The journey back to the fortress was silent. The winds had picked up, biting sharp against their skin as they trudged through the Ash-Wood, the last remnants of smoke clinging to their clothes. The trees—pale and silent as ever—seemed to watch them as they passed, each step heavier than the last.

  The prisoners walked among them, their faces drawn and hollow, as if they were unsure whether they had been saved or cursed. The children clung to their mothers, some of them still trembling, others walking in strange, uncertain steps. There were no songs, no rejoicing. Even the wounded men who walked beside them had no words.

  The weight of what had been done hung thick in the air, suffocating any thought of celebration.

  It was only as they neared the fortress gates, the towering stone walls rising in the distance, that Martin spoke.

  “We will bury the dead here,” he said quietly. His voice was hoarse, not from the battle, but from something deeper—an exhaustion that seemed to have seeped into his very bones. “The fallen deserve that much. No one leaves here unmarked.”

  Lucius, who had been walking quietly beside him, nodded. “We will honor them. As best we can.”

  The survivors had been assigned temporary quarters within the fortress, but the sounds of sobbing from those who had lost loved ones still lingered in the air long after the gates had closed behind them. It was not a joyful return, but it was a return nonetheless. They had reclaimed what they could. They had paid the price for it.

  By evening, the fortress was alive with activity. The prisoners were fed and settled into the barracks, though many could not sleep, their nightmares too fresh. Children huddled together in the corners, whispering to each other, their eyes wide with confusion and fear. The sounds of rebuilding had begun once again—there was no time for rest. Not yet.

  Alexios had already begun sorting through the spoils—ammunition, tools, clothing, and whatever else might be useful to fortify their position. Even in the wake of their grim victory, his mind was already set on the next steps. There would be no long respite. Not with the ash of the fallen still fresh on the wind.

  “The granary needs another week to clear,” Alexios remarked as he approached Martin, a map of the region spread out in front of him. “We’ve got enough supplies for now, but winter’s not far behind. We’ll need to get as much as we can before it hits.”

  Martin looked over the map but didn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifted to the courtyard where the refugees were being tended to. The wounded soldiers had been seen to, but it was the look on the faces of the freed prisoners that haunted him. He had done what had needed to be done—but at what cost?

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  Lucius followed his gaze. “There’s something else,” he said, lowering his voice. “The people we freed—they’re not all from villages around here. Some of them have seen things. Things they shouldn’t know.”

  Martin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Lucius continued, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening, “they’ve spoken of the Black Flag. The ones who led them. Not the common bandits, but something else. Something organized.”

  Martin’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrowed, darkening as he tried to process the information. The Black Flag. The name had haunted the fringes of their reports over the last few months, but it had never been concrete. No one knew much about them—only that they were ruthless, and that their reach extended beyond what the refugees had encountered.

  “They know what’s coming, don’t they?” Martin said, his voice low, as if he were thinking out loud. “They know something we don’t.”

  “I think so,” Lucius agreed, his voice grim. “We’ll need to talk to the survivors. They might know more than they’re saying.”

  The day passed in slow motions. Even as the work continued—the rebuilding of the granary, the reorganization of the barracks—there was an undercurrent of tension that no one could shake. The fortress, once a place of cold stone and ruin, had become something more. A home, perhaps. A refuge. But Martin knew that what had been buried within its walls had stirred once more, and what lay ahead would not be so easily defeated.

  ...

  Nightfall.

  The moon hung pale in the sky, casting long shadows over the fortress courtyard. The fires were kept low—just enough to ward off the creeping chill.

  Martin found himself walking the battlements, alone now, his thoughts tangled in the new truths he’d discovered that day. The sound of the wind was his only company. Below, the fortress stirred with quiet activity. The work never stopped, even at night.

  Theodore joined him there, silent as a shadow. His bare feet made no sound against the stone as he approached.

  “They will come for us, won’t they?” Martin said, without looking at him.

  Theodore stood beside him, his eyes distant. “They will. But we will not be caught unaware. We know their ways now. We know where they are, what they can do.”

  Martin glanced at him. “Do we?”

  The woodsman nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping over the darkened landscape. “The Black Flag… they’re not just bandits. They’re a movement. They’ve been gathering for years. It’s not just about raiding. It’s about power. And the Empire? It’s dead.”

  There was a long silence. The wind howled.

  “We’ll fight them,” Martin said at last, his voice steady, though the weight of it pressed on him. “But we need to know what we’re fighting. We need to understand who they are.”

  “Then we will find out,” Theodore said, and his voice was like stone.

  The two stood there, watching the night unfold before them. The air felt heavy with the promise of what was to come. The fortress was a cradle of refuge now, but Martin could feel the tension building within its walls. The fight was far from over, and the cost of victory was yet to be determined.