199

199
The rebellion leader pov

The war table isn’t just stone anymore. It’s scorched and warped at one corner from a fire we put out too late, and still marked by the soot of something that nearly collapsed the command tent two nights ago. No one asked how the fire started, no one pointed out that the maps were burned first.

They didn’t have to, everyone knew from the beginning it wasn’t an accident.

I stand at the edge of it all, staring down at a re-drawn border that splits old loyalties in two. My hands are steady, but my mind isn’t.

I haven’t slept, I don’t need to anymore. Sleep belongs to men with doubt. I traded that for momentum.

When the scout steps in, there’s no rustle of hesitation, no quiet apology for disturbing. The camp has long since learned that silence can mean death around me. And yet, the scout clears his throat.

“Speak,” I say, not looking up.

“We have a word from Hollow Vale.” He mutters, not loud enough to be overheard, yet full of confidence only a fool would carry.

I hum. “Who?”

The scout shifts his weight from one leg to another. “A boy. Alone and limping, said to be asking for water.”

“Description.” I demand, eyes still trained on the half ruined maps.

“Matches the pet, matches the vessel. Matches… Arvin.” He whispers the last words as if he truly believes that those rumors are true and if we go after the boy, we’ll all burn in flames.

I lift my gaze slowly and pin the scout with a glare that clearly shows I’m not happy with the little to nothing information he’s sharing with me. “What did he say?” I ask carefully not to show how truly interested I am in the answer.

“One word. A name.” The scout whispers and looks around like the coward he is.

I straighten up and cross my arms. “Whose?”

“Lester.” He whispers and averts his gaze to his feet.

The silence after that is worse than any scream could have been. After a while, I find my voice again, “you know what this means,” I mutter.

The scout doesn’t answer as I walk around the table, boots scraping ash from the floor, and lift a burnt corner of a discarded banner - one that used to carry our sigil, one that now looks too much like a funeral cloth and crush it in my fist.

“He still bleeds for him.” I snarl under my breath.

Talla doesn’t knock, she never does. Her voice arrives before she does, slicing through the tense air like it belongs there and maybe it does, maybe hers is the only one that can challenge me without drawing blood.

“Tell me you’re not planning what I think you are.” She says carelessly.

I turn slowly, hands loose at my sides. “What is it you think I’m planning, Talla?”

She crosses the room, eyes full of storm. “You’re going to send someone after him. Not to help but to use.”

“You assume I see a difference.” I say and chuckle, arching an eyebrow at her.

She rolls her eyes, as she always does when I’m being difficult. “That’s the problem.”

“No, the problem is we’re two nobles away from losing the western front. The problem is Orna now controls the boy in the tower and has Syra doubting her own shadow. The problem is we’ve spilled too much blood to get delicate now.” I tell her as calmly as I can, although I hate to repeat myself and I know Talla is informed about everything I just mentioned.

“He’s not a tool.” She mutters and drops onto the couch like she owns the place, not following my command as everyone here does.

“He’s Lester’s heart in a cage, walking on two legs.” I remind her coldly.

“And that used to mean something to you.” She mumbles.

I pin her with a nasty glare. “It still does and that’s why I’m using it.”

Talla stands up and walks to me, then shoves aside the map closest to her. “You want to parade him, wave his body like a banner.”

“I want him seen, that’s all.” I shrug calmly.

“You want him bled dry,” she corrects and honestly, she isn’t wrong.

“If a cut saves us a war we’ll lose, then yes.” I tell her, voice still oddly even and calm.

Talla slams her fist against the table and hisses, “he trusted us once.”

“He was given to us.” I tell her, reminding her that Riven, our poor missing Riven, was the one who handed Arvin to us once and will do it again once the chance presents itself.

“He was stolen from himself.” Talla insists.

“All the better. No one fights for a boy who knows what he is. They fight for a mystery and martyr.” I say simply, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“You’d make him a corpse if it meant winning.” She gasps, and again, she’s not wrong.

“If it meant ending it.”

She laughs, low and cruel. “Ending it? Or making sure you stay the one who writes the end?”

Suddenly, there’s movement in the corner,silent steps forward, hesitant. I don’t need to look to know he’s nervous. “Sir, the men are asking. They want to know if it’s true. That the boy…”

“Tell them yes,” I reply instantly. “Tell them he crossed the forest alone and he survived the Hollow.”

“And Lester?” He asks, voice barely a whisper.

“Tell them he’s hunting his own ghost.” I hum, satisfied with the answer.

Silen doesn’t move. “And if they ask what we’ll do when we find him?”

“Tell them we’ll offer him bread and a blade, whichever he takes will decide his fate.” I shrug.

Talla steps between us. “And if he takes neither?”

I meet her gaze. “Then we’ll decide.”

“You’ll decide.” She corrects.

I shrug again, unbothered. “Someone has to.”

“He already chose when he ran, bled and whispered Lester instead of help.” Talla snarls in my face.

I roll my eyes, ignoring her words. “Then let him keep bleeding.”

She lunges before anyone can stop her, the dagger is in her hand again, but this time, it doesn’t touch the map. It touches my throat, barely, but enough to make the tent still and remind everyone that rebellion without cause is just chaos, but rebellion without soul is something worse.

“Touch him wrong,” she says, “and I’ll tear the name of this rebellion from every mouth that ever spoke it.”

I don’t blink and don’t move, only speak. “And then what, Talla? You protect him? From what? From me? From what he is? Because I think you don’t know anymore.”

“He’s a boy,” she says again but her voice breaks this time. “He’s a boy.”

“No,” I say quietly. “He’s ours.”

She leaves without sheathing her weapon and Silen doesn’t breathe until she’s gone. I pour myself a drink, though it tastes like dirt. “Post the watchers,” I say. “No uniforms and no contact. If he bleeds again, I want the soil bottled and sent here.”

“Sir?” Silen whispers.

“You heard me!” I shout.

“And if someone reaches him first?” He asks carefully, not wanting to anger me even more than he already did.

“They won’t.” I insist.

“If they do?’ He whispers, not letting go.

“Then let them carry the weight of breaking what they couldn’t build.”