When morning arrived, it did so without mercy.

  The tension in the air was undeniable—thick, metallic, like the scent before a storm. No one spoke loudly. Even the horses seemed to sense what was coming, their hooves striking the dirt with an uneasy rhythm.

  Armor was fastened. Swords were checked. Orders were passed in hushed voices.

  This was it.

  We began our march across the valley pins leading toward the southern ridge. The terrain was uneven, dotted with rocky outcrops and sparse woodnd—perfect for ambushes. But we had studied this ground. We knew its weaknesses. More importantly, we had a pn.

  Duke Bourdelle’s strategy was in motion.

  Rather than storming the main rebel camp with overwhelming force, we had arranged for multiple units to strike at the fnks and draw attention away from our true objective: a small, elite unit led by Trevon would use the terrain to infiltrate the rear where the rebel leaders had stationed themselves—protected but not fortified.

  We had learned from our scouts that their command relied on high-ground signaling. The leaders communicated through fgs and sound horns, directing their scattered forces like a mobile hive. Remove the head, and the rest would scatter.

  My role—ironically—was to be visible. A symbol. A distraction. I was to ride with the central vanguard, make them believe that the Empire's command was concentrated in the heart of the charge. A dangerous position, but one I accepted.

  The sun had barely crested the horizon when the rebel horns sounded in the distance. From the ridge, their formations emerged, soldiers taking their positions like pieces on a chessboard.

  “Archers ready!” one of the generals shouted.

  I gave the signal with a raised hand, then lowered it.

  The first volley flew.

  And then… the battle began.

  Steel rang against steel. The shouts of the generals echoed over the csh of bdes. Horses screamed, arrows tore the air. The battlefield descended into chaos, and I held the center line, just as I was meant to.

  But then something shifted.

  A sudden stillness at the edge of noise.

  I felt it before I saw it—a flicker in my peripheral vision. A glint of metal far off, on the cliffs.

  Instinct screamed at me.

  And then it happened.

  An arrow—fast, precise, lethal—cut through the sky toward me.

  Time slowed. I couldn’t move fast enough. I saw it, clear as anything, aimed directly for my chest.

  Then—

  Trevon.

  He crashed into me from the side, knocking me to the ground just as the arrow struck where I had stood a heartbeat before. It missed my heart—but not his shoulder.

  He grunted in pain, the force of the impact pushing us into the mud.

  “Trevon!” I grabbed him, seeing the shaft buried deep in his armor.

  He gave a strained ugh. “Still breathing. That counts for something.”

  Panic tried to take hold, but I shoved it aside. Around us, knights had already begun pushing forward, rallying to hold the line. Trevon’s men were executing the secondary fnk as pnned, and I saw the smoke signals from the rear ridge—our elite unit had reached the rebel command tent.

  The strategy was working. But this moment was now seared into something much deeper.

  He had taken the arrow meant for me.

  Not out of duty.

  Not for politics.

  But because he chose to.

  “Trevon,” I said again, this time quieter. “Why—?”

  He grinned, breathless. “Told you, didn’t I? You’re the kind of leader we need.” Then, after a beat, “Besides… can’t let you die before you start believing it yourself.”

  I called for a medic, my voice sharper than steel.

  And as they lifted him onto a stretcher, his bloodied hand briefly grabbed mine.

  That bond we’d forged in fire?

  It was sealed in blood.

  I only learned ter that even after being wounded, Trevon had returned to the battlefield—his shoulder hastily bandaged, blood still seeping through the cloth. He rejoined his men without pause, and together, they struck the final blow. The enemy command fell. The rebellion colpsed.

  The war, they said, was over.

  But for me… it was the beginning of the end.

  Because that victory did not save me.

  It only led me closer to the noose fate had tied in silence.

  What we ended on the battlefield merely gave way to a quieter kind of war—one waged in whispers, in shadows, behind pace doors.

  And in that war… I walked the road paved by betrayal, never knowing it ended at my execution.

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