Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Zander strode toward the major, posture relaxed—but there was an edge to his voice when he spoke.
“I’m taking Thrall Squad on a training run.”
Major Ledor didn’t even glance up from his ledger. “The newly bonded?”
“All of them,” Zander replied, already anticipating the pushback.
The major finally looked at him, eyes narrowing. “The Lowborn Squad can remain here. They’ve had enough excitement for one week.”
Zander’s jaw twitched, but he gave a curt nod. “Understood.”
He turned back to us, silent confirmation that the others—would stay behind. This was our mission. Our burden to bear.
We spread out across the Ascension Grounds, the call going out silently between rider and dragon.
I didn’t try to be soft this time.
No warmth. No hope.
Just duty.
Kaelith.
I didn’t ask. I didn’t beg. I didn’t try to win her favor.
Because there was no favor left to win.
We were stuck together.
And I would do my duty.
But that was it.
She didn’t respond.
Not with words.
But seconds later, her wings carved through the air above me, slicing across the sky like a blade dipped in dusk. She landed with a thunderous beat of wind, violet scales glinting beneath the moonlight.
The others joined her—Hein, Temil, Narvea, Kass, Lola, Koddos—the dragons assembled without hesitation, ready.
Zander didn’t mention saddles.
Which meant the outpost wasn’t far.
I reached for the rope tied to Kaelith’s ridgeline, looped it through my fingers, and hauled myself up.
No words between us.
No bond warmth.
Just cold precision.
And a mission waiting beyond the hills.
We took off as one, dragons surging into the sky with a thunder of wings and wind. Kaelith rose without hesitation, her movements powerful and precise, as if she were following instinct, not will. I didn’t speak to her. She didn’t speak to me.
Above us, Hein led the flight, his silver-blue wings cutting through clouds like a blade parting silk. He moved with purpose, heading southeast—toward Brosha’s border.
I knew we were close when the wind shifted, warmer, carrying the faintest scent of ash.
Zander’s mind brushed against mine, steady, open.
Are you alright?
Fine, I replied, then hesitated before asking, What’s the name of the outpost?
There was a beat of silence before he answered.
Haldrin Outpost. One of the old supply stations from before the Unification. There are dozens of them scattered across the continent, quiet now, mostly used for refueling, message drops, merchant rest. But Haldrin sits right on the edge of Brosha’s boundary.
So it was important once?
It still is. Enough that someone took it.
I didn’t ask how he knew.
We all felt the shift in the wind, the slow descent as Hein dipped lower, signaling us to follow.
That’s when I saw it.
Smoke.
Thin at first, curling like dark fingers through the clouds—but then thicker, denser, pulling upward from charred roofs and smoldering trees.
The outpost came into view as we circled—a ring of stone walls cracked and broken in places, the central tower half-collapsed, its banner torn to shreds. What had once been a well-kept military hub was now a scar on the land, blackened and gutted.
Barracks burned to the foundation.
Wagons overturned.
There was movement below.
But the fire was fresh.
We landed in a wide arc beyond the shattered outer walls, the dragons touching down with practiced grace. Dust and ash blew across the clearing, the scent of smoke clinging to everything—hair, armor, skin.
Kaelith didn’t even look at me when I dismounted. She turned away, wings folding tight against her back as if this place disgusted her. I didn’t blame her.
None of us spoke as we approached the outpost.
The gate hung crooked on one hinge, blackened and half-melted from fire. Inside, the once-proud station had collapsed into something ruined. Stone walls charred. Tents reduced to ash and canvas scraps. Wooden structures now piles of soot and jagged beams. It didn’t look like a military hub anymore.
It looked like a graveyard.
But it was still alive.
People moved like shadows through the wreckage, silent, many with their eyes fixed on the dirt at their feet. The outpost had always been more than just a supply station—it was a village, a home for the families who manned it, who kept the communication lines running between kingdoms.
Now, it was a village of mourning.
We came upon a funeral procession in the central square.
Rows of people in soot-stained cloaks lined up on either side of a long trench, freshly dug, with eight bodies laid out beneath white shrouds.
The scent of charred flesh clung beneath the incense burning in chipped iron braziers.
A young girl clutched a wilted bouquet of field flowers, her knuckles white.
No one looked at us.
Not even the children.
It wasn’t disrespect.
It was fear.
They watched the bodies, not the dragons. Not the soldiers. As if meeting our eyes might bring more destruction.
As if we had brought it with us.
Dorian stepped out from one of the few standing buildings, the scorched door groaning behind him. His dark cloak was streaked with ash, and he looked more worn than regal, strands of hair clinging to his temple from sweat and smoke.
He spotted us immediately, his brows drawing together.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low but clipped.
Zander stepped forward before any of us could answer, his expression unreadable. “I could ask you the same question.”
Dorian glanced back toward the wreckage, the smoldering remains of a community still trying to breathe beneath its ashes. “I was following a lead,” he said. “There were rumors this had become a Varnari outpost. But now…”
He motioned subtly toward the funeral procession. The way the townspeople moved, silent, hollow-eyed—said enough.
“I think this was the Crimson Sigil. They are looking to take it by force.”
Zander’s gaze followed the line of mourners, the smoke curling through the square like a veil of grief. “We heard the same rumor, that this place had fallen to the Varnari. But I’m curious how it could have passed into the hands of either them or the Sigil without notice.”
Dorian sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “These outposts… they’re not well-policed. You know that. Too remote. Too easy to forget. The Order has always had… representatives stationed here for that very reason.”
My brows furrowed. “Representatives?”
Zander crossed his arms. “As long as they keep their thievery to acceptable levels, the crown looks the other way.”
Dorian nodded grimly. “That’s the unspoken rule. Let them keep a presence, and in exchange, the lines stay quiet. No assassinations. No sabotage.”
“That’s true,” Zander said. “The Order has… agents in most outposts, as far as I know.”
We all stood there, silent for a moment, while the air around us crackled with the scent of charred wood and rot. The funeral pyres burned low, and the people never turned to look at us.
We weren’t saviors.
Not here.
Just witnesses, arriving far too late.
Zander’s expression darkened as he stepped closer to Dorian, his voice low but edged with intent.
“Did you find anything useful about the Varnari? Who’s behind this?”
Dorian’s gaze shifted toward the burning remains of the outpost before settling on us again. There was a weariness to him—not physical, but political. The kind that came from watching cracks splinter through a kingdom’s foundation.
“They’ve infiltrated the castle,” he said bluntly.
That got everyone’s attention.
Ferrula cursed under her breath, and I felt my stomach knot.
Dorian continued, “I don’t know who’s pulling the strings, not yet. But the kingdoms are starting to fracture. Alliances are forming in places we once trusted. Some with the Crimson Sigil. Others with the Varnari.”
His voice dropped further, a grim finality in his words.
“All of them end with the crown in Warriath falling.”
Zander’s jaw clenched. “Then why would the Crimson Sigil attack here? This wasn’t a political stronghold. It was a supply outpost.”
Dorian shook his head, arms crossed as he glanced around at the scorched buildings, the funeral procession still lingering like a shadow behind us.
“I don’t think it’s just here. That’s what I’m investigating,” he said. “The Sigil and the Varnari aren’t fighting over people. They’re fighting over routes. Over control.”
He turned his gaze to Zander, focused and direct.
“These outposts make perfect waystations for an army.”
The words hung there like a blade in the air.
“You think they want open war with the crown?” Zander asked, brows drawn tight.
Dorian hesitated. Then shrugged—slowly, heavily. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Any war would leave us exposed.”
“To the Blood Fae,” I finished for him.
Dorian nodded. “Exactly. And none of us will survive what’s coming if the Sigil or the Varnari weaken us first.”
Silence settled over our group again, heavier than the smoke in the air.
Because we all knew—something was moving beneath the surface.
And it wasn’t going to stay in the shadows for long.
The shrill shout split the tension like a blade.
“There!”
Men burst from one of the blackened buildings, their armor scorched but intact, each chest emblazoned with a sigil I now hated more than death itself—a red sickle against a stark white field.
The Crimson Sigil.
“GET DOWN!” Dorian shouted, already drawing his sword as arrows hissed through the air.
Chaos ignited.
We dove for cover, scattering across the smoldering courtyard as arrows rained down. The villagers screamed, ducking into broken buildings and behind overturned wagons. It was impossible to tell who was where—the crowd was a blur of ash-streaked faces and screaming children.
And then—
Dark Fire.
It surged around us in streaks of searing black flame, curling and slashing through the smoke like serpents. The clouds above rumbled low and threatening, and I felt the storm inside me stir, my magic crackling beneath my skin like lightning begging to be unleashed.
Cordelle! I screamed in my mind. I turned just in time to see him cry out, staggering backward as an arrow embedded high in his shoulder. He dropped behind the broken husk of a stone planter, hand clutched to the wound, blood spilling bright against his pale skin.
People were running everywhere—screaming, colliding, trampling each other in blind panic. It was almost impossible to aim with so many innocents caught in the chaos.
But there was no time to think.
A man wearing the Crimson Sigil emblem charged at me from the side, blade raised, teeth bared behind a damaged iron helm.
I spun, drawing my dagger in one motion.
Our blades met with a sharp clang, the impact jarring my shoulder.
He was fast—faster than I expected—but he didn’t fight with discipline.
He fought with fury.
He slashed again, aiming for my ribs. I ducked low, swept my leg, caught him off balance. He snarled and swung downward, slicing through the edge of my cloak as I twisted beneath his strike.
I lunged upward, dagger aimed for his side—but he caught my wrist, twisting it with brutal force.
Pain flared down my arm, my magic stuttering, refusing to rise fast enough. He knocked me back against the crumbled stone and raised his sword—
“Ashe!” Dorian’s voice rang out.
A crack split the sky.
BOOM.
Lightning forked from the clouds like a spear thrown by the gods.
It struck the man mid-step, igniting his body in a burst of searing white light.
He crumpled into a smoking heap at my feet, steam rising from the scorched ruin of his armor.
I stared, chest heaving.
The storm had answered—but I wasn’t sure it was mine.
Within seconds, the battlefield fell silent.
Where just moments before the air had screamed with arrows and fire, now there was only the crackle of dying flames and the soft moan of smoke curling into the sky. The outpost—once filled with the sounds of life, then death—now stood still.
Empty.
The villagers had vanished, ducking into the remains of huts and storage cellars. They were still here—I could feel them, huddled behind broken walls, holding their breath.
But the men in the sickle-marked armor… they were all on the ground.
Some had died by sword. Others by magic. A few had been torn down by dragons who refused to wait on command.
We had defended the outpost.
But the cost was still bleeding in front of me.
I sprinted toward Cordelle, who was slumped against a broken wall, pale but conscious, his breathing uneven. The arrow in his shoulder jutted high, blood soaking the side of his tunic.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him.
“Did we win?” he asked, voice light with pain.
I didn’t answer. I just gripped the arrow firmly and yanked it free in one smooth, brutal motion.
He hissed through his teeth but didn’t scream.
Dorian knelt beside me, already handing me a small metal case—one of the field med kits we all carried. I dressed the wound quickly, pressing the bandage hard to slow the bleeding, Cordelle gritting through every movement.
Only once he was stable did I look up—and see the blood dripping from beneath Dorian’s own armor. It stained the hem of his tunic, seeping into the ground unnoticed.
“You’re hurt.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll heal.”
I didn’t believe him. But I didn’t argue.
He stood, slow but composed, glancing once more at the carnage.
“Get your squad back to Warriath,” he said, voice low. “There will be more of this. And soon.”
Then he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled.
Within moments, a massive shadow swept down from the clouds—his dragon, Foran, sleek and silent with striking blue wings.
Dorian climbed onto the saddle without another word and took off, vanishing into the sky like a ghost bound by duty.
And just like that, we were alone again—breathing in the smoke, the silence, and the memory of the red sickle burned into the dirt.