The silence in the war room was oppressive. Torches flickered along the stone walls, throwing long shadows across maps littered with markers of battles won and battles yet to come. Ren stood at the head of the table, his gaze locked on the crude figurine that represented General Varik’s next likely move. Every muscle in his body was coiled, every thought sharpened to a knife’s edge.
Victory at Blackthorn Ridge had shaken the Empire more than he’d anticipated. Whispers had begun to spread—about a young warlord rising from nothing, about a ghost with a system at his back. Yet Ren knew better than anyone that whispers could turn to execution orders if the wrong ears heard them.
“Varik won’t stop,” Kael muttered from Ren’s left. The mercenary captain had a streak of dried blood still smeared
