The night did not end.
Ryon felt it bleeding into his veins, a darkness that was not the absence of light but the saturation of it, heavy and alive, pushing against the edges of his skull. His body ached as if every nerve had been scorched, his ribs tightening with each breath, and yet he refused to sink. He had caught the assassin's blade. He had chosen blood over mercy. He had raised the severed head before the fire and forced his men to look at it.
Now, in the hollow silence that followed, the true battle began.
The camp did not sleep. He could hear them beyond the thin walls of the command tent—boots scuffing dirt, voices clipped and hushed, a ripple of unease that no orders could silence. When he closed his eyes, their whispers wormed into him, fragments that cut deeper than steel.
"He's cursed."
"No man survives that duel."
"Not even Garron can keep him from breaking."
