The sun hung low over Count Eldric Vallorne's estate, casting long shadows across the sprawling manor grounds. It was far from the damp forests and rough camps the rebellion had been used to, and yet, despite the luxury, an uneasy air hung over the group.
Ashby stood with Gareth on a stone balcony overlooking the courtyard. Below, the recruits—still clad in ragged clothes, their forms hardened by weeks of training—stood at attention as Vallorne's guards observed them from a distance. The noble had agreed to house them, but that didn't mean trust had been established.
Ashby turned to Gareth, who had his arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the estate grounds like a wolf trapped in a den. "You still don't believe this is real, do you?" she asked.
Gareth exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "No noble hands out favors like this, least of all one who's kept his head by staying on the right side of the royal family. You should be asking why Vallorne's playing both sides."
She wanted to believe Casandra's story—that Vallorne had something to gain. A noble didn't risk his title without reason. But Gareth's suspicion was valid. "I don't like it either," Ashby admitted, gripping the stone railing. "That's why we need to move carefully. We take what we need, build what we can, and make sure we have an escape plan in case Vallorne turns on us."
Gareth snorted. "Good. You're starting to think like a leader."
Behind them, footsteps approached. Casandra, dressed in her usual flowing attire, gave them both an easy smile. "I see you two are already plotting," she said as she leaned against the railing, looking down at the recruits. "That's good. We don't have time to be idle."
Ashby turned to her. "What's next?"
Casandra folded her arms, her expression unreadable. "We integrate. The Count's given us the use of his secondary estate as a 'guest house'—meaning he wants us out of sight. That's fine. We'll use this time to expand our influence within his county. We need eyes in his court, allies among his people, and a steady recruitment plan."
"Recruitment?" Gareth asked, raising a brow.
Casandra's smile widened. "Yes. While we have shelter, we're still a small force. That needs to change. Starting tomorrow, we move through the county, town by town, drawing from the slums. The poor, the desperate, the overlooked—these people are ripe for rebellion. They won't need much convincing."
Ashby's stomach tightened. She had envisioned an army, but actively recruiting among the downtrodden would make them a larger target. "Won't that draw attention?" she asked.
"Not if we're subtle," Casandra assured her. "We go in, assess the situation, and only take those willing to fight. Those with nothing left to lose."
Gareth scoffed. "Desperation makes for poor soldiers. You want fighters? You need discipline, not just numbers."
"Which is why you're coming along," Casandra said smoothly. "You'll help train the recruits on the road. Ashby will be the face of the rebellion, and I'll handle the logistics."
Ashby sighed, already feeling the weight of what lay ahead. "Fine. We leave at dawn."
The streets of Rensford, one of the larger towns in Vallorne's county, were far removed from the grandeur of the noble estate. Here, the air was thick with the stench of labor and desperation. The marketplace was lively, but beyond the merchant district, deeper into the alleys, the true state of the town revealed itself—ragged children scavenging for scraps, worn-faced men slumped outside crumbling buildings, women with hollow eyes watching their backs.
Ashby walked alongside Gareth, her hood drawn low. Andrea moved unseen in the shadows, and Casandra blended into the crowd effortlessly, her keen eyes scouting for potential recruits.
Ashby spotted a young man watching them from a distance. He was lean, perhaps no older than eighteen, but his posture was one of quiet resilience. His clothes were patched, his face smudged with dirt, yet his eyes held a sharpness that set him apart from the others.
She walked up to him, her voice firm but inviting. "You look like you're waiting for something."
The young man stiffened, his hand twitching toward a concealed knife. "Depends on who's asking."
"I'm Ashby Whitewood," she said, not bothering with a false name. Word spread wouldn't spread so long as she wasn't too loud and if it did, then so be it. She let the name settle before continuing, "I'm looking for people willing to fight."
His eyes flickered with recognition—he had heard of her.
"Fight who?" he asked cautiously.
Ashby glanced around, ensuring no guards were in earshot. "The people responsible for this." She gestured toward the slums, the filth, the hopelessness. "The ones who let it happen."
His hand relaxed from his knife. "And if I say yes?"
"You'll be trained. You'll be given food, shelter, a cause worth fighting for."
The young man studied her carefully before nodding. "And if I refuse?"
She gave him an easy smile. "Then we'll leave you be. But we both know you will and you wouldn't be the first to say yes today."
He hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. "I'm in."
Casandra, who had been watching nearby, smiled approvingly. "That makes three so far."
"Not enough," Gareth grumbled, arms crossed. "We need warriors, not just kids with grudges."
"They'll become warriors," Ashby shot back. "You just have to teach them."
Gareth grunted but said nothing more.
They spent the rest of the day weaving through the slums, speaking in hushed voices, spreading word of the cause. Some were hesitant, but many listened. By nightfall, fifteen new recruits followed them out of town. They would be brought back to Vallorne's estate, given training, and integrated into the growing force.
As they set up camp that night, Casandra sat beside Ashby, her expression thoughtful. "You did well today."
Ashby exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "It's exhausting. Knowing that every face we see could die for this cause."
Casandra chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "That's leadership, my dear. Learning to live with the weight of it."
Ashby turned her gaze to the fire, watching the flames flicker. "It never gets easier, does it?"
Casandra's smile was almost sad. "No. It never does."