“The remaining captains?”
Malthak clears his throat, discomfort obvious. “Captain Thraz hasn’t been located, Warlord. His quarters were empty when we went to arrest him—personal effects gone, weapons missing. Either he fled when Hadrun was exposed, or...”
“Or he’s planning something worse.” I finish the thought they’re both reluctant to voice.
The implications settle over us. Not just one traitor captain, but potentially two. How many others remain undetected? How many friendly faces hide treacherous hearts?
“What about Gorak?”
“Under guard in his quarters,” Korvin reports. “Claims ignorance of any conspiracy, but his protests seem... rehearsed. As if he’s had time to prepare his denials.”
Every order I give might be undermined by those sworn to follow it. Every tactical decision could be known to the enemy before it’s implemented.
“Double the guard rotations,” I decide. “Only warriors personally vouched for by you two. No one moves between sections without escort and authorization. And I want search parties combing every passage, every hidden alcove. Thraz doesn’t leave this fortress alive.”
They nod grimly and begin gathering materials needed to implement fortress-wide security changes. The measures will consume precious resources when we can least afford the distraction.
“One more thing,” I add as they prepare to leave. “I want every piece of equipment inspected by smiths we trust absolutely. Weapons, armor, arrows—everything. If it shows signs of sabotage, replace it or repair it. I won’t lose more warriors to compromised gear.”
Another messenger appears in the doorway—young Lorun, his face flushed from running.
“Warlord, Elder Grath requests your immediate presence in the council chamber. Says it’s about\...” He pauses, searching for diplomatic phrasing. “Concerns among the warriors.”
The careful language tells me everything I need to know. Not tactical discussions or supply issues, but questions about my leadership. About decisions that put personal feelings above military necessity.
The council chamber buzzes with tense energy when I arrive, thick with unspoken concerns and careful diplomacy. Elder Grath One-Eye leans heavily on his walking stick near the great window, his face creased with worry.
“Speak,” I order, settling into my chair with deliberate authority.
Grath clears his throat, discomfort obvious. “Warlord, there are... concerns among the warriors. About priorities. About decisions that seem influenced by...” He trails off, searching for diplomatic phrasing.
“About the human,” I finish flatly.
“About appearances of favoritism. Some feel that protecting one person—however valuable—has become more important than protecting the clan.” His voice carries decades of experience serving Iron Warlords. “They wonder if judgment has been... compromised.”
My jaw tightens. Each word lands with precision, cutting deeper than any blade because there’s truth in them. Every decision since Zoraya arrived has been colored by the need to protect her.
“And what do you think, Elder?”
“I think a leader who has nothing worth protecting becomes a weapon pointed at problems rather than a man who understands what he fights for.” His remaining eye studies my face carefully. “But I also think a leader who protects one at the expense of many will lose both.”
The words hit home—not condemnation, but warning from someone who’s seen this dance before. Leaders who let personal attachment compromise their judgment.
“The human is essential to our magical defenses,” I state, falling back on tactical justification.
“Is that all she is?” The question comes from Captain Malthak, voiced with careful respect.
The silence stretches as I weigh my response. I could maintain the fiction that Zoraya is a purely strategic asset. Could pretend my protection stems from military necessity rather than feelings I’m barely ready to acknowledge.
But these are men who’ve bled beside me, who’ve earned honesty from their lord.
“No,” I admit. “She’s not.”
The words change everything in the chamber. Some officers exchange glances that speak of concern and political calculation. Others nod with something that might be approval or understanding.
“Then you need to decide,” Grath says gently, “whether you’re willing to risk everything you’ve built for what she represents. Because that choice may come sooner than any of us expect.”
Before I can respond, horns sound from the outer walls—distant but clear, carrying across the valley with urgent insistence. Not Ironhold’s signals, but something else. Enemy horns, announcing movement and intent with brazen confidence.
