The fire had long died when dawn crept over the ridge. Smoke clung to the trees like ghosts unwilling to leave. The Brotherhood rested in silence—some sleeping where they fell, others staring at nothing, their eyes hollow with the weight of what they'd done.
Arkan sat apart from them, back to a fallen log, his hands raw from the night's chaos. The smell of burned parchment still haunted him. Those scrolls—they hadn't just been orders. They had been a map of intent, proof of a design stretching far beyond what any of them had imagined. He'd destroyed them before Idris could see, and the decision gnawed at him like a splinter buried deep.
Lian approached quietly, a flask of water in hand.
"You haven't slept," she said.
"Neither have you."
She shrugged, passing him the flask. "Sleep is for those who feel safe."
He drank, wincing as the cold water hit his throat. "And do you?"
"Safe?" She smiled faintly. "No. But alive—that will have to do."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The forest around them was still, but it was not peace. It was the breath held between storms.
From the camp's edge came raised voices—Malik and Saif arguing again.
"—you led them too close!" Malik snapped. "Half the valley saw the flames!"
Saif's voice, colder: "You'd rather we left them to burn? The villagers were bait, but bait worth saving."
"They slowed us down!"
Arkan rose, but Idris was already there, his presence enough to quiet both men. The old leader's tone carried the weight of command, low and steady.
"Enough. The Templars lost their stores, but they won't stay blind for long. We move by dusk. Malik, scout the eastern path. Saif, check the horses. I'll speak with each of you before we leave."
Malik's glare lingered, but he obeyed. Saif did too, though slower.
When they were gone, Idris looked toward Arkan. "You've been quiet."
Arkan met his gaze. "We should've seen that ambush sooner."
"We did," Idris said. "We just hoped it wasn't real."
Something in the old man's voice—a crack, almost invisible. Doubt, or grief, or perhaps both.
Later that morning, Yunus returned from the treeline, his bow slung low and a thin strip of parchment in his hand. "Found this nailed to a trunk. Fresh ink."
Arkan took it. The writing was crude but deliberate, Latin mixed with Arabic.
> For every shadow burned, another will rise. The fire you lit marks you now. You are seen.
No seal. No name. Only the faint imprint of a cross pressed into the corner of the page.
Malik spat. "Templar scare tactics."
"Or warning," Lian murmured.
"Or truth," Idris said softly.
The parchment was thrown into the fire, but its words lingered long after the smoke faded.
As the day stretched thin, they broke camp again. The boy—the convoy driver—rode in silence near the rear, eyes red from sleepless fear. He had become a ghost among them, tolerated but not trusted. Arkan watched him more than he admitted. Mercy was a blade that cut both ways.
The path wound through narrow ravines, where sunlight barely reached and the air smelled of damp stone. The farther they went, the quieter everyone became. Conversation turned to murmurs, then to nothing at all. It was Idris who finally halted them near a shallow stream, declaring rest until moonrise.
Arkan knelt by the water, washing soot from his hands. His reflection stared back—older than he remembered, the scar along his jaw catching light like a mark of guilt. Behind him, Idris approached, slow but sure.
"You're troubled," the elder said.
"Shouldn't I be?"
"Doubt can be wisdom, if it doesn't rot you."
Arkan looked up. "And if it does?"
"Then you must learn which part of you is worth saving."
For the first time in weeks, Idris looked tired—not just old, but worn from the inside out. The burden of command was a quiet, endless erosion.
"Do you ever wonder," Arkan said, "if we're still fighting for the same thing?"
Idris's eyes drifted toward the forest. "Every day."
Night fell without stars. Clouds smothered the moon, and the woods seemed to close tighter around them. Malik returned from scouting, tense and pale.
"Tracks," he said. "Heavy ones. Riders, four or five. Half a day old. They're following."
"Templars?" Yunus asked.
"Could be. Could be worse."
They doused their fires. Every sound—every branch, every shift of fabric—felt louder in the dark.
Around midnight, Arkan woke to the faintest scrape of metal. He turned, hand instinctively to his blade, eyes scanning the gloom. Near the supply packs, a shadow moved—small, careful.
He rose soundlessly and crossed the distance. The figure froze as he pressed the knife to its throat. Then a familiar voice, trembling:
"It's me—please!"
The boy.
Arkan lowered the blade slightly. "What are you doing?"
"I… I heard something," the boy whispered. "Voices in the trees. I thought maybe—"
"Voices?"
"Whispers. Like prayers, but not ours."
Arkan listened. Nothing—only the hush of wind and creek. "Go back to sleep."
But when he turned to lead him away, he caught a flicker in the boy's satchel—a faint red seal, half-broken, stamped with the Templar cross.
His pulse slowed. "Where did you get that?"
The boy froze. "It's—nothing. Just a—"
Arkan grabbed the bag, ripping it open. Inside—crumbled wax, a torn scrap of parchment, and a symbol he'd burned hours ago among the wagons.
He looked up at the boy, who now stood pale and shaking, eyes darting between Arkan and the camp. "I swear—I didn't mean—They told me they'd kill her if I didn't—"
"Who?" Arkan's voice was a whisper of iron.
"My sister."
Before Arkan could speak again, a shout erupted from the trees—Saif's voice. "Riders! To the north!"
Chaos followed. Steel flashed, orders snapped. The Brotherhood scattered into defensive positions, the boy stumbling back into the dark.
The first arrow struck a tree inches from Arkan's head. Then another. The forest came alive with movement—shadows charging between trunks, torches flaring.
"Move!" Idris commanded. "To the ridge! Now!"
They fought through branches and mud, blades catching glimpses of firelight. Malik's laughter—mad, defiant—rang out somewhere behind them. Lian's whistle cut through the din again, the same signal as before. But this time, it came from the wrong direction.
When they finally reached higher ground, panting and blooded, the forest below glowed with scattered flame. The attackers had fallen back—or vanished.
Only then did they realize: the boy was gone.
Arkan scanned the shadows, heart pounding. "He ran?"
Yunus shook his head. "Or was taken."
No one answered. The silence that followed was worse than any scream.
By dawn, the sky had cleared. Mist drifted through the trees, silver and slow. The Brotherhood stood hollow-eyed, their numbers thinned, their trust thinner still.
Idris spoke quietly, almost to himself. "Every light we kindle draws its own darkness."
Arkan looked toward the valley. Somewhere out there, the boy carried more than fear—he carried a secret, maybe a betrayal. And Arkan couldn't tell which terrified him more.
He wiped the blood from his blade, sheathed it, and turned away.
"Let's move."
As they descended into the next valley, the wind carried a whisper that only Arkan seemed to hear—soft, almost human.
> You are seen.
He stopped, scanning the empty woods.
No one was there.
At least, not that he could see.