Ragnar and Marius bowed in turn before taking their leave. Shayara was still kneeling; Ragnar helped her to her feet before they stepped outside.

  They stopped near a stack of cut timber at the edge of the camp. Marius leaned against it, shaking his head. “What in the name of abyss was that? Also, I punched myself for no reason. You were good though, Ragnar. Felt like the old days..”

  Ragnar’s face was grim. “Something’s wrong. I just can’t see what yet.”

  “His Holiness said… they’ll win regardless,” Shayara said quietly.

  Both men turned to look at her.

  “What does that mean?” Marius asked.

  “I don’t know,” Shayara admitted. “When I was kneeling, I let go of my senses by accident. I could hear him say, ‘We will win regardless.’”

  She hesitated. The next part weighed heavily on her lips. In most places, it would be considered heresy. Treason. Death.

  But here, with them, she felt no fear.

  Ragnar’s voice echoed in her memory: You’re safe.

  She took a breath.

  “The Prophet is… I think he is dead.”

  Ragnar and Marius froze. For a moment, it felt like the world itself had stilled.

  Ragnar’s eyes swept the area, scanning instinctively for eavesdroppers. Nothing.

  “What? Just… what?” Marius stammered, for once without his usual snark.

  Shayara continued, her voice lower now.

  “Every mage has an aura, a signature of the Weave. The Prophet’s was… wrong. Hollow. It felt like a ghastly echo. That kind of aura only exists if someone’s been resurrected, or possessed.”

  She paused, then added, “In the Book of Dark Beginnings, it’s written…”

  Marius cut her off, stunned and half-grinning.

  “How do you keep reading so many banned books?”

  For once, the question wasn’t accusatory, just baffled curiosity.

  “Uhm… in the library,” Shayara muttered.

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then Marius blinked.

  “Wait. You probed the Prophet? The Holy Prophet of Amun? Shayara, he has protective wards, charms meant to detect magical intrusion! If he’d caught even a whisper of that, we’d all be executed.”

  Shayara’s face sank.

  “I… I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to.”

  Marius turned to Ragnar.

  “But… why didn’t we get caught?”

  Ragnar didn’t answer. His gaze had gone distant, his jaw tight. Thoughts and calculations raced behind his eyes.

  The weight of the truth hung in the air. And with it, a new fear neither of them could yet name.

  The trio stood in silence for a time.

  “Do not utter a word about this here. We should find Arin first,” Ragnar said at last.

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  They made their way toward the healing tents. Soldiers watched them pass, eyes following with quiet awe. Even the wounded tried to straighten in respect.

  One soldier stepped forward. “General Ragnar, please punish General Arabus. Because of him…”

  From somewhere behind, another voice hissed, “Don’t say anything. You’ll be punished.”

  Ragnar stopped. “My fellow soldiers, today is a dark day. We lost many brothers and sisters on the field. But hear me, we will defeat Moloch. I must be honest with you. The eastern camp is under Lord Arabus’s command, and I cannot lead you here. But once this war is over, I will see to it that Arabus answers for his actions.”

  Faces in the crowd shifted—some fell with disappointment, others hardened with new hope. Perhaps their fallen comrades would still be avenged.

  Arin lay flat on a healer’s cot, the faint scent of burned fabric and alchemical salves in the air. The camp was quiet—no other patients nearby.

  He sat up the moment Ragnar stepped in.

  “Sharp,” Marius muttered under his breath.

  Arin rose to his feet despite his injuries and saluted. “General Ragnar!”

  Ragnar waved him back down. “Sit. You’re still recovering from the backlash.”

  He stepped closer. “I’d like you to join us. We have permission from Arabus. I can offer you the position of commander of the Fifth Crimson Wing.”

  “Why the Fifth?” Marius muttered.

  “Because you don’t act like a commander,” Ragnar murmured back without missing a beat.

  Arin hesitated. “I’m not a nobility, Sir.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Ragnar said. “In the Crimson Army, merit is what counts.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Arin asked.

  “What’s there to choose?” Marius said with a laugh.

  “Yes,” Ragnar replied. “You do.”

  “Then I decline.”

  “Why?” Ragnar asked.

  “Because they have you there, Sir. Forgive me, but… Lord Arabus’s command is a little lacking,” Arin said carefully.

  “Yeah, we know, he’s a piece of shit,” Marius cut in, breaking the tension enough to draw the faintest smile from Arin.

  “Which is why I have to stay,” Arin continued. “To protect my brothers and sisters here.”

  “Arabus is simply using you to cover up his rot,” Ragnar said. “You’ll die.”

  “Then I’ll die with pride, Sir, protecting my comrades.”

  Ragnar exhaled slowly. Men like Arin were rare.

  “I respect your decision, soldier,” Ragnar said. “However… may I ask you something else?”

  Arin nodded.

  “What do you know about Fundamentalism?” Ragnar asked.

  Arin hesitated. Speaking against a commanding officer was one thing. Speaking about a blasphemous subject was another entirely.

  “You are a follower of God Aver, are you not?” Ragnar continued. “Doesn’t His teaching contain theories similar to Fundamentalism?”

  Arin’s eyes widened. While Aver, Lord of Flame and Sky, was a major god in his own right, in Arcadia most people spoke only of Amun. Such was the power of the Radiant Crown’s influence.

  “You have studied Holy Aver’s teachings, General?” Arin asked.

  “A little,” Ragnar replied.

  “It is true there are similarities,” Arin admitted. “However, after Fundamentalism was banned, no one dared to teach it again. Fear of the Prophet’s wrath was enough to erase it from most circles. What do you wish to know?”

  “How does a change in perception alter reality itself?” Ragnar asked.

  “Because perception is the fundamental truth, General. There is no single objective reality for everyone,” Arin said. He lifted his hand, and a bright blue flame bloomed above his palm.

  “Look beneath my hand.”

  On the underside of his palm, a thin layer of frost clung to the skin. He shifted the sigil with a flick of his fingers, and delicate snowflakes began to swirl where the flame was. The frost started to melt, and the heat radiating from his skin grew intense enough that they could feel it from where they stood.

  “Most fire mages are ice mages as well, though few realize it” Arin said. “But many do not understand why.”

  “The duality of Cause and effect. ,” Ragnar murmured. The connection clicked into place at last.

  Ragnar studied the flicker of flame and frost a moment longer. “So it isn’t just the elements,” he said quietly. “It’s the thread tying them together.”

  Arin gave a small nod but didn’t elaborate.

  Ragnar straightened, his gaze distant for a heartbeat. Shayara’s green arrow. Marius’s talk of shared minds. And now this, two opposites, bound by the same truth.

  He looked back at Arin. “You’ve given me enough to work with.”

  Marius smirked. “That’s dangerous talk coming from him.”

  Ragnar didn’t answer. The shape of an idea was already forming, sharp and dangerous, somewhere just beyond reach.