Barrett made a beeline for the Handomean tents, cutting past clusters of Central Forest villagers without slowing. The camp had lost all shape. Gone were its neat lines and sense of order Maku had instilled. Now there was just smoke hanging low, and people everywhere.

  Injured bodies were laid out in every scrap of open ground. Some groaned softly. Others stared up at nothing, eyes glassy. The smell of blood hung heavy over everything.

  There were more wounded than there were standing.

  And scattered among them were the dead. Human. Orc. A battlefield written in bodies and not nearly enough hands to move them.

  Barrett’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep moving.

  He caught glimpses of the kids he’d spoken to earlier—alive and unharmed. They darted between tents with water skins, with torn cloth, with armfuls of bandages. One boy nearly tripped over a spear haft, recovered, and kept going anyway. No one was idle or waiting around to be asked to do something.

  Everyone doing their part. Whatever they could do.

  Community.

  It hit Barrett harder than he expected. Another reminder that this wasn’t the Barrett Donovan Show. The strong, the weak, everyone was making themselves useful. People were holding each other up.

  It tugged up an old memory of him laid out and useless, rage hot in his gut, and Rebby’s hands steady as she helped him anyway. No judgment. No pity. Just her comforting presence.

  Maybe that was why he wanted to be there for Rei so much. He knew what it felt like to be on the other side of helpless. And he knew what a difference it made when someone stayed.

  Barrett exhaled slowly.

  “Damn,” he muttered, “Feels like I lost my eyes, but lately I’ve been seeing more than ever.”

  “KRAA,” Grimm answered, like he understood.

  Barrett stopped in front of a familiar tent. A gold-and-black flag hung from its pole—skull wreathed in clouds—stirring faintly in the night’s weak wind.

  —

  Barrett pushed aside the tent flap and stepped into the muted half-light within.

  The air inside was thick with the smell of sweat, herbs, and damp cloth. A lantern burned low in one corner, casting wavering gold across canvas walls and long, restless shadows.

  Eidel stood near the center, her short dark hair unbound, her sharp features drawn thin with exhaustion. The precise composure she usually wore like armor had slipped. She looked smaller somehow. Uncertain.

  On a pallet laid across the ground lay the scarred warrior.

  “How is he?” Barrett asked quietly.

  Eidel lifted an arm and pressed it across her eyes, as if the question alone hurt. She shook her head once and turned away without answering.

  Grimm shifted on Barrett’s shoulder, talons tightening gently through cloth and spiderweave. A silent brace.

  Barrett crossed the space and lowered himself beside the wounded man. Up close, the veteran’s face seemed almost peaceful. The harsh lines of command were softened now, his breathing shallow, sweat glistening along his temples. He might have been sleeping, if not for the faint tremor running beneath his skin.

  “Granny couldn’t bring him back?” Barrett asked, then immediately regretted it.

  Eidel moved to stand beside him. For a moment she simply looked down at the man.

  “The blade was poisoned,” she said at last. “Heavily. We can’t identify the toxin. Without knowing what it is, we can’t counter it.”

  “Poison…” Barrett’s stomach tightened. “Rei—”

  “Your friend is safe,” Eidel cut in, her voice steadier now. “I asked Granny myself. The flame daggers cauterized the wounds when she lost her hands. Nothing entered her blood.”

  The breath Barrett had been holding left him in a slow exhale.

  “But what I don’t understand,” Eidel continued, turning her sharp gaze on him, “is how you are still standing.”

  Barrett blinked. Then it clicked.

  “I’ve got a skill,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Helps against toxins. Probably burned through most of it before it could take hold.”

  She studied him for a long moment, measuring. Then gave a small, acknowledging nod and knelt to press a cool cloth against the warrior’s brow. Even from where Barrett crouched, he could see the faint dark veins creeping beneath the man’s skin, a subtle corruption spreading outward.

  He silently sent a prayer of thanks to Rebby.

  Silence settled heavily between them.

  “We need to leave at first light,” Barrett said finally.

  Eidel didn’t respond right away. Her hand remained steady on the cloth.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “We can’t,” she said at last. “Too many injured. Too much to move.”

  “We have to,” Barrett replied, the decision already hardened in him. “You know they’ll regroup. We’d be stupid to believe they won’t come back for more.”

  Eidel nodded slowly. “Then we retreat,” she said. “They know we’re bound for EverGreen. There are only so many paths. They’ll intercept us.”

  “No.”

  This time she looked up sharply, purple eyes flashing, moisture clinging to her lashes.

  “No?” she echoed.

  Barrett didn’t look away. “We can’t outrun them,” he said steadily. “Not burdened like this. Our only real chance is EverGreen. If we reach someone there, we can get help before they close the distance.”

  “You heard the orc,” she shot back, her voice rising despite herself. “There’s no one left. The rest of the inner warpers are dead. If they fell, what do you think waits for us beyond the walls? Anyone else will be too weak.”

  “You don’t know that,” Barrett answered.

  Her jaw tightened. “The gap between those who warp to the island’s core and those bound to the outer edge is enormous. I doubt anyone at EverGreen is strong enough to march out and meet an orc warband in open ground.”

  Barrett drew in a slow breath, then let it out through his nose. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe the orcs were lying and there are still strong fighters in EverGreen.”

  He leaned forward slightly, voice low but firm.

  “We can make it. We travel light. We push hard. I’ll run ahead if I have to. But standing still or turning back won’t save us.” His eyes held hers. “Only way out is forward.”

  “That’s suicide,” Eidel snapped, anger cracking through her composure. “You’d sacrifice us. Use us as bait while you run ahead!”

  “Are you serious?” Barrett’s voice rose, filling the tent. “Where do you get off accusing Team Donovan of that?”

  “I won’t let you betray us,” she shot back. “I won’t.”

  For a heartbeat, her eyes darkened. A deep violet seeped inward from the edges, inky and dangerous.

  “Eidel…stop.”

  The voice was hoarse, barely more than breath.

  Both of them turned.

  Zahir’s eyes were open.

  The old warrior lay drenched in sweat now, veins standing stark beneath his skin, the faint stain of poison threading through them. Each breath seemed to cost him something.

  “Zahir—” Eidel leaned close, her hand trembling as she reached for him.

  “He’s right,” Zahir rasped, then broke into a fit of coughing that wracked his frame. When he recovered, his gaze fixed on Barrett. “Only way out…is forward.”

  Barrett inclined his head.

  “It’s a gamble,” he said evenly. “No more large camps. No drawn-out stops. We push hard. It becomes a sprint.”

  Eidel’s mind was already turning; he could see it in her eyes. Calculations, distances, rations, wounded.

  “Three to four days,” she said quietly. “If we force it. And that pace will cost us.”

  “When we get close,” Barrett said, “I’ll break off and run ahead. Bring help back.”

  She gave him a long, skeptical look.

  Barrett rolled his shoulders. “I’m Barrett Donovan. Leader of Team Donovan. You wanna know how I lost my sight?”

  Eidel nodded faintly. “We heard.”

  “Then trust me.”

  Zahir shifted, placing a weak hand on Barrett’s forearm. “Forgive us, Imperator,” he murmured. “We have much to lose.”

  Barrett’s anger softened.

  “So do I,” he said quietly.

  —

  They spent the next few minutes in quiet motion beneath the sounds of cloth, water, and labored breathing. Barrett stood back at first, giving them space, but he could not help watching.

  Eidel knelt beside Zahir with none of the sharp composure she usually wore like armor. The royalty was gone; the calculating strategist was gone. What remained was a young woman with trembling hands, adjusting blankets, lifting his head carefully to ease the strain in his neck, pressing a damp cloth to his brow. The way she moved made her look impossibly young.

  Like a daughter trying to care for her sick father.

  Barrett’s gaze drifted to Zahir. The old warrior’s skin had taken on that pale, waxen sheen. The corruption in his veins pulsed faintly beneath the skin, dark threads spreading outward with patient inevitability.

  He felt an unexpected ache in his chest.

  It struck him suddenly that he would never really know this man. He found himself wondering, absurdly, if they might have been friends under different circumstances.

  “Eidel,” Zahir murmured, his voice fraying at the edges, “go…check on the others.”

  She stilled.

  Her eyes flicked to him, then to Barrett. There was hesitation there, a protectiveness.

  “It’s alright,” Zahir managed, suppressing a cough.

  She lingered another heartbeat, then rose slowly. Before leaving, she fixed Barrett with a look so intense it felt like a blade laid across his throat. A warning.

  Then she slipped from the tent.

  Silence settled in her wake.

  “She will be one of the greatest of our House,” Zahir said at last, staring up at the canvas ceiling.

  Barrett nodded. “Yeah. I can see that.”

  A faint smile tugged at the old warrior’s mouth.

  “You once asked me about my scar.”

  Barrett’s eyes dropped to the jagged mark that cut across Zahir’s face. “It’s badass,” he said honestly.

  A weak chuckle shook Zahir’s chest.

  “You want one?”

  Barrett blinked. “What?” He leaned back slightly. “You planning to cut me before you go?”

  Zahir laughed again, the sound breaking into a painful cough. “I am asking…if you would take up my charge. I do not have long.”

  The weight of that settled slowly.

  “It’s an honor,” Barrett said carefully. “Really. But I’m the leader of Team Donovan. I’m not sure I’m looking to pick up a side gig as someone’s bodyguard.”

  Zahir’s eyes sharpened despite the weakness in the rest of him.

  “Getting to EverGreen,” he said quietly, “will only be the beginning of your troubles. The red-haired one—she is a chronomancer. That is an epic power. Families will either claim her…or kill her to ensure no rival does.”

  Barrett stared at him. “Pippy?” His voice tightened. “Epic powers?”

  Zahir nodded faintly. “Eidel has one as well. Hers is…forbidden. If word reaches anyone in the League Council, she will be executed.”

  “Executed?” The word felt foreign and ugly in Barrett’s mouth.

  Another nod. The corruption in Zahir’s veins had crept farther now, darkening toward his collarbone.

  “That is why,” he continued, each word costing him something, “I would bind your group to ours. Tie our fates together.”

  Barrett ran a hand through his hair. “What the hell? The other humans in this league are going to kill Eidel just because she’s got this overpowered ability?”

  Zahir nodded.

  “Aren’t we all on the same side here?” Barrett was confused, “don’t we need strong fighters to protect these damn gates?!”

  Zahir studied him. “Is that how humans are on your world?”

  Barrett’s jaw clenched.

  “…Damn.”

  He exhaled slowly, anger simmering beneath the surface.

  “No offense,” he added after a moment, “you’ve done right by us. But we barely know you. If we’re going to get tangled up in family politics and death warrants, why wouldn’t we join some other strong house?”

  A ghost of pride flickered in Zahir’s tired eyes.

  “There are thousands of families on the Central Continent,” he said. “Fewer than ten stand above ours.”

  Barrett scratched at the back of his head. “I thought you guys were in the dumps. Trying to claw back former glory or something.”

  “That is a story,” Zahir replied faintly, “for another time. Even in the ‘dumps,’ as you say, we remain a Great House. The average Fourth Worlder would surrender everything he owns for the offer you are considering.”

  His gaze pinned Barrett now, unwavering despite the tremor in his body.

  “How long do I have?” Barrett asked quietly.

  Zahir’s chest hitched. He coughed again, longer this time, and when it subsided, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Until I draw my last breath.”

  Barrett grimaced. “So I can’t just…wait and get the scar later?”

  Zahir’s smile returned, thin and knowing.

  “You think,” he rasped, “this is just a regular scar?”