It was not long before the shape of the camp started to reveal itself.

  Brann caught his first glimpse of the outer walls through the trees, rough timber reinforced with iron bands, raised with the haste of soldiers who expected trouble but did not fear discovery, and who would blame them, no one had the courage to travel this far up North. He reined in at once, slid from the saddle, and led the steed deeper into cover. After binding it securely among thick roots and brush, he moved on alone, melting back into the forest that had already taught him how to walk unseen.

  With every step closer, sound returned to the world, and he welcomed it.

  Voices drifted through the trees... laughter, the ring of metal on metal, orders shouted and answered. The low murmur of many lives gathered in one place. After the suffocating silence of Duskmire, it felt almost overwhelming, a jarring reminder that men, not monsters, ruled this place, or so he thought.

  When he judged himself close enough, Brann chose a thick pine whose branches spread wide and dense. He climbed with care, testing each hold, and settled into the cover of needles and bark where no careless glance would betray him.

  From there, the camp lay open beneath his gaze.

  Soldiers moved everywhere, dozens at least, perhaps more, their armor dulled by use rather than neglect. Carts stood in ordered rows, heavy with supplies. Barrels, crates, bundled cloth. A small pen held goats and pigs, their restless sounds blending into the constant noise of the camp.

  Brann’s eyes narrowed as he began to read the place.

  There was a mess hall, easy to spot by the steady traffic and the smoke rising from its vents, nearby stood a medical tent, marked by stained cloth and the comings and goings of wounded men. An armory lay farther back, solidly built, guarded more carefully than the others. A large warehouse held supplies, its doors reinforced, positioned near the gates.

  Beyond those, things grew less certain.

  Several buildings were more isolated, their purpose hidden by placement alone. One structure caught his attention in particular, its windows barred despite being set well within the camp’s perimeter. It could have been a storehouse. It could have been something else entirely.

  A prison, perhaps…

  Brann studied the flow of soldiers, the patterns of movement, the gaps in watch. He committed it all to memory, breath slow, heart steady. This was not a temporary outpost. This was a functioning base, supplied, defended, and busy. Busy doing what was the first question Brann asked.

  Somewhere within the camp lay the truth behind the pit of bodies, the creature he had slain, and the rot spreading through the kingdom.

  The longer Brann watched, the clearer the truth became.

  This camp was a mask.

  There was nothing here that would stir the people into outrage. No obvious atrocity. No screaming proof that could be carried back to the cities and laid at the King’s feet. If discovered, this place would serve its purpose well. A training camp…A forward supply post, a necessary precaution near a dangerous forest, nothing more.

  Yet the lie showed its seams.

  Brann’s gaze followed the soldiers who slipped out through the rear of the camp, moving not toward the roads, but into Duskmire itself. They did not linger. They did not talk. They went in pairs or trios, disciplined and silent, and returned hours later with carts heavy enough to strain their axles.

  There was more hidden in the forest.

  Far more.

  He weighed his options with a soldier’s cold reason. One man against this many trained troops would be discovered eventually. Captured, questioned, erased. The smart choice would be to leave now, ride to Westmere, report that the rumors were true. That alone would be enough to unsettle Dorian and Lysa, perhaps enough to begin pulling threads.

  Yet something gnawed at him: The carts.

  There were too many of them, and they were not being emptied. They were being filled. Sacks hauled in from the forest’s depths, stacked and secured with care. Whatever lay inside those bags mattered.

  Enough to move under guard.

  Enough to keep on schedule.

  The sun slid lower, casting long shadows across the camp. Fires were lit. The noise shifted, evening settling into routine. Then the camp changed.

  A man stepped from one of the larger tents, wearing a light armor, cleaner than the rest, and a red cape on his back.

  Brann did not know him by name, but rank clung to the figure like a second cloak. Soldiers straightened as he passed. Conversations faltered. Eyes followed him, sharp and wary.

  The commander, the man in charge of this endeavor no doubt.

  Brann leaned forward slightly, straining to hear.

  One soldier approached and saluted:

  “Lord Kassyn! The last supply is almost ready. All we need is for you to add the runes.”

  Kassyn’s voice carried calm authority:

  “I am glad there were no delays. We are on a strict schedule.”

  The soldier nodded and withdrew.

  Brann’s breath slowed.

  Runes?

  Kassyn walked the line of wagons, methodical, unhurried. From a small case at his belt he withdrew carved stones and etched metal plates, placing them inside the wagons with practiced ease. Each placement was precise…Intentional.

  This was Activation.

  Brann’s fingers tightened against the bark of the tree.

  This was no mere supply run. Whatever those sacks held, they were being prepared. Bound to a purpose and changed.

  And now he had a name.

  Lord Kassyn.

  The forest did not feel quite as silent anymore.

  When Kassyn finished his work, he straightened and raised his voice:

  “The caravan is prepared. You know the route, Captain. See that everything is done properly. This is the last shipment. After this, our task is nearly complete.”

  The captain saluted with sharp pride and barked orders at once. Gates groaned open. Wheels creaked. One by one the wagons rolled out, soldiers forming ranks around them with practiced precision.

  Brann counted without moving.

  One.

  Two.

  Five.

  Ten.

  He reached thirty before the last wagon cleared the gate.

  The escort was heavy. Nearly eighty soldiers, armored and armed to excess. This was no routine transport. Whatever those wagons carried was precious, dangerous, or both.

  Brann’s jaw tightened. Following them across the open, snow covered fields would be suicide. The moment he left the forest’s edge, he would be seen. Even getting close enough to glimpse the cargo would be a gamble with long odds.

  But the camp itself had changed.

  With the caravan gone, the noise softened. Fewer patrols. Wider gaps. And Kassyn himself turned back toward the largest tent at the camp’s heart, two guards falling into place at its entrance.

  Brann watched him disappear inside.

  It was madness.

  And yet it was the best chance he would get.

  One man against a guarded commander was a terrible wager, but his instincts burned hot and certain. Something vast was unfolding here, something that could not wait for careful reports and safe distance. He needed answers now.

  Darkness crept over the land, dusk bleeding into night. Fires were lit, but shadows grew longer, deeper. Brann slid down from the tree, timing his descent with a shout from the far side of the camp. He vaulted the wooden fence in a single smooth motion. What would have been clumsy for another soldier was effortless for him now. His body moved with quiet purpose, enhanced, sharpened.

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  He became a shadow.

  Keeping to the backs of tents, he flowed through the camp, careful never to cross into firelight, never to let snow crunch beneath his boots. Voices passed close enough that he could smell stew and oil on armor, but no one looked his way.

  At last he reached the main tent.

  Brann crouched low, heart steady, breath slow. He pressed his ear against the thick fabric, every sense focused inward.

  Inside, voices murmured.

  He listened.

  Kassyn’s voice drifted through the thick canvas, calm and assured.

  “Yes. The last shipment has just left. There were no interferences, no delays. Everything proceeds as planned. Soon all the pieces will fall into place.”

  Brann held his breath.

  Kassyn was speaking to someone unseen, using a way of communication he was not familiar with, and somehow he could not hear the words coming from the other side.

  “How?” Brann wondered, pulse quickening.

  Kassyn continued, tone untroubled.

  “We will run the first test on Westmere’s Tip. The town is remote enough. No one will notice, especially in winter, when news crawls instead of runs.”

  Brann’s heart skipped hard enough to hurt.

  Westmere…

  A test?

  “What test?” his mind screamed. “What are you planning to do?”

  Kassyn went on, as if discussing nothing more than logistics:

  “There should be no survivors. Still, as a precaution, I will send some of the pets to encircle the settlement. If anyone attempts to flee, they will be dealt with.”

  Brann’s fingers dug into the frozen earth. His breath came shallow, controlled only by long habit.

  “Agreed,” Kassyn said after a pause. “I will send the report after the fact.”

  Silence followed.

  Then Kassyn spoke again, this time to no one but himself:

  “Naive fools…They still have no idea what I’m doing here. What I have discovered.” A soft laugh followed, low and pleased. “They will all understand soon enough, once the attack from the south begins, than I can finally shed this mask of obedience.”

  The sound of movement reached Brann’s ears. A shadow passed across the inner canvas, stretching and warping with the flicker of firelight. Kassyn crossed the tent and sat, the creak of a chair confirming what Brann already guessed was a desk.

  Brann pulled back from the fabric, every muscle coiled tight.

  Westmere was going to be wiped out.

  Not raided. Not punished.

  Erased!

  And whatever Kassyn had unleashed would be tested first on the people Brann had sworn, in his own way, to protect. This was no coincidence he was driven to this place by a higher force, something he couldn’t understand. For now I’ll call it intuition, he said to himself.

  There was no more time for caution.

  If Brann waited, Westmere would burn.

  He needed to get inside the tent, but the position of Kassyn’s desk made a direct cut impossible. One wrong sound, one shadow in the wrong place, and the commander would see him coming. He needed a distraction, something sharp enough to pull eyes away from the entrance, if only for a handful of heartbeats. He was certain Kassyn would talk once steel kissed skin.

  Three paths formed in his mind.

  He could kill a lone soldier and leave the body in the open. That would cause panic, shouting, confusion, but it would also bring a search, disciplined and thorough. Too much risk.

  He could start a fire. An accident, a spilled lantern, flames licking canvas. That would draw attention, but not for long, and fires were watched closely in camps like this.

  The third option made his lips twitch despite himself.

  The animals…

  If he loosed them into the camp and turned fear against chaos, eyes would scatter. Even if the guards at the tent did not move, their focus would break. That would be enough, plus it would be fun to watch the soldiers curse trying to round up the frighten animals.

  He chose the third.

  Moving low and quiet, Brann slipped around the pen and eased the gate open just enough to invite escape. Then he circled behind the enclosure and pressed his palm to the ground. Cold flowed outward, silent and precise, frosting the earth beneath the animals’ hooves.

  When the ice was set, he rose and stepped close to the fence. One quick jab of his sword and the pig exploded into motion.

  It leapt up shrieking, hooves skidding uselessly on the frozen ground. It slammed into another animal, which panicked in turn, squealing loud enough to cut through the camp’s noise. In moments the pen became chaos. Goats slipped and crashed. Pigs barreled blindly. The mass surged forward and struck the gate, forcing it wide.

  Livestock poured into the camp.

  Fires spooked them further. Animals slipped, collided, scattered in every direction, overturning buckets and knocking men off balance. Soldiers shouted and cursed, scrambling to contain the mess. Discipline fractured under the sheer absurdity of it.

  Brann was already moving.

  He slipped back toward the main tent and waited, body pressed into shadow.

  The canvas flap snapped open.

  Kassyn stepped out, irritation plain in his posture:

  “What is this?”

  One of the soldiers snapped to attention:

  “It seems the livestock has escaped, my lord.”

  Kassyn scoffed.

  “Foolishness” He waved a hand. “Help the others. Get them penned.”

  The guards moved at once, drawn into the confusion.

  Satisfied, Kassyn turned and went back inside, to his desk.

  Brann did not waste the moment.

  He slid through the tent flap like a breath of cold, blade already sheathed in frost. His movements were silent, impossibly fast. In three steps he crossed the space.

  Steel kissed skin.

  Kassyn looked up from his desk to find a frozen blade a finger’s breadth from his eye.

  Brann’s voice was calm, low, and deadly:

  “Don’t make a sound and you might keep your head.”

  Kassyn whistled softly, a low sound edged with amusement rather than fear:

  “You certainly caught me, soldier” he looked at the frozen blade…“Or perhaps you are not a soldier at all. What should I call you?”

  His ease unsettled Brann more than any struggle might have. A man with a blade at his eye should tremble. Kassyn only leaned back slightly, studying him as if this were an unexpected but welcome interruption.

  “Brann” he said at last.

  A wide smile spread across Kassyn’s face:

  “And what can I do for you, Brann.”

  “You can start by telling me what was inside those wagons,” Brann said “The ones that just left the camp.”

  Kassyn laughed quietly:

  “Is that truly it. You came all this way for that. Grain, my boy…Grain and corn.”

  Brann stiffened:

  “Do not play with me. No shipment of cereals needs that level of protection, or this much secrecy.”

  Kassyn tilted his head, eyes sharp now.

  “You really know nothing. Fascinating…Tell me, how did you even find this place.”

  “Someone told me,” Brann replied. “Now answer the question.”

  “That someone led you straight into hell,” Kassyn said lightly.

  Brann pressed the tip of his blade against Kassyn’s forehead. Frost spread at once, the skin blanching, then turning a bruised purple as the cold bit deep. Kassyn jerked back on instinct, breath hissing between his teeth.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “Ice. That is a rare power.”

  His gaze sharpened, a thought clicking into place:

  “You are the one who defeated Therun and his men. Yes…It must be you.”

  Brann did not move the blade:

  “What was in the wagons?”

  Kassyn exhaled and raised his hands slowly:

  “Very well. You have earned at least that much, if nothing else. I spoke the truth earlier. They carried supplies. Grain. Corn…”

  Brann’s eyes narrowed.

  “But that is only one piece,” Kassyn continued. “The runes I placed inside each wagon siphon energy and alter the contents. They need time and power to do their work. That is where the tunnels come in.”

  Brann’s jaw tightened.

  “If you faced Therun,” Kassyn said, settling back into his chair despite the blade, “then you know of the tunnels. They run beneath much of the kingdom. We filled them with raw crystals taken from Karn-Vareth. As the wagons pass through, the runes draw from those crystals. Distance is not wasted time. It is the process.”

  He folded his hands, entirely too calm:

  “The journey is what changes the cargo”

  “Changes it how?” Brann demanded.

  Kassyn’s eyes flicked up to his face:

  “First tell me something. Am I correct? You defeated Therun?”

  “I did,” Brann said. “But I did not kill him…the bastard escaped.”

  Kassyn’s brows rose:

  “So he lives…Hiding somewhere, like a coward.”

  “Enough,” Brann snapped. “Tell me.”

  Kassyn smiled again, slow and indulgent:

  “It is simple. Perhaps too simple for a common soldier…Those crystals hold raw power, unshaped, limitless in potential. I chose a shape, for their power.”

  His voice lowered, almost reverent

  “I shaped it into corruption”

  Brann felt the room tilt.

  “Every sack,” Kassyn went on, “every grain. Each meal taken spreads it further.

  Slowly.

  Subtly.

  People do not notice at first. They grow angrier. More fearful. Easier to guide. Easier to break, they lose their sense of self.”

  He met Brann’s eyes

  “You understand what that means?”

  Brann’s grip tightened horror filled his gaze, cold and sharp.

  Westmere was not a test of weapons.

  It was a test of rot, shaping wills , corrupting souls.