CHAPTER 111: ASH AMONG THE RANKS.

The knife hovered less than a breath from his throat. The edge glimmered faintly, catching the glow of a single dying ember, and the air between blade and skin grew sharp, cold, as if the steel itself drank the warmth from the tent. Ryon’s hand locked around the assassin’s wrist, his grip unshakable despite the fever that had stripped his body raw.

The assassin froze, muscles taut, breath sharp through his teeth. For a heartbeat the world held still. Outside, the camp lay wrapped in restless silence—snoring men, murmured dreams, the shifting of horses in their pickets—but within the tent only two lives existed, balanced on the razor’s edge of steel.

Ryon’s fingers dug deeper. He could feel the man’s pulse hammering against his palm, quick and furious. He could feel the sweat on his skin, slick, betraying nerves the assassin’s face tried to hide.

"You thought me broken," Ryon rasped, his voice raw with fever, yet steady as iron. "But you should have killed me at Hollow Pass."

The assassin’s arm jerked, his body twisting with sudden violence. Ryon’s muscles screamed with the effort to hold him back. The knife’s tip scraped his skin, carving a shallow cut across his throat, and blood trickled warm down into his collar. Pain burned, but the fire steadied him, focused him.

The assassin bore down, both hands pressing against the hilt now, trying to drive the blade home. Ryon snarled, a sound dragged from deep within, and he rolled with all the strength he had left. The cot overturned with a violent crack, canvas groaning, and they slammed to the dirt floor.

Pain seared through Ryon’s chest, lightning across broken ribs, and for a moment blackness clawed at the edges of his vision. But his grip did not loosen. He twisted his body, forcing his shoulder into the assassin’s side, using leverage rather than strength. The knife wrenched sideways, clattering free into the dark.

The assassin cursed, a sharp hiss, and drove his fist into Ryon’s cheek. Stars exploded in his sight, the fever and the blow mixing into dizzying fire. Ryon answered with his elbow, jamming it into the man’s throat. The assassin gagged, clawing at him, but Ryon bore down, using every shred of weight his battered body could muster.

Then light flooded the tent.

The flap ripped wide, and Garron’s voice thundered: "Commander!"

Torchlight seared Ryon’s eyes. Boots stormed in, steel hissed free. Garron’s bulk filled the space, his expression a mask of fury and alarm. He saw, understood, and acted in the same instant. His boot slammed into the assassin’s shoulder, driving him flat against the earth.

Two soldiers fell upon the intruder, wrenching his arms back until joints popped. The knife was seized from the dirt. Ryon, trembling, sweat pouring down his brow, finally released his hold. His fingers were locked into claws, blood smeared across his palm where the blade had kissed skin.

He sat back, chest heaving, every breath glass through his ribs. His gaze fixed on the man pinned beneath Garron’s boot.

"Who is he?" Garron growled.

The soldiers pulled back the hood. Torchlight revealed the face beneath.

Not northern. Not mercenary.

A southern soldier.

Young, hard-eyed, jaw set with defiance, lips curled into the ghost of a sneer. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, but his gaze did not falter even beneath the weight of the torches and steel.

Silence fell, so heavy it pressed on the chest.

Ryon’s stomach turned. Not a spy. Not an infiltrator. Not an enemy.

One of his own.

The commander’s voice slid oily into his skull: See how the rot spreads? You think them loyal, but loyalty is ash. Already they move to cut you down. Already they smell weakness on you. They do not follow the broken—they bury him.

Ryon closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the whisper, but the truth remained like a knife in the gut.

"Why?" Garron barked, his voice sharp enough to cut stone.

The prisoner said nothing. His chest heaved, his eyes burned, but his lips stayed sealed.

"Speak!" Garron ground his boot harder against the man’s shoulder.

The assassin turned his head and spat. The glob landed near Ryon’s feet. His lips twisted into a smile—a smile without humor, a smile of defiance.

The camp beyond the tent rustled with unease, drawn by the noise. Ryon could feel it—the weight of gazes pressing from outside, soldiers shifting in the night, whispering to one another.

"Bring him outside," Ryon said, voice low, rasped but carrying.

"Commander, you—" Garron began.

"Now."

The word cracked like iron struck on anvil. Garron hesitated, jaw tight, but then he nodded. The assassin was hauled upright, arms bound, dragged toward the flap.

Ryon rose. His legs trembled, his vision swam, his body screamed, but he rose. Each step was agony, but he would not crawl. He would not be carried. He followed them into the night, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other trailing blood.

The camp gathered like moths to flame. Men rose from bedrolls, stumbled from tents, formed a loose ring around the torchlight. Their eyes fixed on him—on their commander, pale and broken, fever burning in his skin, yet walking. Some looked with awe, some with fear, some with doubt.

The assassin stood in the center, pinned between two guards. His face was proud, defiant still, though his body bore the strain of restraint.

Ryon stopped before him. His chest heaved, his throat burned, his vision blurred—but his gaze never wavered.

"This man," Ryon said, voice rough but clear, "is no northern dog. No spy from across the lines. He is ours. One of us."

A ripple passed through the crowd.

"He came into my tent tonight," Ryon continued, "with a blade meant for my throat."

The murmurs thickened, spreading like a wind through tall grass. Some faces twisted in shock, others hardened into masks. Some looked away.

The commander’s voice whispered in his skull: They will not trust you now. They will fear you. Fear is stronger. Fear binds tighter than love. Show them blood. Show them strength.

Ryon stepped forward, closer to the prisoner. He searched his face for something—doubt, regret, shame. He found none. Only certainty.

"You have already chosen," Ryon whispered.

Then louder, for all to hear: "Garron."

His old friend stepped forward, his eyes heavy with unspoken questions.

"Hold him down."

The guards forced the assassin to his knees. Garron pressed a heavy hand to his shoulder. The man struggled, but his defiance remained, his eyes burning straight into Ryon’s.

Ryon bent, picking up the knife. The same blade that had sought his throat. His blood still streaked its edge.

He lifted it high, where every man could see.

"You would break this army from within," he said, voice carrying now. "But understand this—"

He stepped closer, towering over the prisoner, though his body wavered on trembling legs.

"—I will not break."

And he struck.

The blade cut clean, the cry cut short. Blood poured, steaming against the frost. The body sagged, lifeless, crimson spreading in the dirt.

The camp was silent. Silent but for the crackle of torches, the hiss of cooling steel.

Ryon straightened, though every fiber begged him to fall. He held the knife aloft, red against the night, and turned his eyes across his men.

"Any man who raises steel against me," he said, his voice like cold iron, "chooses death."

The silence thickened. Fear and awe tangled in the eyes that stared back at him. None dared speak. None dared move.

And in his skull, the commander’s voice purred: Yes. This is strength. This is the vessel unbroken.

Ryon turned away. His steps carried him back toward the tent, slow, each one dragging more than the last. The knife slipped from his fingers as he entered, falling with a soft thud into the dirt. His knees gave way, his body collapsing. His breath came ragged, his vision narrowed to a pinprick of light.

But even as darkness reached for him, he clung to one truth:

He had shown them.

He had not broken.

Not tonight.