Four groups moved out of the fortress at Sebastian’s command, each with a clear objective. The first headed southeast to the village of Farmac, another south to the abandoned Imperial outpost—hoping to salvage anything of use—while a third marched north toward Emilia. Irineus, together with Martin, led the fourth group south to the village of Pharis. If they cleared the village quickly, they could regroup and reinforce the others.

  Before parting, Irineus reminded the commanders of each group not to gamble with their lives. " "Remember," he said, "if the enemy outnumbers you, or if something feels wrong, you fall back. No heroics. Report to Sebastian before committing." The men murmured their assent. Then, with a final exchange of grim nods, they dispersed into the fading night.

  The march to Pharis was swift and silent. The village lay nestled in a shallow valley, its thatched roofs barely visible in the gloom. As Irineus crested the hill overlooking the settlement, he raised a fist, halting the column behind him.

  Below, chaos reigned.

  Bandits darted between houses, heaving crates and barrels onto ox-drawn carts. Their shouts carried up the slope—frantic, edged with fear.

  They’re fleeing.

  Martin crouched beside him, his eyes narrowed. "They’re not just looting. They’re running."

  Irineus nodded. "Something spooked them."

  Martin didn’t hesitate. He signaled five men—archers and swift-footed scouts—to circle around and cut off the southern road. The rest fanned out, slipping down the slope under the cover of the tree line, their boots barely disturbing the dew-laden grass.

  They were close now. Close enough to hear the bandits cursing, the oxen lowing in protest as they were whipped forward.

  Then—a snapped branch.

  A bandit whirled, his eyes widening. "Enemy!"

  Martin’s sword flashed in the pale moonlight. "Now!"

  The soldiers erupted from the shadows.

  The bandits barely had time to raise their weapons. Irineus cut down two before they could draw steel. Martin fought like a man possessed, his blade a silver streak in the dark. The bandits’ numbers meant nothing—they were disorganized, half of them still scrambling for their weapons when the killing began.

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  It was over in minutes.

  Martin wiped his sword clean on a fallen bandit’s cloak, his chest heaving. "Check the houses," he ordered. "Groups of five. And you—" He pointed to a cluster of soldiers. "Guard the road. If more come, we’ll hear them before they see us."

  The men moved swiftly, kicking open doors, overturning crates. Then a shout from one of the huts.

  "Captain! You need to see this!"

  Beneath a straw-stuffed mattress, a heavy iron hatch lay hidden. The soldiers pried it open, revealing a yawning darkness below. Torches were lit, and one by one, they descended.

  The stench hit them first—sweat, filth, despair.

  Then the whimpers.

  The cellar was packed with people. Men, women, children—some barely more than skin stretched over bone, their eyes hollow with starvation. They shrank back from the torchlight, as if expecting blows instead of salvation.

  A young soldier—John—stumbled back up the ladder, his face ashen. "Sir… there’s over a hundred down there."

  Irineus’s stomach twisted. He grabbed a sack of hardtack from a nearby cart and descended.

  The prisoners recoiled at first. Then, as the food was pressed into their hands, a disbelieving silence fell. A woman with a gaunt face clutched a piece to her chest, tears cutting tracks through the grime. A child—no older than six—crawled forward and pressed his forehead to Irineus’s boot.

  Martin’s voice was rough when he spoke. "John. Take twenty men. Get these people to the fort—food, blankets, whatever they need. Load the supplies and go now."

  The young soldier nodded, already barking orders.

  Irineus watched as the prisoners were led into the open air, their trembling steps unsure, as if they’d forgotten what sunlight felt like. His fists clenched.

  What were the bandits doing with them?

  But there was no time to ponder. Farmac was close. And if Pharis had been a slave pen, what awaited the others?

  When they arrived at Farmac, it was already a graveyard.

  No bandits. No prisoners. Just empty streets and cold hearths.

  Leon, the soldier left in charge, met them at the village square. "We found stores of grain, some weapons," he reported. "But no people. Not even bodies."

  Martin kicked a discarded waterskin, his jaw tight. "They stripped it and left."

  Irineus scanned the surrounding tree line. Too easy.

  With no time to question why the bandits had fled, the combined force returned to the fort before dawn.

  Sebastian met them at the gates, his expression grim. "The groups sent to Emilia and the abandoned Imperial outpost haven’t returned."

  A cold weight settled in Irineus’s chest.

  Irineus exchanged a glance with Martin. Without a word, they gathered forty men and set out at once—north, toward Emilia.

  Sebastian nodded. "Move fast. And Irineus—" His grip tightened on the older man’s shoulder. "Find out if anything is out there."

  The gates creaked open once more. As the column marched into the rising dawn, Irineus couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows ahead held more than just bandits.