The rebels moved like shadows through the valley, their forms blending into the jagged rocks and dense underbrush that lined the path toward Mordain’s forward camp. The night was moonless, the only light coming from the faint flicker of torches in the distance, where the enemy camp stood nestled at the base of the cliffs.

  Alric crouched behind a boulder, scanning the camp from afar. It was larger than he’d expected—rows of tents arranged in tight formation, surrounded by wooden barricades and patrolled by soldiers in polished armor. Torches lined the perimeter, their flames casting long, flickering shadows over the camp.

  He counted at least fifty guards moving among the tents, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. Near the center of the camp stood a cluster of wagons piled high with crates—supplies the soldiers would need to sustain their campaign. Food, weapons, and armor. If those supplies burned, Mordain’s army would be crippled.

  Iridia slid up beside him, her expression grim as she surveyed the camp. “You sure about this plan, prince? A lot can go wrong in there.”

  Alric glanced at her, his jaw tight. “If we don’t take this chance, Mordain will overrun us. We don’t have the numbers for a direct fight, so we hit them where it hurts.”

  Iridia studied him for a moment before nodding. “All right. Just don’t get yourself killed. We can’t afford to lose you now.”

  She gestured to the group of rebels gathered behind them—ten men and women, handpicked for the mission. Each carried a torch wrapped in cloth to muffle the light, along with small vials of oil for spreading fire. They were quiet, tense, their faces a mixture of determination and fear.

  Alric took a deep breath, gripping the hilt of the obsidian dagger at his side. The weight of the mission pressed down on him, but he pushed it aside. Failure wasn’t an option.

  “Move out,” he said quietly.

  The rebels split into three groups, each assigned to a different section of the camp. Alric led his group toward the supply wagons, while Iridia and the others targeted the barracks and the armory. The plan was simple: strike fast, set the fires, and retreat before the soldiers could regroup.

  As Alric crept closer to the camp, Kaelion’s voice sounded in his mind, low and sharp.

  “Stay low. Watch the patrols. You’re not invincible, boy.”

  “I know,” Alric whispered.

  “Do you?” Kaelion asked, his tone skeptical. “You’ve tasted our power. I’ve seen what it does to men like you. It makes you reckless. Don’t let it blind you.”

  Alric didn’t respond. He didn’t need another lecture—not now. His focus was on the task ahead.

  The perimeter guards were the first obstacle. Alric watched their movements, noting the rhythm of their patrols. When one guard moved past his hiding spot, Alric slipped out of the shadows, his dagger flashing in the torchlight.

  The guard didn’t even have time to cry out. Alric caught him from behind, the blade sliding cleanly between the man’s ribs. He lowered the body to the ground, his breath steady despite the tension in his chest.

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  “Efficient,” Kaelion said approvingly. “You’re getting better.”

  Alric ignored him, motioning for the rebels to follow.

  The supply wagons loomed ahead, stacked high with crates and barrels. Alric’s group moved quickly, pouring oil over the wagons and dousing the ground around them. The air grew heavy with the pungent scent, and Alric’s heart pounded as he lit his torch, the flames dancing in the darkness.

  “Light it up,” he said.

  The rebels moved as one, setting their torches to the oil. The flames caught instantly, roaring to life and consuming the wagons in seconds. The fire spread fast, crackling and spitting as it devoured wood and cloth.

  Shouts erupted from the camp as the guards realized what was happening. Alric turned to his group, his voice sharp.

  “Fall back! Now!”

  The rebels retreated, slipping into the shadows as chaos erupted behind them. Soldiers scrambled to put out the flames, their voices rising in panic as the fire spread to nearby tents.

  But Alric’s retreat was cut short.

  A shout rang out behind him, and he turned to see a group of soldiers charging toward them, their swords drawn. At their head was a man in a crimson cloak, his armor gleaming with ornate gold inlays. His eyes locked on Alric, and his lips curled into a cruel smile.

  “Traitor,” the man spat. “You think you can challenge the Regent?”

  Alric’s blood ran cold as the soldiers closed in. He raised his dagger, the obsidian blade pulsing faintly in the firelight.

  Kaelion’s voice rang out in his mind, urgent. “This is no ordinary captain. He’s trained to kill men like you. Be ready.”

  The crimson-cloaked man lunged, his sword flashing toward Alric’s chest. Alric dodged to the side, his movements quick and fluid, and countered with a strike of his own. The dagger’s blade met the man’s sword, the clash of steel ringing out like thunder.

  The man was fast—faster than anyone Alric had faced before. He pressed the attack, his strikes precise and relentless. Alric struggled to keep up, the weight of the dagger growing heavier with each clash.

  “Use me,” Kaelion said. “You can’t beat him on your own. Call my power, or you’ll die here.”

  Alric hesitated, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But he knew Kaelion was right. He couldn’t win this fight alone.

  Closing his eyes for the briefest moment, he reached for the Echo’s presence. Heat surged through his veins, and when he opened his eyes, they glowed faintly with golden light.

  Kaelion’s power flooded through him, sharpening his senses and quickening his movements. The next time the crimson-cloaked man struck, Alric was ready. He parried the blow with ease, his dagger flashing in a blur of motion.

  The man’s confidence faltered as Alric pressed the attack, driving him back with a series of rapid strikes. The obsidian blade cut through armor and flesh, leaving dark trails of energy in its wake.

  With a final, desperate lunge, Alric drove the dagger into the man’s chest. The crimson-cloaked captain gasped, his sword falling from his hand as he crumpled to the ground.

  The remaining soldiers hesitated, their resolve faltering as they saw their leader fall.

  “Run,” Alric growled, his golden eyes blazing.

  The soldiers fled, disappearing into the night.

  The rebels regrouped outside the camp, their faces alight with a mixture of relief and exhilaration. The fires still raged behind them, consuming the supply wagons and spreading to the surrounding tents.

  Iridia approached Alric, her expression grim but satisfied. “You did it,” she said. “The supplies are gone, and the camp’s in chaos. Mordain will feel this.”

  Alric nodded, though his body felt heavy with exhaustion. The power of the Echoes had saved him again, but he could feel its toll—a lingering ache in his chest, a weight in his mind that refused to lift.

  Kaelion’s voice was quieter now, almost distant. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

  But Alric couldn’t shake the memory of Maltheron’s warning: The blood will always claim its own.

  As the rebels retreated into the safety of the mountains, Alric couldn’t help but wonder how much of himself he’d already lost—and how much more he would have to sacrifice before the war was over.

  For now, though, the rebellion burned brighter than ever.

  And so did the fire in his blood.