The night before the ambush was too quiet.
Jamie sat on the ridge with his crossbow across his knees, eyes fixed on the road that snaked through the forest below. The trees were heavy with silence, the kind that pressed into the ears and made the world feel muffled, unreal. He hated silences like this—they felt staged, as if the land itself were holding its breath, waiting for blood.
Behind him, Kael sharpened his blade with long, slow strokes, the metallic rasp dragging through the air like a warning. A few paces farther, Derah paced restlessly, arms folded, his hood low. Most of the resistance fighters had already settled into positions, concealed in undergrowth or crouched along the tree line. Everyone knew their place, their role, their moment to strike.
Everyone except Elian.
Jamie's gaze flicked to the boy, who lingered at the camp's edge. He had been restless all evening—too restless. Elian disappeared often now, offering thin excuses about scouting the terrain or collecting supplies. Each time, he returned a little too quickly, with eyes that refused to meet Jamie's.
Jamie's instincts prickled. He wanted to believe the boy. After all, he had pulled Elian from the edge of death, carried him through the forest when he could barely stand. Trust was supposed to mean something.
But trust, Jamie had learned, was a blade's edge.
A memory stabbed at him: his father's stern face lit by the warm glow of firelight.
"The first knife always comes from someone close."
Jamie had been young then, too young to understand. He understood now.
"Elian," Jamie called softly. The boy stiffened. "Where've you been?"
Elian turned, his face pale, lips pressed tight. "Just—just needed air. Needed to clear my head."
Jamie tilted his head, studying him. "Before a fight, you clear your weapon, not your head."
Derah's eyes narrowed at the exchange, but he said nothing. Kael didn't even look up from his blade.
The unease clung to Jamie long after Elian slipped back among the others. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones.
When dawn's first gray light began to seep through the branches, the convoy came.
Engines growled, wheels grinding stone and dirt. Two armored transports, just as their scouts had predicted. Guards flanked the vehicles, rifles slung, eyes sharp.
Kael raised his fist from the treeline. The signal.
Arrows loosed from hidden bows. Rocks rolled down the ridge as ropes snapped free. Nets sprang from the brush, and fighters surged forward with blades raised. The forest exploded in noise—shouts, steel, the thunder of boots.
And then everything went wrong.
The first trap jammed, its counterweight refusing to fall. The second net snagged in its own rigging, collapsing harmlessly in the dirt. The soldiers didn't stumble into confusion as expected—they wheeled with mechanical precision, rifles snapping to shoulders.
Gunfire tore the forest apart.
Jamie dove behind a log, heart hammering, bark exploding around him as bullets chewed the wood. A man beside him crumpled with a scream, blood spattering Jamie's sleeve. The air filled with the reek of cordite, sharp and choking.
"Hold formation!" Kael bellowed, voice raw against the chaos. He swung his blade, cutting down one soldier, then another. But there were too many.
Jamie rose, loosing a bolt that punched through a guard's throat. He ducked low, reloaded, fired again. His hands worked on instinct, but his mind screamed: They were ready for us. Someone told them.
A soldier's bayonet clipped Jamie's side, reopening the half-healed wound beneath his ribs. He staggered, gasping. Pain flared white-hot. The world tilted.
Derah was there in an instant. He slammed a shoulder into Jamie's chest, knocking him back as a bullet whined past where Jamie's head had been. "Move!" Derah snarled, dragging him upright. "You'll bleed out if you fall!"
They stumbled through the undergrowth, branches tearing at their clothes. Behind them, the resistance line crumbled. Fighters fell one by one, some cut down, others retreating in broken waves.
Kael's voice roared through the din. "Fall back! Retreat!"
Jamie twisted to look. The road was a slaughterhouse—bodies sprawled, traps twisted uselessly, smoke hanging low over the carnage. Soldiers advanced steadily, rifles barking.
Derah yanked him harder. "Don't look, Jamie! Run!"
Jamie's breath came ragged. His vision blurred. His father's words echoed in his skull, louder with each heartbeat. The first knife always comes from someone close.
They burst into a clearing half a mile from the ambush site. Survivors trickled in, scattered, bloody, wild-eyed. Some carried the wounded, others carried nothing at all but despair.
Kael arrived last, face streaked with soot, his sword slick with blood. He spat in the dirt, chest heaving. His eyes were furious, blazing with barely contained rage.
"There was no mistake," he growled. "They knew. They were waiting for us."
A heavy silence followed. Jamie's gaze drifted toward Elian. The boy's hands shook as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes darted between Kael, Derah, and Jamie.
Kael's stare hardened. "There's a traitor among us." His gaze lingered on Derah—long enough for tension to thicken like smoke. Then it shifted to Elian.
Jamie's stomach twisted. He wanted to speak, to deny it, but the weight of doubt pressed down on his chest. He remembered Elian slipping away, the flimsy excuses, the fear in his eyes.
Derah's hand tightened on Jamie's arm, steadying him. "Careful," Derah murmured under his breath, only for Jamie. "Paranoia kills faster than bullets."
But Kael was already snarling, stepping forward. "I'll find out who sold us out. And when I do, their blood will feed the roots of these trees."
The fighters shifted uneasily, exchanging nervous glances. The silence of the forest pressed in once more, but this time it wasn't the quiet before a battle. It was the quiet before a storm of suspicion and blood.
Jamie stood there, torn between his father's warning and his own instincts. Elian avoided his eyes. Derah met them squarely. Kael's fury burned like fire.
And somewhere in the shadows, the first knife waited.