We entered the tent city at Lucius’s side.

  He let out a long breath as the camp came alive around us. Men and women looked up from sharpening blades or tending fires, nodding to him in recognition. Some offered easy smiles. Others—scarred, hard-eyed—grinned in a way that made my skin crawl.

  A few of those looks lingered on Sophie.

  She caught them too. Her fingers tightened in my cloak, her grip small but fierce. Her eyes flicked from face to face, measuring, wary.

  I stared them down, heat rising in my chest.

  Lucius noticed.

  He stopped walking.

  His glare cut through the camp like a blade. Whatever passed between them needed no words—those men broke eye contact immediately and went back to their work.

  A large man stepped forward then, dark-skinned and broad-shouldered, his armor worn smooth by years of use. He clasped Lucius’s forearm in greeting.

  “About time you showed up, Captain,” he said. “The boys are getting antsy. How was your trip home?”

  Lucius sighed. “Eventful, Marcel.” He glanced at us. “Thought I’d bring back gifts. Turns out I just brought back two future troublemakers instead.”

  “Hey!” I said quickly.

  Lucius chuckled. “I’m kidding. Mostly.” He nodded toward us. “This is Thomas. And Sophie.”

  Marcel looked us over, expression unreadable. His eyes lingered on my rusted gauntlets, my father’s battered chest plate, then shifted to Sophie.

  “So,” he said at last, “what are your plans for them, Captain?”

  Lucius rubbed his face tiredly. “Have Thomas train under Harrow.” He waved a hand at my gear. “Get him some upgrades. His armor and weapons are falling apart.”

  I glanced down at my gauntlets and shrugged. Fair enough.

  “As for Sophie,” Lucius continued, “I’ll walk her over to Alyana. She’ll take care of her—medical and kitchen teams.”

  Lucius brought his fingertips together and kissed them theatrically. “She’s an amazing cook.”

  Marcel blinked.

  Then he laughed. “If this is another one of your mad ideas, Captain, so be it.”

  Lucius nodded, suddenly serious. “It is.”

  Marcel clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Thomas. Let’s get you set up.”

  Lucius stepped between us then, gripping both our shoulders firmly.

  “Welcome,” he said, voice steady and proud, “to the Red Devils.”

  Then we split.

  I walked a few steps with Marcel before stopping. I looked back.

  Sophie had paused too.

  Our eyes met across the press of bodies and firelight—hers steady now, resolved. Then she turned and followed Lucius deeper into the camp.

  I exhaled slowly and turned forward.

  The road behind us was gone.

  And whatever we were becoming—

  it would be forged here.

  Marcel led me through the camp to a wide, packed yard beaten flat by years of boots and bloodless drills. Wooden racks lined the edges. A few fighters sparred in the dirt while others watched, betting quietly.

  A balding man stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, one eye tracking lazily while the other fixed on me with unsettling precision.

  “Marcel!” he barked. “An’ who might this be?”

  “Lucius’s new protégé,” Marcel replied. “Brought him over from Deermarch.”

  The man grunted. “Figures.”

  He turned to me. “An’ yer name, kid?”

  “Thomas. From Old Tumbledown, I—”

  He waved me off. “We don’t care where yer from, lad. Step onto the yard. We’ll test yer mettle.”

  My jaw tightened as I did what he said, boots sinking slightly into the dirt.

  The man raised his voice. “Ashe! Get over here. Whip up this fresh meat.”

  I turned.

  The boy who stepped forward was close to my age—maybe a year younger. He wore a simple leather tunic, scuffed and well-worn. His hair was a mess, dark and uneven, like it’d been cut in a hurry. But his face—

  Too fine for this place. Almost noble.

  And his eyes told a different story entirely.

  There was something there I recognized instantly.

  Loss.

  Anger.

  Something buried deep and kept sharp.

  For just a split second, his eyes widened when they met mine.

  Then the moment vanished.

  His expression hardened into something cool and unreadable.

  Harrow tossed two wooden swords into the dirt between us.

  Ashe caught his without effort, fingers closing around the grip like it belonged there.

  I picked mine up and settled into the stance Lucius favored—weight forward, blade loose but ready. My heart thudded in my chest, not fear exactly, but awareness.

  Harrow stepped back, hands on his hips.

  “Don’t embarrass yerself,” he muttered. “Either of you.”

  He raised a hand.

  “Three,” he said.

  Ashe shifted his footing—subtle, practiced.

  “Two.”

  I lifted my blade, breath steadying, muscles coiling.

  “One.”

  The yard seemed to hold its breath.

  And then Harrow dropped his hand.

  I moved first.

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  I dashed forward and struck, putting my weight behind the swing. Ashe met it easily, wood cracking against wood. For a split second I almost caught his face—too calm, too focused—

  Then he dipped.

  My blade slid past empty air. His wooden sword snapped up, parrying cleanly, and his free hand came around in a sharp backhand that caught me across the jaw.

  Stars burst behind my eyes.

  I staggered back two steps, barely keeping my footing.

  I lunged again, faster this time.

  Ashe didn’t retreat. He angled his blade, redirected mine, and struck me again—another backhand, harder this time, sending me spinning sideways. I hit the dirt shoulder-first and rolled.

  The yard laughed.

  I pushed myself up, chest burning, and forced my breathing steady as we began to circle. I slowed, watching his feet, the way his weight never quite settled.

  I shifted into Raphael’s water stance—looser, responsive—and when Ashe spun and struck fast, I nearly caught it, wood sliding against wood instead of crashing.

  For a heartbeat, it worked.

  Then Ashe’s foot hooked behind my ankle.

  He swept.

  The ground vanished beneath me. I slammed onto my back, the air ripping from my lungs in a sharp, humiliating gasp.

  More laughter.

  I lay there for a second longer than I should have, pain blooming across my ribs, before rolling onto my side and forcing myself up.

  Ashe waited.

  No gloating. No rush.

  Just watching.

  I wiped dirt from my mouth and raised my blade again, stance tightening, mind racing.

  This wasn’t strength.

  This was something else.

  And as I steadied myself, I realized with a sinking certainty:

  If I didn’t change how I fought—

  Ashe was going to break me.

  I lunged again.

  Ashe shifted to meet me—but this time, before our blades could clash, I dropped low and drove my boot forward.

  It caught him square in the thigh.

  He stumbled back two steps, surprise flashing across his face before it vanished behind anger.

  I didn’t give him time.

  I pressed in, striking with a quick flurry—high, low, then high again—forcing him to retreat, wooden blades cracking sharp and fast. My arms burned, but I stayed inside his guard, moving the way Lucius had drilled into me: don’t give them space to think.

  Ashe’s jaw tightened.

  His movements grew faster—too fast.

  Reckless.

  He came at me in a rush, swinging hard, trying to overwhelm me with speed. I felt the shift instantly.

  I yielded.

  I slid back into Raphael’s teachings, letting his strikes glance off instead of meeting them head-on. Parry. Redirect. Step aside. Each blow landed heavier than the last, the shock rattling my wrists—but I held.

  I waited.

  Then I kicked again.

  My heel caught him in the hip as he overextended. He lost balance and went down hard, hitting the dirt with a grunt.

  The yard fell quieter this time.

  Ashe rolled onto his side, breath sharp, eyes locked on me—no fury now. Just something raw and assessing.

  I stood there, chest heaving, blade raised but not moving.

  I hadn’t beaten him.

  Not really.

  But for the first time since stepping onto the yard, I hadn’t been the one broken either.

  And as Ashe pushed himself back up, dirt clinging to his tunic, I saw it in his eyes—

  Not contempt.

  Recognition.

  Ashe came at me again.

  Fast. Direct.

  But this time, his eyes weren’t on my blade.

  They were on my face.

  I parried his first strike, wood clacking hard, but the way he watched me made my stomach twist. Not measuring distance. Not tracking movement.

  Studying.

  “Why are you—” I started, breath tight.

  He pressed harder, forcing me back a step, then another. I blocked, redirected, held—but his gaze never left me. It was like he was searching for something just beneath my skin.

  Frustration flickered across his face.

  Then he growled low in his throat and brought his blade down with everything he had.

  Crack.

  My wooden sword snapped in half.

  Before I could react, his boot slammed into my chest. The impact drove the air from my lungs and sent me stumbling backward off the edge of the yard. I hit the ground hard, dirt and breath spilling from me at once.

  Harrow didn’t hesitate.

  “Winner—Ashe!”

  Coins exchanged hands immediately. A few groans. A few laughs.

  I pushed myself up onto one elbow, chest aching, ears ringing.

  Ashe stood there a moment longer, breathing hard.

  He looked at me again.

  Not victorious.

  Not mocking.

  Searching.

  Then, without a word, he tossed his wooden sword back to Harrow and turned away, disappearing into the press of the camp like I’d never mattered at all.

  I lay there staring after him, my chest burning where his kick had landed.

  I’d lost.

  But whatever Ashe had been looking for—

  He hadn’t found it.

  And somehow, that unsettled me more than the defeat.

  Marcel chuckled as Lucius wandered over, hands clasped behind his head.

  “Well?” Lucius said, grinning. “How was your match, Thomas? Did ya win?”

  “Nope,” I replied flatly. “Sadly, I did not.”

  My eyes drifted back to where Ashe had vanished between the tents.

  Lucius followed my gaze and snorted. “Yeah. That Ashe is a fury. Trained ’em myself.”

  There was something almost boyish in his expression—pride without restraint.

  “Picked ’em up from the border about a year and a half ago,” he went on. “Red Devils’ finest.”

  Marcel nodded. “That one doesn’t miss much.”

  Lucius smirked at me. “Had you not learned Uncle Raphael’s dumb techniques, you’d probably have won.”

  I opened my mouth to argue—then stopped.

  Something about the way Ashe had looked at me wouldn’t let go.

  I hesitated, then asked, “Why was he staring at my face?”

  Lucius paused.

  Just a fraction too long.

  “Habit,” he said lightly, waving a hand. “Some fighters read eyes instead of hands.”

  Marcel raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate.

  Lucius ignored it.

  “Whatever,” I muttered, pushing myself fully to my feet. My ribs ached, but I welcomed the pain—it grounded me. “How’s Sophie settling in?”

  Lucius’s expression shifted immediately.

  “Better than expected,” he said. “Alyana likes her. That’s rare.”

  Marcel chuckled. “Girl didn’t flinch once when we brought in the wounded. Hands steady. Mouth shut.”

  Lucius nodded. “Didn’t complain about the work either.”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  “That’s good,” I said.

  Lucius clapped me once on the shoulder. “You worry too much.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  Because as my gaze drifted back across the camp—past the fires, the training yard, the moving shadows—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had already begun shifting.

  Ashe hadn’t been looking at how I fought.

  He’d been looking at me.

  And Lucius, for all his bluster, knew exactly why.

  Lucius snapped his fingers suddenly. “Ah—damn it.”

  He straightened, expression shifting like he’d just remembered something inconvenient.

  “Meeting,” he said. “Representatives. Red Devils’ll be on the move soon.”

  Marcel looked at him. “That so?”

  Lucius was already backing away. “Yeah. Can’t be late.” He pointed at me. “Go meet up with Sophie and Alyana. a feast will be ready soon.”

  I blinked. “You sure?”

  “Go,” he said, a little too quickly. Then he turned and vanished into the maze of tents before I could say another word.

  Marcel watched him go, unimpressed.

  “Strange one, our captain,” he muttered. “Anyway—” he clapped a hand on my shoulder and nudged me forward, “let’s get you some new armor before you embarrass the whole camp again.”

  I snorted. “Fair.”

  He gestured toward a row of tents near the edge of the training yard. “Come on. Smith’s this way.”

  I followed, glancing once more across the camp.

  Lucius was already gone.

  And whatever meeting he was headed to—it wasn’t just about contracts.

  Something was moving.

  Maybe a war would be coming soon.