The rebel camp at Emberfall was restless.
Ash clung to the air. The fires burned low, and even the sentries spoke in hushed voices. Word of a failed convoy ambush had spread fast — and worse, rumors of a new face among the Howling Pact.
Shina crouched by a worn stone, wrapping fresh linen around a shallow cut on her forearm. She tried to focus on the task, but her attention kept drifting to the group of scouts gathered nearby.
Three of them, faces dirt-smeared and weary, spoke in tight voices.
"—Mark Arkios. That's what they're calling him."
"Another one of Shadow's dogs?"
"Worse. Outsider. Some say he's Crown-touched, others say Pact-blooded. Either way, fast. Ruthless. Took down three men at Red Hollow himself."
Shina's fingers froze on the bandage.
Mark Arkios…
The name meant nothing. But the rest…
Fast. Outsider. Red Hollow.
Her pulse quickened. She bit her lip hard, forcing herself to stay still.
"I saw him," one scout added, his voice lower now. "Face was hidden, but the eyes… cold. Gray. Like storm clouds."
Shina's chest tightened.
Gray. Eyes.
Just like Mazen.
She stood abruptly, ignoring the sting in her arm.
Mirra appeared at her shoulder.
"Easy."
Shina didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Her mind spun.
She told herself it couldn't be. That it was just another ghost in a land full of them.
But deep down, the ache in her chest said otherwise.
And it wasn't going away.
Night at the Howling Pact camp was never quiet.
The men swapped stories after raids, boasting, mocking, sometimes mourning. Tonight was no different, though a new name passed between them like a spark.
"Nermin," one of the younger scouts muttered, sharpening his blade.
Mazen, seated by the fire, looked up absently.
"Who?"
The scout grinned. "Masked rebel. Hits patrols near Emberfall. Quick. Deadly. Rumor says she moves like a ghost, leaves Crown boys bleeding out before they can raise a hand."
Calen snorted from across the flames.
"Another damned Ember clan killer."
"No," the scout insisted. "Not one of them. New blood. No one knows where she came from, but she's already earned a bounty."
That caught Mazen's ear.
A strange weight settled in his stomach. He stared into the fire.
Nermin.
Rebel. Fast. Silent.
He didn't know the name. But something about the way the scout described her — the stubbornness, the boldness — tugged at a memory he refused to chase.
Gray eyes met Shadow's across the fire. The masked man gave a knowing tilt of his head, as if to say, don't ask questions you don't want answers to.
Mazen forced a dry laugh.
"Rebels and ghost stories," he muttered. "This land makes people see what they want."
And yet, as he laid back against a stone, one thought gnawed at him:
I've heard that name before… haven't I?
But he let it slide.
Because chasing ghosts was for the dead.
Darian Vorak stood beneath the cracked stone arch of an old outpost, a tattered map spread before him. Distant fires burned along the ridgelines.
He spoke without looking up.
"Raise the price on the outsider. Double it."
A captain at his side hesitated. "Already high, sir."
"Then make it higher. Dead or alive. I want heads on pikes before Emberfall's next moonrise."
The captain gave a stiff nod and turned to leave.
Vorak's gaze narrowed on another parchment beside the map.
A rough sketch of a woman's masked face, and a hastily scrawled name.
Nermin
Alias: The Shadowed Wolf
Wanted for multiple Crown patrol ambushes.
Vorak smirked.
"Guess the wolves run in pairs these days."
He grabbed a dagger and pinned both bounty notices to the timber post outside the outpost gate. The wind caught the edges, making them flutter like restless ghosts.
By morning, every mercenary, cutthroat, and bounty hunter from Emberfall to the Ash Spires would know those names.
The Black Tear.
The Shadowed Wolf.
And blood was going to pay for them.
Shina sat beside it, still rattled from the stories of Mark Arkios. She forced herself to steady her hands when Mirra dropped a folded parchment into her lap.
"Got this off a dead patrol captain," Mirra said. "You'll want to see it."
Shina unfolded it, eyes skimming the list of prisoner names and convoy routes. Most meant nothing. Just names. Numbers. Sins against the Crown.
But one line made her stomach drop.
Abdou — prisoner manifest ID: 73-C. Destination: Obsidian Citadel.
Her pulse hammered in her ears.
Abdou.
Not a common name in this realm. And here, where only those who crossed realms or carried forbidden blood were locked away in the Citadel?
It had to be him.
Mazen's father.
"Where's this convoy moving?" she asked, voice tight.
"South pass," Mirra said. "Two nights from now. Heavily guarded."
"I want in."
Mirra studied her a moment, then gave a single nod.
"You better be sure. That route's death."
"I'm sure."
Because if this was Abdou — it meant Mazen's father was alive.
And where the father was…
She clung to the hope she hadn't dared speak aloud.
The Howling Pact camp was restless again.
Calen Wolfscar slammed a dagger into the map spread on a rough table.
"Convoy here," he growled, tapping a marked pass on the tattered parchment. "Two nights from now. We hit it before it reaches the Citadel."
Mazen — Mark Arkios — leaned in, watching the red ink circle the route.
"What's in it?" he asked.
"Prisoners. Some rebel filth, some Crown debtors, and one high-value. Orders are to take the wagon intact."
Mazen's stomach twisted, though he didn't know why.
Shadow, watching quietly from the shadows — as always — gave him a look.
"You'll lead the second wave."
Mazen nodded, jaw tight.
Across the valley, Emberfall's war council was gathering.
Mirra laid out the same map, the same route.
"Convoy comes through the south pass at dawn, two days. We hit it hard, we take what we can, and we leave no witnesses."
Shina — Nermin now — sat across from her, gaze hard.
"I'm taking the lead wagon," she said.
Mirra raised a brow. "That's a death run."
"Doesn't matter."
Because Abdou might be inside.
And if there was even a chance… she wasn't letting it slip.
The pieces were moving.
The same convoy.
Two rebel factions.
Two masked faces.
And another war waiting to happen.