Mosun. A few hours after the battle.

  Smoke still hung over the city. Dark stains marked the cobblestones, and no one hurried to wash them away. Commanders counted the losses. Medics tried to reduce them by at least a few names. Warriors wandered between rows of bodies, searching for their own—and praying not to recognize familiar faces.

  The barricades had already been rebuilt: planks, beams, shattered wagon parts. The bridges were tightly sealed with stone and iron. Another assault across them now seemed almost impossible—at least for today.

  Many Rejected were taken prisoner. They had not managed to retreat across the bridge, and when the path back vanished, all that remained was to hope for the enemy’s mercy. A few tried to jump into the river. The water was cold, swift, indifferent. Armor pulled them down faster than fear could drive them forward.

  Among the captives, however, there were almost no Oaken. They had withdrawn in organized wedges, covering their flanks. Unlike the chaotic retreat of the Rejected, their ranks did not break. The royal soldiers never managed to cut off their escape.

  The army of Serain was still arriving in the city. New detachments, cavalry, and supply wagons gathered beneath the walls. A temporary headquarters was established in a stone hall above the northern pier—still smelling of fish and dampness, but the walls were solid.

  Inside, around two dozen people had assembled: generals, influential lords from various cities, and Iraktiy, representing Mosun. From the mercenaries—Balrek and Skeld. Also present were Prince Cael and the Suggestor Nahir.

  They were already finishing their explanations.

  Skeld spoke briefly and dryly, outlining the mercenaries’ actions after arriving in Korosten—and why Rianes chose to attack the Rejected in the forest instead of sealing himself inside the city and waiting.

  Balrek explained something else: why Atrion had yielded part of the territory to the enemy, abandoned villages, allowed half of Mosun to fall, leaving only the fortress of Korets and the inner fortifications.

  Every decision had its price. And that price now lay on the cobblestones beyond the walls.

  Serain had marched to war against a weak and fragmented enemy—at least, that was how the reports described them.

  He did not find such an enemy.

  Instead, he returned to a partially lost state and found a massive hostile army at the border.

  The discussion quickly turned into accusations. Some of the lords openly blamed the mercenaries for the loss of lands. Others insisted that without them, the kingdom would have lost far more.

  The loudest voice belonged to the lord of Sarholm—Nassivar. The most influential man after the king. Before the war, he had shared the title of “second after the king” with Iraktiy, but the latter had lost too much territory to retain his former weight.

  Serain cut the arguments short.

  “Enough. It no longer matters. We are planning the defense.”

  Nassivar did not lower his voice.

  “No longer matters? The mercenaries surrender our cities and our people to the enemy, and now we are supposed to fix it?”

  Iraktiy leaned forward.

  “And what, in your opinion, were they supposed to do to save our city?”

  “Defend Korosten, of course. Its walls are high. They only needed to hold for a week. Just one week. Instead, they provoke the Rejected in their own den, and then Atrion hands them our lands.”

  He paused.

  “And why is he not here? Why are others answering in his place?”

  Serain replied coldly.

  “Atrion is in the infirmary. Head injury. Karasel struck him hard.”

  “Damn Oaken,” Nassivar hissed. “I said they should have been completely isolated.”

  The news of Atrion’s injury strangely eased the tension. Some felt relief—one less political force in the room. Others felt unease: the finest warrior on the continent was out of the game.

  The tone shifted. More restrained.

  The generals bent over the map. Fingers traced rivers and mountain passes. Arguments rose—numbers, reserve counts, proposed defensive lines. Responsibility began to take shape.

  Balrek and Skeld stood aside. Nahir approached them quietly.

  He spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. In the general murmur, no one could hear them.

  “Have Katerina and Velm regained consciousness?”

  “Yes,” Skeld replied. “They’ve started walking.”

  “Tell me about the enemy unit.”

  “There was a leading Rejected. The name… Rau, or something similar. Luga's disease completely covered his body. Skin dark as the night sky. But dense—almost stone to the touch.”

  Nahir narrowed his eyes.

  “A rare case.”

  “And the Suggestor…” Skeld paused for a moment. “I’ve never felt anything like that. His influence twisted everything around him. He blanketed entire units. Three of ours couldn’t suppress him. Katerina survived by a miracle.”

  Nahir’s brows drew together into a single line. A massive army. A Suggestor of the highest degree. It was hard to imagine a worse combination.

  “We need to find out who they are,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, we will not win.”

  Balrek intervened.

  “And what did you learn in Solmar?”

  Nahir’s gaze grew heavier.

  “We learned that Solmar no longer exists. That army destroyed it. They provoked a border conflict so the Palmers would suspect us. The Palmers gathered their forces. Then the Rejected struck them in the back. Cities burned. Villages as well. They left no locals alive.”

  He added shortly,

  “That is what awaits us if we lose.”

  Balrek inclined his head.

  “Then why didn’t they advance further? Why not lay siege to Sarholm? Why bypass the mountains and march on Korosten?”

  “I don’t know,” Nahir replied quietly. “We left Pantur there with part of the army. He is supposed to hold the defense.”

  The murmur in the hall did not fade. Lords and generals divided defensive sectors, argued over fortifications, reserves, and supply lines. Defense in Mosun and Korosten was considered a privilege: walls, warehouses, workshops, barracks. Soldiers there had a roof over their heads and warm food.

  The banks of Leshina were another matter. Open, windswept, in places completely bare. At night, the cold cut to the bone, and the ground froze faster than redoubts could be built. Even if the chance of battle in those sectors was minimal, no one wanted responsibility for them.

  Iraktiy rose.

  “Listen. When the real frosts come, the water level will fall. Near the rapids, there will be a place where Leshina can be crossed on foot.”

  Serain tilted his head.

  “On the north?”

  “Yes. The rapids. And we need to prepare defenses there now.” He scanned the hall. “Any volunteers?”

  The silence grew heavier than stone.

  Nassivar of Sarholm slowly folded his hands behind his back.

  “That is the responsibility zone of Mosun. Therefore, the people of Mosun should handle their defense. You know the terrain. It is your land. We will determine how many troops we can allocate to support you.”

  “Support?” Iraktiy’s voice sharpened. “Scraps? And you will remain behind walls and in warm brothels? If not for the sacrifice of our people, you would already be retreating toward the capital. Let me remind you: it was the men of Mosun who held back the Rejected today.”

  Serain added dryly,

  “And The Compact.”

  “Yes,” Iraktiy nodded. “And The Compact. We will not forget their sacrifice. And Rianes personally.”

  Nassivar smiled without warmth.

  “You seem to forget that a few weeks ago, you did not join the army when the enemy advanced from Solmar. Do not pretend to be a martyr. You became a victim because you failed to support us then.”

  The words struck like a shot.

  Accusations flew in response. Some tried to remain neutral, but most had already chosen their side.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  An hour passed in shouting before Serain rose to his feet.

  “Enough.” His voice was calm, but dangerous. “One more word—and I will make the decision myself. And not all of you will like it.”

  The tension broke instantly. Silence spread through the hall.

  “Very well,” Nassivar said coldly. “It seems we are finished for today. I suggest we disperse. We all have matters to attend to.”

  The lords began to stand.

  “Stop.”

  Balrek’s voice was not loud, but it carried clearly.

  “What do you mean, ‘finished’? You’ve been sitting here for two hours and have decided on nothing. Who is responsible for what? Who forms the reserves? Who takes the first defensive line at the rapids? Are you mocking us? Where are the decisions?”

  The mention of the rapids plunged the hall back into silence.

  Because everyone understood: whoever went there would be the first to meet the enemy.

  Serain seemed to have been waiting for this. He slowly turned to Balrek.

  “If you have ideas—propose them.”

  Balrek did not hesitate.

  “Korosten and Mosun are defended by local forces. They know the fortifications, the passages, the weak points. The arriving armies take other sectors along Leshina, with rotation rights—cohorts switching with locals for recovery.”

  He paused.

  “We take the rapids. With representatives from Mosun. If the king allocates additional resources: engineers, timber, supplies.”

  Several lords exchanged glances.

  It was rational. And, most importantly, not their problem.

  Serain surveyed the hall.

  “Objections?”

  Silence.

  Balrek’s proposal was balanced enough that no one wished to challenge it. And everyone understood: any other sector was preferable to the rapids.

  “Accepted,” the king said shortly.

  He declared the session over. Within minutes, the heavy doors closed behind the last lord.

  Only Serain and Nahir remained in the hall.

  Outside, the sound of hammers still echoed—the city preparing for another war. Inside, a different conversation was about to begin.

  “Serain, wait. There is one more matter.”

  The king stopped by the door without turning.

  Nahir continued, more quietly.

  “Balrek and Skeld confirmed the information about the Rejected commander and the Suggestor.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means we must find out who they are and where they came from. And inform… the right people.”

  He paused.

  “We may have encountered another at the fifth stage.”

  The king slowly turned his head.

  “Moreover,” Nahir added, “we need allies. And reinforcements.”

  “For allies, we will have to travel far to the west.”

  “And for information as well.”

  A few seconds of silence.

  “You want me to go to Lugarn,” Serain said evenly, “and then to Viscol.”

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  “Do you know what awaits me there?”

  “An old and repulsive king. And then a self-absorbed and domineering one. Yes?”

  “Exactly.”

  The king stepped closer.

  “And in the end, you want me to visit yet another—an old, repulsive, self-absorbed, domineering Suggestor. Gannud.”

  “Visit,” Nahir nodded calmly. “And tell him everything you know about this Rejected Suggestor. Perhaps he will offer insight.”

  “And if he does not? Will you suggest I go to Dagmar?”

  “Dagmar is an extreme measure. We will send someone else to him.”

  Their gazes locked. Both understood: this was not merely a diplomatic journey. It was a demonstration of weakness.

  Serain said nothing more. He opened the door and stepped into the cold air.

  On the threshold, he stopped.

  “Find Syra. Tell her: the day after tomorrow, she leaves with Cael and me.”

  The door closed.

  That same evening, at the other end of Mosun, the commanders of Ranuver’s army gathered in their headquarters.

  If Serain had not arrived in time, the forces of the Rejected would not have left the battlefield in defeat. It showed on the officers’ faces—restraint mixed with irritation.

  Among those present were Varek and Sivash.

  Ranuver stood beside a map of the city.

  “The forces of Ceredan have established defensive lines along all riverbanks within the city. Both bridges are blocked. Crossing is no longer possible.”

  He traced the line of the river with his finger.

  “The estimated size of Serain’s army is around eighty thousand. He left part of his forces on the border with Solmar, so he cannot use his full potential.”

  Ranuver shook his head.

  “And it is still enough. If he holds the river, without a secure bridgehead, we will not break them. We will be stuck here—among marshes and wind.”

  Navren lifted his gaze.

  “Any information on Atrion?”

  “Moderate head injury,” Ranuver replied. “He will survive. In a few weeks, he may return to command.”

  “A pity,” Navren said calmly. “Head injuries are unpredictable. The consequences may surface later.”

  He turned to Varek.

  “And Karasel?”

  “Severe wounds,” Varek answered dryly. “Condition unstable.”

  “Let us hope he survives.”

  Navren allowed himself a faint smile.

  “You Logs did well. Another few days earlier, and Ceredan would already be running west.”

  A brief pause settled over the hall.

  Everyone understood: they had been close. Too close.

  And that was precisely why the defeat tasted worse.

  The dialogue dragged.

  Proposals barely surfaced. Decisions refused to form. Silence slowly pushed initiative out of the room.

  Seizing the pause, Navren turned to Hukan.

  “Perhaps you have a suggestion? What do we do next?”

  “We leave part of the troops here for cover. The main forces search for another place to cross the river.”

  “A sound observation,” Navren replied dryly. “Brilliant. And refreshingly original. Cross the river. Now we only need to find where it agrees.”

  He swept his gaze across the hall.

  “Does anyone already know where?”

  Ranuver leaned over the map.

  “In a month, the mountain rivers will freeze, and the water level will drop. A ford may appear. We should look where the channel of Leshina widens—the current is weaker there.”

  Officers bent over the maps. Focused silence returned to the headquarters.

  Navren exhaled, as if tired of waiting. His finger traced the parchment.

  “You are looking in the wrong place. Here. The rapids.”

  He tapped the mark.

  “If we want to cross on bison, it would be preferable that they do not have to swim.”

  Several heads lifted.

  “I have already checked. The frosts will do half the work for us. We only need to arrive before they do.”

  He tapped the mark again.

  The silence cracked.

  The discussion ignited instantly—route options, timing, supply calculations, and the number of covering detachments. Defeat began to fade into the background, replaced by a new wager.

  The rapids.

  Now both sides were looking at the same point on the map.

  Varek did not join the discussion. While the others argued over the map, he quietly left the headquarters.

  Outside, Rongo was waiting for him.

  Karasel regained consciousness. He’s better. He’s asking for you.”

  Varek headed to the infirmary at once.

  The temporary infirmary had been set up in a temple. The stone walls still held the cold; beneath the vaults lingered the scent of blood and herbs. Healers moved between the wounded. Groans mixed with prayers.

  Karasel lay in a separate chamber—he had to be put back on his feet faster than the others. His body was bandaged; stitches tightened his dark skin, and the wrappings were already soaked with brown stains. He had lost a great deal of blood, but his condition had stabilized.

  Varek entered without ceremony.

  “You called? Looks like you’re coming back to yourself.”

  “Yes. The healers know their craft.”

  Karasel spoke slowly, but firmly.

  “I didn’t have time to thank you. If not for your unit, we would not have made it out. You came when others were fleeing and thinking only of themselves.”

  “You should never have been on that flank in the first place. Why did you charge the pikes? So the Rejected could leave you to cover their retreat?”

  “We are all doing the same work.”

  “No. Some sit safely in the rear. And you are thrown into the vanguard.”

  Varek leaned closer.

  “What do you think will happen when they have to retreat into the forest? They will leave you behind. They will try to stop Serain with your bodies.”

  Karasel allowed himself a faint smile.

  “You chose an interesting moment for your perspective. You may have the chance to use it.”

  He shifted his gaze to the ceiling.

  “That is why I called you.”

  Varek remained silent.

  “I have already informed the elders that I am relinquishing the title of Supreme in your favor.”

  A pause.

  “You were the only one who advised me not to join this army. Now the decisions will be yours. Tomorrow I will tell Ranuver and the others.”

  Varek’s expression did not change.

  “I’m warning you. I will take our people. We will return home. And we will try to mend relations at least with Balrek.”

  “I hope,” Karasel replied quietly, “that your rule will be better.”

  Varek said nothing. He turned and walked out of the temple.

  Night fell over Mosun. The lights on the towers trembled in the wind.

  Velm lay in a bed in one of the inner chambers. His face still bore the marks of Suggestion influence — distorted features, unnatural pallor, fine lines that had not been there before. Yet his skin was slowly regaining color, muscles settling back into place, his gaze clearing.

  There was a knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, the visitor entered.

  Nahir.

  “Glad to see you, colleague,” Velm said without rising. “Judging by your fresh face, the march to Solmar was rather easy?”

  “So easy I could have taken a hoe instead of a mace. The result would have been the same.”

  Velm chuckled softly, the bandages shifting slightly.

  “How can I be of use in this condition?”

  Nahir sat beside him.

  “There is a matter. The king wants to secure allies with resources. And gather as much information as possible about the rejected commander. Especially the Suggestor.”

  “I did not face him. That was Katerina. She knows more.”

  “We have already spoken with her. It is something else. The king intends to visit Gannud and extract everything he knows. But their relationship… is complicated. He may refuse to help.”

  Velm studied him more closely.

  “I do not know him at all. Perhaps we should get straight to the point?”

  “If Serain fails to reach an agreement,” Nahir continued calmly, “once you regain your strength, you will travel to Innorat. You will speak with Dagmar.”

  Velm laughed again—shorter this time. He tried to rise, but instead simply sat upright on the bed.

  “Oh, Dagmar certainly knows something. He always knows something.”

  His smile faded.

  “But the news about Rianes may sour his mood. If I go alone, he will not see it as respect. Someone must stand beside me—someone who demonstrates our seriousness.”

  “The king cannot be in two places at once.”

  “He does not need to be.”

  Velm lifted his gaze.

  “It should be Atrion.”

  “Atrion in a city of the Rejected?” Nahir raised a skeptical brow. “That sounds unrealistic.”

  “Perhaps. But the king can give the order.”

  A few seconds of silence.

  “Very well,” Nahir said at last. “I understand. I will speak with him.”

  Their conversation was shattered by noise from the opposite bank.

  The shouts of the Oaken rolled through the night. Torches flared in the darkness, and arrows flew chaotically from across the river. The city woke in an instant.

  Varek was already running, a guard at his side, toward the infirmary.

  They forced their way through the temple corridors, past rows of wounded. Groans, curses, the smell of blood—all merged into one.

  The Warriors had gathered outside a separate chamber. No one dared enter first.

  Varek did not hesitate.

  He stepped inside.

  Karasel lay motionless.

  A dark stain had already spread across his chest. From beneath the bandages protruded a dagger.

  The strike had been precise. Straight into the heart. Death—instant. No struggle. No cry.

  Varek moved closer slowly. He did not pull the blade free. The blood had already begun to thicken. The room carried the metallic scent of it. Something crunched beneath his hand—a fragment of dried bandage. On the metal, an engraving.

  Black Directive.

  The message was simple: we do not forgive.

  Varek held his gaze on the blade for another moment. Then he turned to the others.

  “Now no one is going anywhere.”

  He stepped outside.