Elyra's breath clouded the frigid air as she pulled herself through the dense undergrowth, her sword dragging in the mud behind her. Her injured shoulder throbbed with every movement, and the coppery tang of blood lingered in her mouth. Around her, the forest seemed unnaturally silent, as though it, too, mourned the lives lost on the ridge.
The remnants of her army—if they could even be called that—were scattered in small groups, huddled together for warmth and safety. The survivors wore hollow expressions, their faces streaked with dirt and grief. Some whispered prayers, others sat in stunned silence, and a few tended to the wounded with trembling hands.
Elyra could feel their eyes on her as she passed, their gazes filled with a mixture of hope and accusation. She was their leader, their symbol of resistance—and she had failed them.
She spotted Mara near the base of a fallen tree, her cloak torn and muddied, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around her arm. Despite her injuries, Mara's expression was sharp and unyielding as she spoke to a group of soldiers.
"Mara," Elyra called, her voice hoarse.
Mara turned, her eyes narrowing as she took in Elyra's state. "You look like hell."
"So do you," Elyra replied, her attempt at levity falling flat.
Mara straightened, dismissing the soldiers with a curt nod before stepping closer. "What now?" she asked, her tone clipped but edged with worry.
Elyra hesitated, glancing around at the tattered remains of their forces. What now? It was the question that had haunted her since the moment the barricade fell. The ridge was supposed to be their stronghold, their turning point. Without it, their rebellion was on the brink of collapse.
"We regroup," Elyra said finally, though the words felt hollow. "We find a way to rebuild."
Mara's lips pressed into a thin line. "With what? Half our army is dead, the other half is injured or scattered. And we lost the ridge—Kael controls the high ground now. It's only a matter of time before he finishes us."
At the mention of Kael's name, Elyra's jaw tightened. The memory of their confrontation was still fresh in her mind, his words echoing like a haunting refrain.
You've lost, Elyra. The war isn't over.
Her fists clenched at her sides. He had let her go. He could have ended her rebellion then and there, but he hadn't. Why? What game was he playing?
"We still have allies," Elyra said, forcing herself to focus. "In the south, in the cities—there are people who will fight for us if we give them reason to believe we can win."
"And how do we convince them of that when we've just suffered our worst defeat?" Mara demanded, her frustration boiling over. "We've been running on hope and desperation for months, Elyra. Hope doesn't win wars. Strategy does."
Elyra met her gaze, her voice hardening. "Then we strategize. We find a way to turn this around. We have no choice."
Mara studied her for a long moment before nodding, though her expression remained grim. "I'll send scouts to gather the survivors and assess the damage. But you'd better have a plan, Elyra. Otherwise, this rebellion dies with us."
As Mara turned to leave, Elyra sank onto a fallen log, her body trembling with exhaustion. The weight of leadership pressed down on her like never before. Every decision felt like a knife's edge, every failure a fresh wound.
She closed her eyes, the sounds of the forest fading into the background. Kael's voice haunted her thoughts, his face etched into her memory.
I owe you that much.
What had he meant? Why had he let her go?
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see one of the younger soldiers—a boy no older than sixteen—standing before her, his face pale and drawn.
"Commander," he said hesitantly. "There's... someone here to see you."
Elyra's brow furrowed. "Who?"
He glanced over his shoulder, his expression uneasy. "A messenger. From the enemy."
The words sent a jolt through her, and she shot to her feet, ignoring the flare of pain in her shoulder. "Where?"
The boy gestured toward the edge of the camp, where a small group of rebels had gathered. Elyra pushed past him, her mind racing.
The messenger was a young woman in the enemy's uniform, her hands raised in a gesture of surrender. She was unarmed, her face calm but watchful as Elyra approached.
"Speak," Elyra said sharply, her tone leaving no room for pleasantries.
The messenger dipped her head slightly, her voice steady. "General Kael sends his regards. He wishes to speak with you."
Elyra's blood ran cold. "And why would I agree to that?"
The woman met her gaze, her expression unwavering. "Because he claims he has information that could save your rebellion."
The camp fell silent, all eyes on Elyra as the weight of the words settled over them.
Her mind churned with suspicion and doubt. This had to be a trap—another ploy to weaken them further. And yet... the memory of Kael's hesitation, his choice to spare her, gnawed at her resolve.
She straightened, her voice firm. "Tell your general that I'll consider it. But if this is a trick, he'll regret it."
The messenger nodded once before retreating into the woods, leaving Elyra and her soldiers in tense silence.
Mara approached, her expression dark. "You're not seriously thinking of meeting him, are you?"
"I don't know yet," Elyra admitted, her voice quiet. "But if he has information we can use, we can't afford to ignore it."
Mara crossed her arms, her tone icy. "And if he's lying?"
Elyra's jaw tightened. "Then we make sure he pays for it."
As the camp buzzed with whispered speculation, Elyra turned her gaze toward the horizon, where the ridge loomed in the distance like a shadow over their future.
Kael's game wasn't over—not by a long shot. And neither was hers...