He wanted to move, and the Shadow wanted to move faster. But the wind shifted, bringing the sound of boots on a distant rampart. A gate was opening—not physically, but in the minds of the people. He drove the thought into the roof with his heel, cracking a tile. "Hold your line," he told the Shadow. "We came to raise, not to raze."
It didn't answer, but its sullen obedience was almost honest. He secured the banner higher, feeling the rope fibers against his skin. The colors blazed in the wind. Someone below hissed with joy—a sound like victory and relief combined.
The magical wards began to close. Azfar's window was ending as the spell network regained strength. A lantern across the roofs exploded without heat—the breaking of a spell caught in the act. Rakhal smiled briefly, then dropped back down to the culvert.
"Back," he told his scouts simply. The boy who had guided them nodded like a man with important work and led the way.
They moved downward, slipping beneath the Ketheri patrols like water finding its course. In the counting-house, ledger pages had come loose and lay scattered like pale fish. In the bathhouse, someone had placed a pot on a brazier that hadn't been there before—tea, from the smell. In the drain, rats scurried past on their own business. Rakhal observed these small acts of normalcy and kept the Shadow from interfering.
At the outlet where frost created delicate patterns, they emerged into the night again. The ridge swarmed with theirforces—men, horses, and weapons. The eastern gate still echoed with Shazi's diversion as she pulled back before the trap could close. She would lose a few warriors—she understood the cost of such missions, but always insisted on knowing the names of those sacrificed.
Rakhal climbed to the ridge and looked back at the city.
From this distance, the three banners were barely visible, small flashes of color against the vast cityscape. Yet Rakhal could sense the change they had sparked. The city was awakening to possibility.
In the River quarter, people were no longer hiding their discontent with the occupation. The wealthy Silver District—despite benefiting from Ketheri rule—was beginning to question its allegiance. And the Third Ward, known by many names to its residents but none on official maps, was poised like a predator ready to strike at the right moment.
This had been the mission's true purpose: not to conquer through force, but to plant seeds of resistance that would grow into support for Eliza's return. The banners were more than fabric—they were a promise that the rightful queen had not abandoned her people.
The bond-mark tugged again—Eliza stepping onto a rampart perhaps, making herself visible to her people. He felt the determination in her spine when she faced opposition. The Shadow raked at his insides.Let me finish this,it whispered.Let me fill their mouths with stone. Let me make your mercy efficient.
He opened his hand as if releasing a bird. "No," he said firmly. "We made a law. We will not break it because it offers us time."
The wind blew up from the river, carrying the scents of iron and kitchens, ash and unbaked bread. Torches flared along the eastern line, then died as Shazi disappeared into the landscape.Far off, a bell rang out of rhythm, creating an imperfect music that no one minded.
Rakhal stood there until the cold bit deep and the Shadow quieted within him. The three colors marked the city in a triangle that formed a map: the river's edge, the high roofs, the watchtower. Between them, streets would become routes for messengers and supporters. Above them, the stars watched indifferently.
He thought of Azfar in the marsh, whispering to ancient stones. Of Shazi grinning at the gates. Of the boy's thin arm beneath his hand. Of Eliza calling her city by name until it remembered itself.
The third banner snapped full in a gust of wind. The bond-mark responded within his chest like a heartbeat answering another.
"Maidan," he said to the night. Not a spell, but a promise. The Shadow settled along his back, and for a rare, perfect moment, it neither pulled nor fought. It simply waited, like a hunting dog that understands its master's hand remains on the collar and that the time to run is coming—but not yet.
"Hold," Rakhal said to his scouts, to himself. He drew his cloak tight and turned toward the slope. Behind him, the ridge stirred with the quiet movements of their forces.
Below, the city burned with three points of light like earthbound stars. Pride and hunger rose within him. He acknowledged both without letting them meet. Then he descended into the cold, into the drains, into the work that would restore a queen
Chapter
Sixty-Six
They came up through the drain tunnels beneath Maidan. The brick walls were damp with seeping river water. Eliza felt the city vibrating above—boots marching, carts moving, metal clattering against stone.
Captain Liron surfaced first. Once commander of Maidan's palace guard, he'd fled when the Ketheri invaded, eventually finding his way to Rakhal's camp on the plains. His hatred for the Ketheri occupation ran deep after watching his men executed. He lifted the grate silently and placed it against the curb.
Maera followed, with her distinctive hook-shaped scar along her jaw. Before Maidan fell, she'd been the city's master armorer. She'd smuggled half the royal armory out before escaping across the plains to swear loyalty to Eliza. Though she still tensed whenever the orcs performed their Shadow rituals, her dedication to restoring Eliza to the throne overrode her misgivings.
The twins from Silver Gate came next—Tham and Tel, with matching burn scars on their left wrists. Barely sixteen, they'd been Eliza's messengers before the city fell. They'd tracked her to Rakhal's camp, refusing to believe rumors of her death. Unlikethe older Maidan defectors, they accepted the orcs readily—to them, anyone who helped overthrow the Ketheri king was an ally.
Last came two orcs chosen by Shazi: a veteran warrior and a woman with Shadow-power that flickered at her fingertips.
Eliza emerged into a narrow lane. The buildings pressed close together, gutters filled with debris. Someone had nailed a plank across a doorway with a child's message in chalk: DO NOT TAKE MY MOTHER.
"Fresh watch passed here," Liron whispered, pointing to a white smear on the stone where Ketheri armor had scraped. "Heading north."
"We go south," Eliza said. "Crow Street, then across the dye yards."
They moved cautiously. The occupied city felt wounded. A door opened slightly; eyes peered out, then disappeared. From a cellar window, a child's hand pushed something into the light before another hand pulled it back.
