Jamie had long grown accustomed to the silence of the woods. It was not the silence of peace, but of tension—like a bowstring drawn and held, quivering in the air. The resistance's camp, tucked deep between the roots of ancient oaks and the folds of earth, carried that same silence. Even here, among allies, there was no true rest.
The night was cool, and the campfire burned low, its light swallowed by the forest. Men and women huddled around it, sharpening blades, mending torn boots, or whispering in tones so hushed that even the flames dared not crackle too loudly. Jamie sat apart, polishing the edge of his crossbow bolt with the tip of his knife. The rhythmic scrape steadied him, though his mind wandered.
Derah had been gone for hours. He had said he would scout ahead, check for signs of patrols along the northern ridge, but unease gnawed at Jamie's gut. Derah's steps were heavy in his memory, his words always cloaked in half-truths. Jamie trusted him more than most, but trust, for him, was like carrying fire—something that warmed and threatened to burn him at once.
Kael, the leader of this cell, crouched nearby, his broad shoulders tense even in stillness. His eyes flicked often toward the treeline, as if expecting the night itself to betray them. His presence steadied the others; his calm was the kind forged only in men who had lived too long in danger. But even Kael's calm could not silence suspicion.
It came first as a whisper. Two young scouts muttering by the fire.
"Derah was seen speaking to a merchant last week. Alone."
"You think he'd…?"
"I don't know. But the regime's patrols don't just stumble close by chance."
Jamie's grip tightened around the bolt. He kept his head lowered, though every word reached him. It was the same poison that had followed him his whole life—distrust, suspicion, betrayal. He had seen it in courts, where smiles masked daggers, and he had seen it in the wild, where mercy was traded for survival.
But Derah?
Jamie wanted to silence the whispers, to stand and cut through their doubt with the sharpness of his own conviction. Yet, his chest felt heavy. Because even as he reached for trust, memory betrayed him.
The deserter's face came back to him—hollow eyes, trembling hands reaching for bread. The gratitude, the tears, the knife pressed against his throat hours later. The betrayal.
Jamie swallowed. He stared into the fire until its embers blurred.
The night broke with a signal.
Kael rose suddenly, his hand lifting. Three fingers raised. His men froze, breaths caught. Slowly, deliberately, Kael curled one down. The forest seemed to lean in, listening. Another finger. Hearts raced. Jamie felt sweat bead across his temple though the night was cool. The last finger fell—
And the darkness erupted.
Bolts loosed. Arrows hissed through the air like serpents. Shadows screamed. The forest lit with the sudden flare of torches, carried not by allies but enemies. The regime's soldiers burst from the undergrowth, steel flashing, voices barking orders.
Jamie moved before thought, instinct driving him. His crossbow snapped up, the bolt thudding into the first man's throat. He rolled, knife drawn, slicing at the leg of another who lunged at him. Blood sprayed hot across his face. His body remembered the rhythm of survival—the swift kill, the duck, the pivot. His noble father had taught him to fight with honor. The wilderness had taught him to fight dirty.
Around him, chaos reigned. Resistance fighters shouted, some falling, some charging, all desperate to hold the line. The forest became a blur of torchlight and steel.
Derah's face appeared in the fray, hood thrown back, blade gleaming. He fought viciously, his strikes quick and efficient, cutting down soldier after soldier. His movements bore no hesitation, no fear.
But the whispers in Jamie's mind refused to die.
How had the soldiers known? Why tonight? Why here?
Jamie's chest tightened as he parried another strike, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. He stole a glance toward Derah. Their eyes met across the battlefield for a fraction of a second. Derah's gaze was unreadable—steady, sharp, a man in control.
But Jamie could not help it. Doubt slithered in.
By the time the battle's echoes faded, the forest floor was littered with corpses. The air stank of blood and smoke. Survivors slumped against trees, wounds bound hastily, eyes hollow with exhaustion.
Jamie leaned against a broken stump, his chest heaving. His knife dripped red. His crossbow hung heavy at his side.
Kael strode through the wreckage, his face a mask of restrained fury. His gaze fell on Derah, then shifted to Jamie.
"Someone spoke," Kael said, his voice a low growl. "They knew too much. Our routes, our numbers. Someone here is a traitor."
The words struck harder than any blade. Around the fire, heads turned, whispers swelling again. Eyes narrowed, suspicion spreading like wildfire.
Derah's hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. His stance was relaxed, yet his jaw tightened.
Jamie felt every gaze flick between him and Derah. Companions. Outsiders. The easiest to blame.
Kael's eyes lingered on Jamie longer than the rest. "You fought hard," he said evenly. "But fighting hard proves nothing. Loyalty must be proven in blood."
Jamie's throat went dry. He wanted to speak, to declare his innocence, to shield Derah from the weight of suspicion. But the words tangled in his chest. Because somewhere in him, doubt lived too.
He thought of the markings on the trees, the whispered promises of unity, the fragile threads binding them all together. Threads so easily severed by fear.
And Jamie realized something bitter and cruel: survival was not just about blades and blood. It was about trust. And trust was the most dangerous gamble of all.
That night, he did not sleep. He sat awake by the dying embers, staring into the shadows, his knife across his knees. Around him, the resistance stirred uneasily. Some bandaged wounds, some murmured prayers, but no one dared speak loudly.
Derah approached at last, silent as the night itself. He crouched beside Jamie, his face drawn but calm. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly:
"You don't trust me."
Jamie's fingers tightened on the knife. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Trust is what gets men killed."
Derah studied him, his eyes shadowed by the firelight. "And suspicion tears men apart."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.
Finally, Derah reached into his cloak and drew something small—an etched piece of wood, carved with the same markings Jamie had seen on the trees. He pressed it into Jamie's hand.
"This is the resistance," Derah said. "Not me. Not Kael. Not even you. It's bigger than all of us. Remember that, when you decide who to trust."
Jamie stared at the symbol in his palm. The grooves cut into the wood were rough, uneven, but they held weight. Unity. Loyalty. Courage.
And yet, as the fire flickered, casting shadows across Derah's face, Jamie wondered if symbols could shield him from betrayal.
The night stretched on, filled with silence sharp enough to cut. Jamie sat with the symbol in his hand, his doubts gnawing, his heart a storm. He was surrounded by allies, yet felt more alone than ever.
Because the greatest danger was not the regime beyond the trees. It was the question that lingered inside him, sharp and relentless:
Who could he truly trust?