The valley felt narrower than usual.

  Snow clung to the ridges like frozen ash, and the wind slid between stone walls with a low, restless hum. Darwin stood near the edge of the clearing, eyes tracing invisible paths through the terrain—slopes, blind spots, choke points.

  He wasn’t looking at the valley.

  He was looking at how someone would *move through it*.

  The Imperial Oath-Bound Wardens waited nearby, silent and still. Their presence alone bent the air—disciplined, restrained, heavy with authority. None of them spoke unless spoken to. None of them shifted their weight unnecessarily.

  Captain Maquish Hinderbuerg stood apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back, gaze steady.

  “You said you had a proposal,” Maquish said calmly.

  Darwin nodded.

  He stepped forward, planting his feet carefully in the snow. His body still ached from training, but his mind was sharp—too sharp. He had spent the entire night thinking.

  “The assassin is wounded,” Darwin began. “Limited mana. Familiar with this terrain, but not rooted to it.”

  Maquish said nothing.

  Darwin continued.

  “He’s avoiding open areas. Staying close to elevation changes. He’ll want cover, escape routes, and isolation.” Darwin pointed toward the northern slope. “If I were him, I’d circle the valley’s edge and wait for someone alone.”

  One of the Wardens glanced in that direction—but did not move.

  Darwin took a breath.

  “We can use that.”

  Maquish’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Explain.”

  “We let him believe he’s found weak prey,” Darwin said. “Someone predictable. Someone who moves alone. Someone slow.”

  The words landed heavily in the cold air.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Gajisk, standing a short distance away, stiffened.

  Maquish did not look at him.

  “You,” Maquish said to Darwin. It wasn’t a question.

  Darwin didn’t deny it. “I fit his pattern.”

  Silence.

  The Wardens did not react—but the tension tightened, subtle and sharp.

  “He stalks,” Darwin continued. “He toys with targets. If I follow a fixed route near the eastern ravine, he’ll approach. Once he crosses into your jurisdiction—”

  “No,” Maquish said.

  The interruption was immediate. Flat. Absolute.

  Darwin stopped mid-sentence.

  Maquish stepped forward one pace. “That plan will not be used.”

  Darwin frowned. “Captain, if he enters the boundary—”

  “He won’t,” Maquish said. “Not the way you’re imagining.”

  Darwin clenched his jaw. “You said time was against you. This forces his hand.”

  Maquish finally turned his head—just slightly—and looked directly at Darwin.

  “Your plan assumes one variable,” he said. “That the assassin behaves as you predict.”

  Darwin hesitated. “He’s already shown a pattern.”

  “A pattern of cruelty,” Maquish corrected. “Not obedience.”

  Darwin opened his mouth, then closed it.

  Maquish continued, voice steady. “Your proposal puts you at the center. You believe that risk is acceptable because it is *yours*.”

  Darwin swallowed.

  Maquish’s gaze shifted—past Darwin.

  “To the blacksmith,” he said.

  Darwin’s breath caught.

  “If the assassin chooses not to take the bait,” Maquish said, “where does he go instead?”

  Darwin followed the line of thought before he wanted to.

  …Gajisk’s house.

  A warm place.

  Shelter.

  A man who did not move like a Warden.

  Darwin felt cold spread through his chest.

  Maquish turned back to him. “If your plan fails, the assassin doesn’t kill *you* first.”

  Darwin’s fingers curled slowly.

  “He kills the man who opened his door to us.”

  The words struck harder than any rebuke.

  Gajisk said nothing.

  Darwin stared at the snow between his boots, seeing his plan unravel in silence. He had accounted for terrain. Psychology. Timing.

  He hadn’t accounted for *consequence*.

  “I—” Darwin started, then stopped.

  Maquish waited.

  Darwin forced himself to speak properly. “I didn’t consider that angle.”

  “No,” Maquish said. “You didn’t.”

  There was no anger in his voice.

  That made it worse.

  “You think tactically,” Maquish continued. “You do not yet think *responsibly*.”

  Darwin bowed his head.

  Maquish turned to the Wardens. “We revise. The plan stands rejected.”

  One of the Wardens nodded once.

  Maquish looked back at Darwin. “You may revise it as well. If you wish.”

  Darwin looked up. “You’ll still listen?”

  “We will evaluate,” Maquish corrected. “Nothing more.”

  That was not encouragement.

  It was permission.

  Maquish stepped away, signaling the end of the discussion. The Wardens resumed their silent positions, as immovable as the valley walls.

  Darwin remained where he was, the wind brushing past his face.

  His plan had failed.

  Not because it was clever.

  But because it was incomplete.

  He turned his gaze toward Gajisk’s house—smoke rising gently from the chimney, a simple structure against the vast white.

  Darwin felt the weight settle in his chest.

  If strategy endangered the innocent—

  then it wasn’t strategy at all.

  It was negligence.

  And he would not repeat that mistake.