The fog had thinned between the trees, drifting like tattered veils between bark and feather.

  It’s all-encompassing shroud of black softened into cracks of light spilling from the sun above.

  The hush that had stripped them of sound faded, and distant noises began to filter in.

  The horse’s hooves clacked over the root-litter as it carried them along the path back toward the legions.

  On top of it, Priscilla sat ahead, Alric behind, hands firm upon the leather reins.

  Silence held them, broken only by her sharp breaths of disgust whenever the horse’s sway pressed his arms against her sides.

  “Stop touching me. I loathe it.” She turned, venom in her gaze.

  He took off his eyes from the path, meeting hers for a moment.

  Her irises did not glisten gold, nor did they spin. Whatever curse had claimed her was quiet, for now.

  “Do you remember what happened before you came to?”

  She frowned, displeased, yet answered after a pause.

  “Besides entering the Crag itself, nothing. Why?”

  “Would you her the truth entire,” he asked, “or only the part you can bear?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “What do you mean? What happened? Tell me!”

  He took a measured breath.

  “You told me you loved me.” His silvery gaze did not leave her. “And you spoke my given name.”

  Her face twisted in anger, hatred drawing tight across it.

  “Why poison me with such lies? How could I ever say such a thing to you of all men? Do you hunger so for my blade in your throat that you would provoke me with this?”

  “I swear upon my forefathers,” he said, “I do not lie.”

  Her face remained twisted, yet a glint of doubt flickered through.

  For a breath, her mask wavered.

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  She held his eyes a moment longer, then turned aside in disquiet.

  “How can it be? You never told me your name, nor did I hear it from another.”

  Her head snapped back. “When?”

  “Before I took this path to the pond. Your irises spun, and something moved through you.”

  “Possessed?”

  “Could be. Your eyes were gold, and your smile too perfect.”

  “Smile?” She asked, bewilderment creeping at the edges.

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you certain I was smiling?”

  “Certain.”

  She lowered her gaze for a moment, then back to him.

  “Did I speak those detestable words while in that state?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot say. When you spoke them, your eyes were green, not gold.”

  Her frown deepened.

  “Didn’t you just say my eyes glowed gold?”

  “Only after you cast me into the water did they turn. Before, they just chased themselves unchanged.”

  “I see. But then, how did you drive it out?”

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  He hesitated, jaw tightening.

  “Well? Why silence?” she pressed.

  He let the silence stretch for a long breath, then spoke, breaking the quiet.

  “I strangled you beneath water. And had you not given me your name, I would have done it again.” His voice was flat as iron.

  Her mouth fell open, rage and disbelief tangled together.

  “What?! You drowned me!?” her voice cracked.

  “Yes.” His voice impassive.

  “Then tell me, Commander, how do I stand before you now?”

  “Because it was a vision. Otherwise, you would be laying in the pond’s depths.”

  She scoffed.

  “Or perhaps this is another mad dream of yours, and you truly drowned me like a dog. You are nothing more than a monster clad in steel skin. You sicken me.”

  She spat on him.

  “Perhaps,” he said, wiping his face with a hand. “But I know we are returned.”

  She scoffed again, her stare still burning with scorn.

  “How?”

  “You would not hate me so.”

  “As if my contempt for you could be turned to love by some cursed place’s tricks.”

  “Trick or truth, it changes nothing. You are here, as am I. And in the end, that is what counts, that we return alive.”

  “Tell that to my dead children and dead husband, you soulless bastard.” She spat in his face once more.

  He lifted his gaze and resumed scanning the path ahead in silence.

  “You have nothing to say, do you, bastard?”

  He kept his peace and rode on, wiping his face again.

  She watched him still, and the longer she did, the stronger the urge to strike him grew.

  Her hands clenched so tight her nails carved grooves into her palms.

  Her shoulders shook and her jaw locked. Her body became as stiff as timber ready to splinter.

  “Don’t.” his voice came flat.

  “Or What?“ She gave a brittle laugh. “Kill me?”

  He did not answer. Only a long breath left him.

  She snapped. Reason failed her, body twisting on the saddle, she lunged at him, both hands clawing for his face.

  Alric released the reins and caught her wrists in his grip. The horse tossed its head, but kept to the path, hooves striking steady.

  She writhed in his hands, trying to strike or pull with her weight, but he held her fast.

  “DO YOU THINK IT SPORT TO TELL ME YOU KILLED ME?!”

  “ENOUGH!” His voice rang across the mist.

  She stilled.

  “I drowned a mask, not you.” His breath came heavy, yet steady.

  After that, nothing. Only the horse’s sway and their locked hands remained.

  Her strength ebbed from her arms. Not for lack of rage, but because she loosed it willingly.

  Her wrists slackened in his grasp, and he, in turn, released her.

  “I understand,” she said, weariness dulling her tone. “Enough to let it stop.”

  She turned back to the road.

  He gathered the reins and brushed her sides. This time she did not recoil.

  For a time, they rode in silence, fog thinning further.

  Then her voice again, quieter than before.

  “You show unusual fury, Commander. Why?”

  He turned his eyes to her, silver meeting green.

  “The Crag tested us all.”

  He returned his gaze to the path.

  She watched him a moment longer, then turned her head back to the road.

  The road widened more than bark or hooved feet could fill, trees giving way to soil and damp bushes.

  Light broke through the weakening canopy, pale and direct.

  Day is rising… he thought.

  Then sound returned to his ears.

  The faint tremor of chainmail over padded gambesons.

  The resounding call of horns rolling through the air.

  The soldiers’ murmurs threading between.

  Two scouts came into view ahead, moving warily along the path.

  At the sight of him they stopped, then turned and sprinted back toward the host.

  “The Commander! The Commander is returned!” Their cry rang across the morning air.

  As they vanished into the timberline, she turned to him.

  This time, she smiled.

  Not with the cruel serenity of a mask.

  But with the fractured intimacy of a woman scorned.

  Alric’s eyes lingered a breath too long, doubt pressing his throat like a blade.

  Yet no change came. Nor did gold sear her gaze. Only a woman, and her smile.

  Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

  She turned away, but her image held, unease tightening his chest and fingers.

  “Why smile?” he asked.

  She gave no answer.

  The weight in him deepened, his grip hardening around the reins.

  As he was about to speak again, the thunder of hooves broke the hush.

  Four riders pressed through the thinning fog: Vargo, Klethiar, Regulus, and Veracles, armour greyed by the Crag’s dust, eyes fixed on him.

  “Lord Commander!” Klethiar’s cry came first, raw with relief. “We feared you lost. The men… they near broke without you.”

  Vargo reined in beside him. “The lines held, but barely. Some muttered, some near fell apart. But they stand.”

  Alric watched them. “Losses?”

  Regulus interjected, head inclined, posture rigid. “None, Lord Commander. But we did lose all reckoning of time within that place. By your return alone we know something has shifted.”

  Alric turned to him.

  “I see.”

  Veracles leaned forward in his saddle, voice steady. “The men stir. Some wake dazed, others in terror. We wait for your word, Commander. Should we march, or regroup?”

  Their words came quick, order calling back to him.

  Alric met their eyes in turn. “Regroup the lines and when they stand firm, we march.”

  They nodded, and pressed no further.

  One by one they drew to his flanks, riding with him back toward the host.

  Through the timberline the army’s shape emerged.

  Rows of steel and flesh, bent but unbroken, stood before him.

  Some muttered under their breaths, others stared hollow into nothing, others still fumbled at buckles and straps as if to tear the weight from their skin.

  Yet all were bound by the same truth: unsettled but alive, standing.

  The Hekatons moved among them, restoring order with curt words and hands on shoulders, binding strays back into line.

  Officers echoed their orders, horses stamped, and chain and leather rasped as men adjusted gear and found their footing again.

  The line was not whole, but it lived, and that was enough.

  Horns rose across the host, and banners were lifted by weary hands, their cloth heavy with dew.

  Alric let his gaze pass over them.

  He gave no praise, but in silence he marked their endurance.

  At the sight of him the murmur swelled, yet he kept his gaze ahead.

  His heart was seized by an unquiet spirit, whispering deceit in the woman’s smile.

  Why green? Why now?

  He drew breath and stilled it, forcing his mind to the host before him.

  The march would resume, and the Crag would haunt them still.