Chapter 243
The torchlight flickered across the stone walls as we descended deeper into the lower levels of the infirmary. Every step echoed. Every breath was tight.
Roman was at my side, sword drawn. Wyatt and Nessa followed close behind, flanking the rear. We moved in silence, save for the occasional shuffle of boots or the drip of condensation from the ceiling. The cellar hadn't been used in months. It smelled of damp stone and something faintly metallic—like blood dried long ago.
"The symbol was down here?" Roman asked, his voice low.
Wyatt nodded. "Back wall. Right where the old incinerator used to be."
"Wards were deactivated for thirteen minutes," I murmured. "That’s precision. That’s someone who knows our routine."
We rounded the last corner.
And there it was.
Carved into the blackened bricks in perfect symmetry:
A serpent wrapped around a bleeding root.
Not the broken crown this time. Something different. Something worse.
Nessa stepped forward, blade first, scanning the walls for traps. "It’s a new mark. A message."
"Or a countdown," Roman added. "Maeven said Phase Three was political. What if it’s also biological?"
Wyatt looked at me. "They had access to medicine. Potions. Vials of salves and treatments. If they planted anything in the packs we distribute..."
I didn’t let myself finish the thought.
"We shut the infirmary down," I said. "Quarantine. Every vial. Every pack of herbs. I want it all catalogued and locked away. Now."
Roman gave the signal.
And just like that, our healers became our most watched department.
By morning, the news had spread like wildfire. Suspicion clung to every hallway. We’d tried to keep the details quiet, but fear has a way of escaping, even from locked mouths.
I stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Below, warriors ran drills with tighter formation. Scouts met in hushed huddles. Civilians lingered in pairs, speaking quietly, eyes darting.
It felt like trust was slipping through our fingers.
Roman joined me, his presence steady as always. "We need to give them something."
"What? A scapegoat? A false sense of safety? We don’t even know how deep this goes."
He looked out at the courtyard. "No. But we know who it doesn’t go through. You."
I sighed. "That only counts if they still believe in me."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "Then remind them. Give them your voice. Give them your fire."
By midday, the war drum sounded.
Not for battle.
For unity.
I stood atop the central platform, Roman at my side, and spoke to every soul who gathered. The silence was reverent. Heavy.
"The Ashborn have found ways to slither past our walls."
A ripple of murmurs.
"They’ve marked our ground. Poisoned our trust. But they’ve made one mistake."
I stepped forward, letting the weight of every word hit.
"They think we will turn on each other. They think our strength is only in numbers. But they’re wrong. Our strength is in our memory. Our loyalty. Our refusal to bend even when we bleed."
I let the words settle, my gaze sweeping the crowd.
"The infirmary is locked down. Every healer is cooperating. Every room is being cleared. And if we find rot in the walls, we’ll tear them down and build new ones. Together."
A few voices shouted their agreement.
And then more.
Roman lifted his hand. "This pack is more than blood. It’s choice. It’s courage. And we will rise, even through betrayal. Even through fire."
The roar that followed cracked through the courtyard.
Hope was still alive.
That night, we gathered with the council in the strategy hall.
Wyatt had returned from interrogating the infirmary staff. He dropped a bundle of scrolls onto the table.
"Inventory's clean so far," he said. "But we found something hidden behind the herb racks. A sealed vial. It matches the scent compound used on the Ridge sigils."
Nessa leaned in. "A trigger?"
"Possibly. But this one was unstable. Slight crack in the glass. If someone had dropped it..."
Roman finished for him. "It would have dispersed into the air."
My stomach turned.
"So we may have been walking through a loaded weapon," I whispered.
Wyatt nodded.
"Where is it now?"
"Locked. Guarded. We’re analyzing the components. But it means the traitor had access again—after we found Jaren."
I pressed my fingers to my temples. "That confirms Maeven’s warning. There’s more than one."
"Or they were never working alone," Nessa added.
Silence fell.
"We need a different kind of hunt," Roman said.
I looked up. "What kind?"
"A trap. We set bait. A message they can’t ignore."
Nessa caught on instantly. "We pretend we found something vital. Something the Ashborn would want back."
Wyatt grinned darkly. "And we watch who tries to take it."
It didn’t take long to prepare. An unmarked chest, filled with mock sigil scrolls and a cracked vial that looked nearly identical to the original.
We placed it in the old armory chamber—sealed, but just enough to tempt the right eyes. Then we waited. Hidden wards. Stealth watches. Even I wore a cloaking charm.
Hours passed.
Then, just after midnight, we caught movement.
A figure slipped into the chamber. Light steps. Confident. Careful.
I recognized the gait before I saw the face.
Leah.
One of our archivists. Always quiet. Always observant. Too quiet, perhaps.
She reached for the chest.
And the moment her fingers touched the latch—
The trap sealed.
Runes flashed. The chamber doors slammed shut.
Guards stepped from the shadows. Roman emerged, sword drawn. I stepped out last, face unreadable.
Leah didn’t struggle. She turned to me, calm.
"You figured it out."
"Eventually," I said. "Jaren wasn’t the end. He was the beginning."
She nodded. "They told me you’d see it. That’s why I volunteered for the archive post."
"Who are they? Who do you answer to?"
She tilted her head. "You know. You just don’t want to believe it."
Roman stepped closer. "You poisoned our people."
"I opened their eyes," she said.
And then she smiled.
"There are more of us."
We had her locked in the mountain cells before the hour passed. She said nothing more.
But the rot had a face now.
And we were going to burn it out.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
