CHAPTER 109: THE ASH BETWEEN US.

Silence was heavier than steel.

The kind of silence that came not from peace, but from too much sound crushed into nothing. The tent still breathed smoke, still glowed from the fever-fire that had burst out of me, but outside, hundreds of men stood mute. Their chants of Break, break, break had fallen away. Only the crackle of torches and the slow clink of armor shifting broke through the night air.

I could feel their eyes. All of them. Piercing through the canvas walls, burning into my skin, weighing me down more than any wound I had suffered.

My legs trembled. My body sagged against Garron’s arm. He held me upright, iron grip anchoring me to the earth, but I could feel the twitch of strain in his muscles. I wasn’t light. I was dead weight, half-broken, fevered, stinking of blood and sweat and ash.

Still, I had stood.

Still, I had spoken.

I am not broken.

The words echoed in my skull, raw and jagged, and part of me clung to them like driftwood in the storm. But another part—darker, colder—recalled how no cheer had risen in answer. No chant. No roar of loyalty. Only silence, stunned and brittle, as if my words were too heavy to touch.

Garron half-lifted me, half-dragged me back toward the cot. My knees buckled the instant he tried to let go, so he eased me down slow, setting me like a man lays down a wounded hound. His hand lingered on my shoulder, rough and steady. His eyes locked mine, unflinching.

"You gave them pause," he said. His voice was low, meant for me alone. "That will hold them—for now."

For now.

The phrase rang sharp. A reprieve, not a victory.

I could hear the shuffle of boots outside, hear captains trying to wrangle their men, whispering threats and oaths into ears gone sour with doubt. The mob was breaking apart, dissolving into smaller knots of murmurs. But the silence between them was not trust. It was fear stuffed down into bellies, waiting to fester.

Garron turned toward the flap, his shoulders squared. "I’ll see them to heel."

"No..." My voice rasped, dry as gravel. I forced myself upright, pain shooting through my ribs, fever pounding in my temples. "No—if you draw steel against them now, we’re finished. They’ll say you fight to protect a curse."

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. "You think they don’t already say it?"

He wasn’t wrong.

I could see their faces still—the way they had looked at me when I rose from the cot, sweat-soaked and half-dead, yet wreathed in fire. Not like a commander. Not like a man. Something other. Something wrong.

"You held them once," I said, my voice little more than breath. "Hold them again."

He gave a slow nod. Not agreement—acknowledgment. Then he ducked through the flap, vanishing into the night.

The moment he left, the tent felt too large. Too hollow. The healers crept about like mice, silent, eyes averted, hands trembling as they tried to gather the herbs and bowls scattered by the burst of fire. None looked at me. None dared. One muttered a prayer under his breath until the syllables cracked. Another smeared chalk in frantic lines across the floorboards, sigils of warding that glowed faintly before fading.

And still—I felt it.

The whisper in my chest.

"They will never trust you again."

The commander’s voice, soft, coiling, patient. No longer the booming roar of the labyrinth, but a murmur dripping poison slow. "You saw their faces. Fear cannot be unlearned. They will follow until they find a knife sharp enough to cut loose."

I pressed a hand to my ribs, clutching at the bandages. Heat pulsed beneath them, slow and steady, like embers in a pit refusing to die. My fingers trembled.

"They’ll follow me," I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if the words were meant for the commander or for myself.

The laugh that answered filled my bones. "Follow you, yes. But not out of loyalty. Out of fear. Out of desperation. And when the choice comes—between you and the South—they will break you."

I clenched my teeth, grinding so hard my jaw ached. "I am not broken."

"Not yet."

The flap burst open again. Garron entered, his face shadowed, his armor streaked with torchlight. His blade was sheathed, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the hilt.

"They’ve gone quiet," he said. "Not satisfied. Not convinced. But quiet. I’ve ordered double watches. No one comes near you without my word."

"And the captains?" My voice caught.

His eyes flicked away. That was answer enough.

"They’ll bend," he muttered, but the words had no steel in them.

I leaned back, exhaustion pressing me deep into the cot. My body screamed for sleep, but every time I let my lids droop, I saw him—the commander—standing in the labyrinth, blade across his knees, eyes like molten suns.

"You need rest," Garron said.

I shook my head, slow, weak. "Rest won’t come."

The silence stretched. The healers pretended to busy themselves, though their hands shook too much to work. One dropped a vial; it shattered, sharp scent of resin spilling into the air. None dared curse. None dared meet Garron’s eye.

At last, he crouched beside me. His face was hard stone, but the cracks were showing—weariness, worry, fury without outlet.

"You saved them," he said. "Don’t let their fear blind you to that."

Saved.

I thought of the duel. Of the commander’s blade splintering mine. Of blood soaking the dirt, mine and his mingling until I couldn’t tell one from the other. Of the silence that had followed victory.

I had saved them, yes. But I had also damned myself.

I turned my head away. My voice was little more than a whisper. "I don’t know how long I can hold."

His hand gripped my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Then I’ll hold with you."

For a moment, the whisper in my chest faltered. For a moment, the fire dimmed.

But only for a moment.

When Garron rose, barking orders to the healers, I closed my eyes. Darkness came, but not peace. The commander was waiting, patient as ever, molten eyes burning in the ash.

"Vessels break," he whispered. "And you are breaking."

I did not answer.

Not because I agreed. Not because I believed.

But because I was too tired to fight.

And in that silence, the doubt grew sharper than any blade.