The fortress walls seemed smaller upon their return, as if the war outside had grown too large to be held within stone and mortar.

  The fires were lit, the banners raised again, but the air was heavy with the weight of what they had found. Word of their victory spread quickly, but Irineus wasted no time with celebration. Within an hour of their return, he summoned a council.

  This time, the chamber held more than lords and trusted captains.

  Sebastian stood with his men behind him, armor still dusted from the road. Theodore leaned against a pillar, quiet as always, spear resting near his side. Martin stood beside Irineus at the head of the chamber, face worn and resolute.

  Even Alexios, the young steward, was present—though he lingered near the back of the room, half in shadow, hands clasped tightly before him.

  Irineus’s voice cut through the murmurs. “We are not finished.”

  He and Martin recounted the full scope of their discovery—how the Black Flag stronghold had fallen easily, how their leader Aetharic had vanished like a ghost, how imperial supplies had been found hidden beneath the ashes of Merrow’s Hollow. They spoke of the crates of weapons and coin, of the implications none could yet name aloud.

  When they were done, silence hung like frost.

  Lucius, the eldest of the council and once commander of the western garrison, cleared his throat. “We must not be deceived by the ease of this battle,” he said. “If they had iron, gold, and medicine, then this was no ragged retreat. Perhaps the wounded we slew were a decoy. We should prepare the fortress. Double the watches. One soldier should guard the loggers at all times.”

  Irineus gave a slow nod, then turned to Theodore.

  “We should move now,” Theodore said, his voice low but firm. “We split our strength. Send groups to scout the villages and outposts once held by the Black Flag. If we find weakness, we strike fast—before the barbarians arrive and take everything.”

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  Sebastian stepped forward, arms crossed. “Theodore is right. The barbarians are the greater threat. They never stop. When Lord Philip refused to reinforce the outlands, I thought he was right. We were wrong.” He hesitated, then added, “When they came, they hit the granary first. Then the armory. Then the Manor. It was over before dawn.”

  Irineus nodded slowly, then turned to Martin. “Your thoughts?”

  Martin answered without looking away from the firelight. “The Black Flag has roots deeper than we thought. Fifteen years they’ve survived here, grown from raiders to warlords. Now they’ve clashed with barbarians and lived. That means they were strong enough to adapt. But now—now they’re scattered. We can strike first, take their spoils before the barbarians sweep in. If we wait, we’ll fight both at once.”

  The room stirred, murmurs of agreement and concern rising in equal measure.

  At the edge of the chamber, Alexios stood in silence. He had not spoken once. His education, thorough and noble, had not prepared him for matters of war. Logistics, coin, titles—these he understood. But here, amidst warriors and survivors, he was a stranger. He found himself nodding absentmindedly, more out of habit than understanding.

  Irineus’s eyes swept the room, then rested again on Martin.

  “Divide our forces. Leave enough to protect the fort and the workers. We ride at nightfall. Pharis village is not far—it was theirs once. We’ll take it back.”

  Martin gave a single nod. “It will be done.”

  By nightfall, the plans were set.

  Martin had divided the soldiers into four groups of twenty men each. Three would strike out into the countryside under the cover of darkness—north, east, and south—while Martin himself would lead the fourth to Pharis with Irineus at his side.

  Sebastian, along with the remaining Bardas men, would stay behind. He received the order with a calm nod, though the fire in his eyes did not dim. He knew his task was no less important.

  “Expand the patrols,” Martin told him. “Anything moves near these walls, I want to know before it breathes.”

  Sebastian clasped arms with him in silent understanding. “They’ll have no place to hide.”

  As the soldiers readied for departure, torches flickered to life across the courtyard. The fortress stirred like an old beast awakened, armor clanking, hooves thudding, banners rising into the night wind.

  From the ramparts, Alexios watched them go, lips pressed thin. He did not march, did not speak—but deep within, a resolve began to stir.

  Perhaps he did not know war. But he could learn. He would learn.