Page 90 of Shadows Rising

The convoy disappears around a bend in the path, swallowed by twisted trees and morning mist. I remain in position for another quarter hour, making sure they don't double back, that this isn't some elaborate trap or misdirection.

When I'm certain they're gone, I pack my equipment and mount my horse for the ride back to camp.

By the time I crest the final ridge, the others have nearly finished preparing for the day's ride. Horses stomping impatiently. Packs secured with military efficiency. The orderly chaos of a group that's learned to move as one.

Callum stands near the center of it all, gesturing toward his map with confident authority. "The main pass is the obvious route," he's saying to a cluster of warriors. "But obvious means watched. We should take the northern approach, avoid unnecessary contact."

I don't announce myself. Don't interrupt his tactical assessment. I just stop at the edge of the group and wait for him to notice me, the wayI've been doing for centuries whenever lesser commanders need to feel important.

When he finally looks up, I keep my voice level. Matter-of-fact.

"There's a convoy on the main pass. Six soldiers. Clean formation. Moving with purpose."

Callum barely glances at his map, his dismissal swift and calculated. "Not worth the engagement. We maintain our route."

"They're transporting prisoners," I add as Kaia and the others approach, drawn by the discussion. "Cart. Bound figures."

"Still irrelevant to our objectives," Callum says, his tone sharpening with authority. "Any deviation would compromise our timeline, regardless of their direction."

Something cold settles in my chest at how smoothly he writes off potential captives. How his logic feels rehearsed, too clean.

"Prisoners should be freed," I say, my voice carrying more weight than before.

Callum’s mouth curves, not in amusement, but like a man calculating how much morality he can afford. "Noble sentiment. Poor tactics. We can't rescue everyone we encounter."

I watch his face carefully, noting the calculated nature of his responses. The way he positions himself as the voice of reason while discarding lives with surgical precision.

Something's not right.

But before I can pursue that thought, I add the detail I don't realize will change everything:

"One of them had purple hair."

Kaia freezes.

It's not fear. It's not surprise. It's something older. Something scarred.

The words drop into the clearing like stones into still water. Simple. Factual. Devastating.

Every line of her body goes rigid, shadows stilling around her feet like they've suddenly forgotten how to move. The others—Torric, Aspen, Malrik, Finn—all freeze as well, their faces shifting from confusion to the same stricken understanding that's written across Kaia's features. I watch them all react to something I don't understand, cataloging the signs of shared recognition, shared dread.

"Are you sure?" Her voice is quiet. Controlled. But I hear the fracture underneath, the hairline crack that threatens to split wide if pressed.

"Yes."

The silence that follows is deafening. I watch them all process something I clearly don't understand—some shared knowledge that turns their faces grim and determined.

When Kaia speaks again, her voice carries the weight of absolute certainty. Command that brooks no argument.

"We follow. We intercept at dawn."

The response is immediate. Torric moves toward the horses without question. Aspen begins redistributing supplies with fluid efficiency. Malrik's shadows coil like living weapons as he calculates angles and approaches.

Even Finn drops his usual humor, chaos magic sparking around his fingers as he prepares for whatever's coming.

Callum protests—something about unnecessary risks and mission priorities—but his voice fades into background noise. No one's listening tohim anymore. They're all focused on her, on the steel in her spine and the fire in her eyes.

This is what she looks like when she stops asking permission.

---