Morning crept over the forest like a thief. Pale light slipped through the canopy, brushing against broken branches, blood-soaked soil, and the rigid bodies of the fallen. The resistance had buried what corpses they could and left the rest to the carrion birds. The forest would eat its dead. It always did.
Jamie rose from where he had sat through most of the night. His back ached, his limbs were stiff, and the taste of ash still coated his tongue. The others stirred slowly, faces hollow with exhaustion. Nobody laughed. Nobody spoke of victory. Because there had been none.
They had survived, but survival was not triumph. Survival only meant another day to fear betrayal.
Kael stood apart, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing. His jaw was set hard enough to crack stone. Even without words, his fury was a storm pressing down on everyone. When his gaze shifted, it landed on people like a blade.
Jamie avoided it. He crouched instead by the embers of the dead fire, turning over the small carved symbol Derah had given him. The grooves pressed into his palm, sharp, grounding. Yet they did nothing to silence his doubts.
Across camp, Derah leaned against a tree, arms folded, calm in a way that unsettled Jamie more than open defiance ever could. He seemed untouched by suspicion, untouched by the whispers. But Jamie saw it—how others glanced at him, then away quickly, as if staring too long might reveal treachery.
They were trapped in a cage made of eyes. Every look weighed heavier than iron.
Kael's voice cut through the silence.
"We move south."
The words landed flat, but final. No one argued. No one dared. Kael's word was law here, and law kept them alive—at least for now.
Jamie packed quickly, movements efficient. Years of survival had taught him the art of readiness. Always ready to run, to fight, to vanish. Yet as he strapped his knife to his thigh, he felt the prickle of eyes on his back. He glanced up. A young scout—barely more than a boy—was staring at him with open suspicion.
Jamie met his gaze. The boy flinched and looked away.
The message was clear. Jamie was not trusted. Not fully. Maybe never would be.
They set out, the forest swallowing their line of weary fighters. Each step snapped twigs, rustled leaves, and carried tension heavier than the packs on their shoulders.
Jamie walked near the rear, keeping his senses sharp. Every rustle made his fingers twitch toward his knife. Every birdcall sounded like a signal. He had lived long enough to know that silence and chaos often came hand in hand.
Derah walked just ahead, his hood shadowing his face. Once, Jamie would have found comfort in his presence. Now, it was a blade against his throat—sharp, dangerous, uncertain.
The march dragged into hours. Sweat clung to skin, boots tore through roots and mud. When they stopped to rest, the silence was not the easy quiet of men catching breath. It was strained, brittle.
Kael moved among them, eyes sharp. He stopped near Jamie.
"You fought well last night," Kael said. His tone was even, but Jamie heard the unspoken weight behind it.
Jamie inclined his head. "We all did."
Kael's gaze lingered, piercing. "All the same, men talk. They say you and Derah were the last to join us. Outsiders. Easier to doubt."
Jamie's grip tightened on the symbol in his palm. He forced his voice steady. "And what do you say?"
Kael leaned closer, low enough for only Jamie to hear. "I say loyalty isn't words. It's action. I'll be watching. Both of you."
Then he was gone, striding to the next group, leaving Jamie with the bitter taste of being judged and found wanting.
That night, they made camp near the bend of a stream. The water whispered over stone, a fragile sound against the weight of unspoken suspicion.
Jamie sat apart again, his back to a tree, watching the others. They huddled close in their little knots, whispering too low for him to hear. A few glanced his way, quick and sharp. Every glance was a knife.
Derah approached, silent as always. He sat beside Jamie without asking, his presence heavy. For a long moment, they listened to the stream.
"You look at me like I've already betrayed you," Derah said at last. His voice was quiet, almost tired.
Jamie's jaw clenched. "And you look at me like I'm a fool for doubting."
Derah gave a small, humorless laugh. "Maybe we're both right."
Jamie turned to face him fully, eyes narrowing. "Tell me, then. If you're no traitor, how do I explain last night? How did they know?"
Derah met his gaze, unflinching. "Maybe someone else spoke. Maybe there's more than one traitor. Or maybe—" his voice dipped lower, colder, "—maybe Kael wanted to see who lived when the blades came out."
Jamie stiffened. The thought was poison. Dangerous, absurd… yet not impossible. Kael's eyes had been sharp, too sharp. He had been watching, always watching.
Derah leaned back against the tree, arms crossed. "Trust me, Jamie. Or don't. But if you waste time chasing shadows, the real knife will find your back."
Jamie said nothing. His heart pounded too loud for words.
Later, when most had fallen asleep, Jamie slipped from camp. The moon hung pale and broken above the trees. He moved quietly, each step deliberate, until he reached the stream again.
He crouched by the water, splashing it over his face, letting the cold burn him awake. His reflection stared back—gaunt, scarred, a man torn between instinct and loyalty.
A twig snapped behind him.
Jamie spun, knife in hand, muscles coiled.
The young scout from earlier stood there, wide-eyed, caught in the act of watching. His hands trembled, but his gaze burned with something between fear and accusation.
Jamie didn't lower the blade. "Why are you following me?"
The boy swallowed hard. "Kael… Kael said to keep an eye. On you. And him."
Jamie's blood ran cold. So Kael truly didn't trust them.
The boy hesitated, then added in a whisper: "He said, if one of you slips, the other won't walk away."
Jamie's stomach knotted. It was not just suspicion anymore. It was a test. A trap. A game with only bloody outcomes.
And Jamie realized, with a chill that cut deeper than any knife, that trust was no longer the question.
The question was simple, brutal:
When the time came, would he kill Derah… or would Derah kill him?