After bidding the boy farewell, I turned and walked in the direction he had indicated. A part of me had hoped the tent would stand out—maybe be slightly more ornate, with guards outside or a standard fluttering in the night wind. But no such luck.

  Instead, I was swallowed by the camp. A sea of tents unfolded before me, stretching in every direction like a fabric maze without an end. The initial confidence in my stride dissolved quickly into aimless wandering. Arthur, remained elusive, as if the camp itself conspired to keep him hidden.

  With every passing minute, the thin line of orientation I clung to began to fray.

  And then it snapped.

  I stopped mid-step and looked around, trying to retrace where I had come from. A left here? A right at that crooked torchstand? No, I hadn’t passed that smoldering fire pit before. I turned back—then forward again.

  Damn it all. I was lost.

  “Aska, I hope your shadow itches eternally,” I muttered under my breath, scowling into the darkness. The compass he’d gifted me had turned into a problem. I’d relied on it for decades in purgatory’s ever-shifting landscape, always knowing where ‘home’ was.

  But here? I hadn’t even bothered to memorize where the carriage was parked. I never thought I’d need to. My sense of direction, once artificially heightened by Aska’s little trinket, was apparently laughable without it.

  Now, without a guide or a single soul I wished to talk to, I wandered. Lost.

  Soldiers were already sleeping. Snores drifted from behind tent flaps. The camp's lanterns were dimming, one by one, and only the occasional flicker of firelight lit my path. I wasn’t in the mood to approach anyone and explain myself, so I just strolled aimlessly, occasionally spinning my sword into the air and catching it by the hilt with practiced ease.

  At least something remained familiar.

  Eventually, the tents around me began to shift again—smaller, packed closer together, the signs of higher occupancy and lower rank. The smell of feet and fatigue lingered in the air. Ah, the domain of the regulars. I was back where I’d started, in the land of snoring peasants and worn canvas.

  “Bye-bye, you fuckers,” I muttered, glancing back toward the direction of the “nobility” and their dens of sweat and perfume.

  I sighed, gripping the sword loosely by the pommel. The cramped spacing between tents put an end to my entertainment—no more elegant tosses and catches. So I tucked the blade away with a little click and gave in to boredom, letting my thoughts drift to simpler times. Or, rather, more satisfying ones—where people screamed as they ran, and I didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s lack of direction but my own.

  Then, a sharp spike in my senses.

  It began subtly—a raised voice, a ripple of tension in the otherwise sleepy camp. A woman’s voice, biting and venomous. Not loud enough to be a scream, but unmistakably furious.

  I stopped.

  The tent stood a little to my left, its flap rustling faintly in the warm night breeze. Inside, a scene was playing out that I couldn’t quite decipher.

  The male voice was slurred—thick with alcohol, barely coherent, more groaning than speaking. His tone held no aggression, only a bleating, pathetic whine, like a child trying to argue through hiccups.

  She, on the other hand, was sharp. Cold. I caught a few clipped words—liar, bastard, worthless—but the context was too far gone.

  Curiosity rooted me in place.

  Was it a lover’s quarrel? No, the timing didn’t match. No one had romantic fights at this hour. It was far more likely a disagreement over coin. Perhaps he’d refused to pay. Or perhaps he’d passed out halfway through and wanted his money back. Either way, the drama was a welcome reprieve from aimlessness.

  Moments later, the tent’s flap burst open, and the man stumbled out, bottle in hand. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the bleary-eyed emptiness of a man whose soul had long since drowned in drink. Mercifully, he was clothed.

  The woman inside threw him a look that could shatter bone. She tugged her blouse back over her shoulder with a violent jerk, muttering curses under her breath.

  He staggered toward me, not yet aware of my presence.

  The smell hit me before he did—cheap liquor, stale sweat, and something else, something sour. I gagged, lifting the crook of my arm to my nose as I turned my face away.

  I closed my eyes for the briefest moment.

  Just one.

  And that was a mistake.

  The moment stretched—just long enough for the air to shift. My instincts bristled. Something was wrong.

  By the time my eyes snapped open again, he was almost within arm’s reach, and his hand was already moving—slow, clumsy, but purposeful.

  He hadn’t noticed the sword yet.

  But I had noticed him.

  “Mornin’...”

  His breath reeked of rot and fermented shame. I didn’t even register the slurred greeting fully before he laid a clammy hand on my shoulder.

  I hadn’t expected it.

  Not the touch.

  Not the sensation.

  Not the flood.

  In an instant—before I even turned to look—memories detonated behind my eyes like firecrackers in a pitch-black room. A burning house, the creak of its bones collapsing. The shriek of scorched air. The weight of a small, trembling creature against my chest—furred, trusting, mine—and then not.

  His fingers might as well have dipped in kerosene. My nerves ignited beneath his palm.

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  Disgust.

  Fury.

  Hatred.

  All of it surged into my throat like bile. My eyes widened, shocked not by the man, but by my own unraveling. I saw his face, blurry at first, then sharp with unknowing offense. My skin crawled as my mind screamed: Where had that hand been? What had it touched? Whose body did it violate before mine?

  I moved.

  Not with hesitation. Not with grace. But with instinct.

  I ducked beneath his arm in a swift motion, and my body spun past his bulk like smoke through a keyhole. The sword was already in my hand. It belonged there—it had always belonged there. There was no conscious decision to draw it. There was only motion, memory, and fury.

  Three paces. Enough space. I spun on my heel. The blade flashed.

  With a single, practiced arc, I buried it into the side of his neck.

  It wasn’t a clean kill. The angle was wrong; the blade skidded across vertebrae before slicing deep into soft tissue. He gurgled—hands clawing at the air, at me, at nothing. Blood sprayed in a shallow mist, sharp and coppery, the scent hitting me like perfume worn too long by someone who didn’t know when to stop.

  I pulled the sword free without a sound. Not a drop touched my dress.

  “Eww. Shit.”

  My voice sounded alien, too flippant for what had just happened. But it wasn’t a statement of regret. Just inconvenience. A reaction shaped by the moment, driven by the chaos still humming in my veins.

  I exhaled slowly, waiting for my thoughts to return. The haze thinned. The bloodlust ebbed. I stood there, hand still on the sword’s hilt, heart steadying as the corpse thudded to the ground like a dropped sack of meat.

  It felt good. Too good.

  Satisfying in a way I hadn’t allowed myself since I arrived in this place. The dark part of me—the part I usually locked behind reason—was stretching, purring, licking the crimson from its claws.

  But then came the noise.

  The tent’s flap stirred again, this time with more purpose. I turned my head, knowing what I would see.

  The woman—prostitute, companion, witness—stepped halfway out into the night.

  She didn’t even have the time to scream.

  With a flick of my wrist and the surety of someone who’d done this countless times, I threw the sword. It spun once—twice—before finding its mark. Her skull cracked like pottery. She collapsed, limp, the blade protruding from the back of her head as if it had grown there.

  I didn’t look twice.

  Already, my thoughts drifted elsewhere. The scent of burning linen. The feel of fine silk between wet fingers.

  Could I wash the dress?

  Should I bother?

  How many spares did I even have left?

  No grief. No guilt. Just logistics.

  That’s all death ever left me with.

  With a sigh, I bent down and grabbed the man by the ankles, grimacing as I made contact with his skin. My fingers twitched, aching to scorch it clean. But I restrained myself. Logic over emotion—this time. Barely.

  Dragging him into the tent was unpleasant. His weight was worse than I expected, and I had to contort his limbs to fit through the flap. The woman came next—lighter, limp like discarded laundry.

  Inside, the tent already stank of sweat and cheap perfume, but I didn’t linger.

  I found a blanket—thin, musty—and grabbed it using the woman's gloves to avoid direct contact. From a nearby torch holder, I uncapped a small oil canister used to refill lamps and splashed it generously onto the cloth.

  Outside, the blood had pooled into a dark, nearly invisible stain. Not much. Just enough to raise questions if anyone looked too closely.

  I pressed the oil-soaked blanket down onto the blood, tamping it gently. My mind calculated the odds: exposure, patrols, early risers.

  Even if I were caught, the consequences would be manageable. People disappeared in war camps all the time. Especially ones no one cared to look for.

  But I wouldn’t be caught.

  I stood, straightened my dress, and inhaled deeply through my nose. The iron tang of blood still clung to the air, but it no longer sickened me. It soothed. Made me slightly thirsty for more even though I already had my fill with disgusting animal blood.

  Satisfied with the hasty but thorough cover-up, I turned my attention to the nearby firepit, where red-orange embers still pulsed gently like the heartbeat of a dying beast. I knelt and found a discarded pillow, worn and matted with old sweat and feathers. Holding its edge to the coals, I waited. Smoke curled up like fingers searching for air, and then—finally—flame. It took quickly, hungrily.

  I stood, cradling the smouldering pillow like an offering, and strode back toward the tent. There was no hesitation. No second thought. No fear. Only a sharp, icy calm.

  Once back, I tossed the flaming pillow near the entrance. The cloth ignited with a gasp, and the tent accepted its fate like dry paper greeting a candle. Fire roared to life, orange tongues unfurling up the canvas, leaping to the blanket soaked in oil.

  It spread faster than anticipated. Good.

  I lingered long enough to see the flames reach for their neighbours—too eager, too wild to obey borders. That was my cue. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I let loose a piercing, practiced shriek.

  “FIRE!”

  Panic cracked the quiet of the night like shattered glass. Tents unzipped, flaps flung open, and men stumbled out in varying states of undress. Some were bleary-eyed with sleep, others slack-jawed and stumbling from drink. One man tripped over his own boots and landed face-first in the mud, still gripping a half-empty bottle.

  I stood frozen, the picture of wide-eyed horror, my hands trembling against my cheeks. My gaze locked on the blaze, my posture stricken. But inside, I was watching them.

  Watching the chaos unfold.

  Watching how quickly they failed to organize.

  Watching them scramble like ants with their nest kicked in.

  They managed—barely—to drag the nearby tents away, forming a loose ring of safety around the fire. Buckets were passed, curses were hurled, and somewhere in the chaos, someone sobbed. But in the end, they succeeded. The flames didn’t leap further. The fire died down after several frantic minutes, leaving behind a smouldering pile of charred wood, melted canvas, and two indistinct mounds of blackened flesh.

  The stench came next—thick and greasy, meaty and unnatural.

  Some of the younger recruits turned green. One vomited outright into the grass. The sound made others gag, and the scent of cooked human remains did the rest. I turned away delicately, raising my sleeve to my face. Not to block the smell, but to hide the smirk that was tugging at the corner of my lips.

  I blinked hard and let a few tears roll down my cheek. Not too many—just enough to shimmer. To catch the firelight. I was every bit the innocent witness: a girl too pale for this place, lost in a camp of men, traumatized by violence.

  The act was flawless.

  Soon enough, I heard the heavy footfalls of authority. A figure emerged from the smoke and shadows—round in the middle, bald at the top, dressed in a far-too-pristine uniform straining under the weight of misplaced vanity. Medals gleamed across his chest, more decoration than merit, and his eyes had the dull, cautious look of someone long past his prime and deep in the business of doing nothing.

  He looked exactly as I expected: overfed, over-decorated, and underwhelming.

  I nearly rolled my eyes.

  His gaze flicked from the ashes to me, to the soldiers standing stiffly nearby. He probably thought himself commanding. He wasn’t. He was a relic. A puppet. Someone tucked into his position by connections and inertia.

  But he was useful.

  After a few blunt questions and vague reassurances that I was "safe now," he motioned for me to follow. Perfect. I hadn’t stayed near the blaze to enjoy the show. I wanted an audience. And more importantly, I wanted to meet him.

  Arthur.

  So I trailed behind the bloated officer, my face still damp with feigned sorrow, my eyes downcast but sharp. Every step brought me closer to my target. Closer to purpose.

  The fire had given me more than cover. It had opened doors.

  And now—now the real game could begin.