the leather stiffening in the bitter air. I hunched low over the saddle, letting the horse's body shield me from the worst of the wind.

  Ahead, Split Rock Ridge loomed — a jagged line of stone cutting across the landscape like a wound. The place where farmers said the land had cracked in anger, long before the Empire ever planted its banners in the soil.

  Good spot for an ambush.

  Better spot for a grave.

  I tugged lightly on the reins, slowing my mount to a walk. The others followed without needing orders. They trusted me. Not because of some inspiring speeches or promises of glory.

  No.

  Because when blades were drawn and lives weighed against iron, I moved first and hesitated last.

  Trust like that you couldn't buy. You had to bleed for it.

  "Captain," I said, voice low.

  Jonas rode up alongside me. His beard was stiff with frozen breath. "My lord?"

  "Split your men. Flank right and left. Circle around. Standard pincer. Push them toward me."

  He hesitated. Just a moment. Then nodded, signaling with two sharp hand motions.

  Three riders peeled off to the right. Two to the left.

  I pressed forward alone.

  The ridge closed in, a canyon of jagged rock and frozen earth. The path wound through like a crooked knife, twisting and dipping into shadow.

  My hand settled on the hilt of my sword.

  Durandel, one of the 9 relics.

  The first hint of movement flickered at the corner of my vision.

  A glint of iron.

  A scuff of leather on stone.

  I didn’t tense. Didn't reach for my sword. Not yet.

  Instead, I let my heart slow.

  Let the Forge inside my chest burn steady and low.

  Forge Heart knights didn’t move first.

  They waited.

  Endured.

  And when they struck, they struck like the hammer of a vengeful god.

  A low whistle split the air.

  Bandit sign.

  Two shadows detached themselves from the rocks ahead — one carrying a rusted axe, the other a long cudgel. Both wore patchwork armor, scavenged from a dozen dead men.

  "You lost, old man?" the axe-bearer called, voice carrying easy confidence.

  I said nothing.

  Behind me, the faintest echoes of hooves hitting dirt. Jonas and the others moving into place.

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  The cudgel-bearer chuckled. "Maybe he’s deaf. Or stupid. Doesn't matter."

  They started toward me, casual and loose. Arrogant.

  Good.

  I dismounted slowly, boots crunching against the frost. My hand never left the sword hilt. I let them watch me — let them believe whatever they wanted.

  Better they think me slow. Weak.

  The axe-bearer was first, raising his weapon overhead with a roar and charging.

  I didn't move.

  At the last moment, as the blade came arcing down, I stepped forward.

  Not back. Forward.

  A single step.

  One smooth, practiced motion.

  My sword slid free of its scabbard with a whisper of steel.

  Angled up, not down.

  Edge catching the haft of the axe just below the head.

  I twisted my wrist.

  The axe wrenched sideways, the bandit’s own momentum carrying him past me, stumbling.

  I pivoted. Quick, efficient.

  The sword tip flicked out.

  A short thrust. Nothing grand.

  It slid through the gap in his patchwork armor beneath his arm, punching deep.

  The bandit gasped, blood bubbling at his lips.

  I yanked the blade free and let him fall.

  Before the body even hit the ground, the cudgel-bearer was on me, swinging low for my legs.

  Sloppy.

  I dropped my center of gravity, knees bending, sword angled down.

  The cudgel slammed against the blade with a dull clang, force shivering up my arms.

  A Forge Heart knight didn’t meet strength with strength.

  He guided it.

  Redirected it.

  I twisted my blade, slipping under the cudgel's swing, and drove my shoulder into the man's chest.

  Bone cracked under the impact. He stumbled back, wheezing.

  I followed.

  One clean, rising cut — from hip to opposite shoulder.

  The man screamed once, short and sharp, then fell still.

  The rest of the ambush broke at the sight.

  Half a dozen men — archers, blades, spearmen — lurking among the rocks, waiting for the signal that never came.

  Now they scrambled, shouting curses and warnings.

  Jonas and the others closed in from the flanks, hemming them in.

  No way out.

  I stood there, sword dripping red onto the frozen dirt, and watched.

  The bandits hesitated. Confused. Afraid.

  Good.

  I stepped forward.

  Not running. Not charging.

  Just walking.

  Slow. Inevitable.

  The way a winter storm moves across a plain.

  They broke.

  Panic first, then flight.

  Men throwing down weapons. Stumbling over each other in their haste to escape.

  Jonas whooped, spurring his horse forward, and the others followed. The chase was brutal and swift.

  I wiped my blade clean on the dead man's cloak and sheathed it with a practiced motion.

  The Forge in my chest burned steady.

  Warm.

  Alive.

  Not wild like mana.

  Not explosive like rage.

  Just steady.

  Like the beat of a hammer shaping iron.

  An hour later, we stood amidst the wreckage.

  Seven bandits dead. Three captured. A few had slipped away into the woods, but they wouldn't last long in the cold.

  I leaned against a rock, breathing slow and deep, feeling the familiar ache in my ribs where the old scar pulled tight.

  Jonas approached, wiping blood from his axe.

  "All done, my lord."

  I nodded.

  "Losses?"

  "None."

  "Good."

  He hesitated, then asked, "You sure you’re not a Blessed, my lord?"

  I snorted.

  Blessed. Those were the ones touched by gods, gifted with unnatural strength or magic. The ones the Empire paraded in gold and crimson.

  I was no Blessed.

  Just a man who had spent twenty years learning how to kill and survive.

  "No," I said finally. "Just stubborn."

  Jonas chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder. His hand was heavy, solid. I winced slightly.

  Merren rode up a moment later, leading the horses.

  "We found tracks," he said grimly. "Wagon ruts. Heading north. Not the bandits — something bigger."

  "Supplies?"

  "Or weapons," he said. "Maybe bodies."

  I mulled it over.

  Something bigger was moving out here. Something the farmers didn’t know. Something the Empire didn’t care to find.

  And I had a bad feeling it tied into the way the nights were getting colder, the winds sharper, the stars quieter.

  The world was shifting.

  And we were standing at the edge of the knife.

  I mounted up again, every muscle protesting the motion.

  The stars overhead shimmered faintly, like dying embers scattered across a black sea.

  "North, then," I said.

  Jonas raised an eyebrow. "Not back to the keep?"

  I shook my head.

  "Not yet."

  I wasn’t finished.

  Not with this land.

  Not with these people.

  Not with myself.

  There was still iron in my blood, steel in my spine.

  Still enough fire to burn away the dark.

  And I would burn it.

  One sword stroke at a time.