The decision was Irineus's alone, and he made it without hesitation.

  Only a dozen soldiers were left behind to hold the fortress—just enough to man the walls, light the watchfires, and maintain the illusion of strength. The rest, all two hundred and thirty-eight, marched beneath Irineus’s banner. It was not a retreat nor a gamble—it was a reckoning. The Black Flag would fall, and Irineus would see it done with his own hands.

  Beside him rode Martin, face grim beneath his helm; Theodore, ever silent but alert; and Sebastian, flanked by the remaining soldiers of the Bardas line. The force they led was not polished, not dressed in glory or parade armor, but hardened by loss and fueled by purpose.

  They moved like a shadow along the valley’s edge, toward the southern hills where the land was scarred by old fires and forgotten skirmishes. It was here, according to reports gathered from Bardas survivors and the mouths of fleeing villagers, that the last vestiges of the Black Flag had burrowed in.

  Their path led them to a village once known as Merrow’s Hollow, long since abandoned—its roofs sagging with rot, its wells choked with silt. From afar, it appeared lifeless, just another corpse of a town left in the wake of war.

  But as they crested a low ridge and looked down into the ruins, movement betrayed the illusion.

  Martin held up a hand, signaling a halt.

  Five—no, ten—figures moved among the skeletal houses. They moved quietly, deliberately, cloaked in ragged cloaks and armed with blades kept close to their sides. They were patrols—scattered and light-footed. And they were hiding.

  “They’re not guarding,” Martin said, eyes narrowed. “They’re afraid. They’re hiding from something. Maybe the barbarians. Maybe us.”

  Irineus surveyed the field in silence, then looked to Martin.

  “We outnumber them. Should we strike now?”

  Martin’s answer came without pause. “We wait. Until nightfall. No need to risk the men—not for a dying beast’s last claws.”

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  Irineus nodded. The camp settled into position, hidden beyond the tree line. Bows were strung, blades drawn and checked. Nightfall descended slow and bitter, the last light washing the sky in bruised red. When darkness fully cloaked the valley, they struck.

  The Black Flag never saw them coming.

  They fell upon the village like a tide of steel and flame. Arrows whispered through the night, finding throats before voices could raise alarms. The bandits, startled from shallow sleep and blood-clotted wounds, rose from ruined huts in chaos.

  Many were maimed—wounded survivors of past battles who had fled here to recover. Their resistance was brief and panicked. Some tried to fight, some to flee, but none escaped. Within minutes, the last bandit lay dead in the frostbitten dirt, his blood soaking into a cracked hearthstone.

  But Aetharic was not among them.

  The self-proclaimed commander of the Black Flag, the mad tactician who had haunted their movements for months, was nowhere to be found. Martin scoured the bodies, even checking the ruins for hidden cellars. Nothing. Only the dead remained.

  Irineus gave no outward sign of disappointment. He simply raised his voice above the wind: “Search everything.”

  And so they did.

  What they found in the ruined village shook them.

  Beneath broken planks and behind false walls they uncovered crates—dozens of them, hidden in cellars, buried in ash. The supplies were staggering. Food, dried and preserved. Medicine, some of it recent, well-sealed and potent. Blades, spears, and bows stacked in careful bundles.

  Martin pulled back a canvas covering a wagon bed and found rows of fresh-forged swords—untouched by blood, never yet used.

  Theodore emerged from a ruined home carrying a heavy crate in both arms. He dropped it at Irineus’s feet and pried it open. Inside, iron ingots gleamed in the moonlight, stamped with the imperial seal.

  He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

  “Where did they get this?” Sebastian muttered, stepping beside them. “This isn’t loot from a village raid. This is a supply meant for an army.”

  The discovery didn’t end there.

  Behind what was once the town chapel, they uncovered a trapdoor covered in soot and leaves. Below, in a stone chamber, they found the final revelation: sacks of coin—gold and silver both—sealed with wax, the mark of the Empire still visible on each bag.

  Coins that should have never left the treasury.

  Irineus stared at them for a long time, then looked to Martin. “They had a sponsor. Someone powerful. Someone within the Empire, or close to its edge.”

  Martin didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, eyes scanning the dark, as if still expecting Aetharic to rise from the shadows.

  “We need to move the supplies north,” Irineus continued. “Arm the fortress. Feed our people. Melt down what we must. But this—” He pointed to the coins. “—this must be hidden. Not even our allies can know, not yet.”

  Sebastian crossed his arms. “We struck down the Black Flag. But we’ve uncovered a deeper rot. Someone fed them. And if Aetharic lives, he’ll come back for this.”

  Irineus nodded once, grim and resolute.

  “Let him. We’ll be waiting.”