They don’t tell you that war has a taste. It’s not blood—not really. Not mud either, though there’s plenty of that. No, the taste of war is copper and old promises partially kept, boiled down into something bitter you can’t quite spit out. It gets in your teeth. In your sleep. In the lines on your face you swore you’d never have. You survive long enough, and you start to realize something: the fight isn’t the hard part. It’s waking up the next day with one less voice in the mess hall. One less set of boots by the door. One more story that ended halfway through a punchline.

  People think the Queen’s Army makes heroes. It doesn’t. It makes weapons. And sometimes, when the war’s quiet, those weapons try to remember how to feel something other than recoil. Me? I stopped trying a long time ago. But last night… I drank like I wanted to forget. And I drank like I knew it wouldn’t work. That’s the thing about rotgut—it burns going down, but it never burns the rot out.

  And still, the morning came. It always does. Doesn’t care if you’re ready. Doesn’t care if you're guilty. Doesn’t even care if you made it out alive. It just rises—same as it ever does—dragging yesterday behind it like a corpse on a chain. And me? I rose with it. Because someone has to.

  It takes a lot of whiskey to give me a hangover.

  That’s not bravado—it’s biology. My mother’s people have bones like basalt and guts like a forge. Half-hill giant stock, mixed with the elegance and inconvenient beauty of my father’s elven bloodline. The result? I can drink most men under the table, light a smoke, and keep walking while they’re learning how to spell their ex’s name from the floorboards. But last night… I tried. I really tried. Rotgut. Straight from the barrel. No chaser but silence.

  And still, the morning found me. It always does. Cruel and gray and too full of truth.

  I rolled off my cot with a groan and a curse that would’ve made Marzanna wince. My head throbbed like a war drum and the inside of my mouth felt like I’d chewed a spellbook and washed it down with gravel. Light speared through the tent flap like it had something personal against me, and the air was sharp with frost, iron, and the faint stink of burning pitch from the morning cook fires. I hadn’t told anyone about the mage’s visit. Not Brann. Not the squad. Not even the bottle I emptied after he left. Secrets sit heavy in a soldier’s gut, and this one was forged in steel and sealed with blood.

  I knew him, of course. Varin. Not well—he was one of those ghosts from my father’s orbit. A green-skinned half-elf who’d survived Aeriestrand and the Myrmidon war with more scars than sense. After my father was murdered—still unsolved, still unanswered—he’d show up now and again, always with coin or supplies. Enough to keep the wolves from the door while the creditors circled like flies on a corpse. Most of the estate went fast. The library, the blades, the maps. But I came to understand something deeper over the years: those things weren’t his legacy.

  I was.

  His real gift wasn’t some noble title he’d burned when he fell in love with a woman the world would never accept. It was love that didn’t flinch and a sword that never missed. It was mornings in the yard with a dull blade and tired legs and the reminder that peace was a choice you made after you learned how to fight. From the time I could walk, I was learning to hit back harder.

  I enlisted when I was old enough to forge my name into the Queen’s books. It wasn’t about glory. It was about purpose. Breaking things was the one thing I’d always been good at. Turns out, there’s a place for that—if you’re not too picky about staying alive.

  Queen Elamentara—Tara the Steadfast—was worth fighting for. Still is, in some ways. When the barbarians came down out of the Northern Argents and tried to take Graywatch and the Goldmere veins, she didn’t blink. She ordered the line held, the skies watched, and the ports locked down. And we held. By the gods, we held, and bled.

  But not every officer wears their stripes like the Queen wears her crown. Some polish their brass while their boots stay clean. Others, like Redmore and his ilk, see war not as a duty but a market. And me? I’m a variable they can’t control. Too tall, too angry, and too godsdamn stubborn to die when I’m told to. Fifteen years in the Queen’s Army. Fifteen years of fog and blood, of watching boys become killers and women become ghosts. Now, they say a new warlord has risen—more organized, more cunning than the last. Word is, he means to finish what his predecessor started: take Graywatch, burn Goldmere, and claim the Northern Reaches as his own.

  The battle that’s coming—it’ll either end the war once and for all, or redraw the whole damned map. One thing’s for sure: I’m not walking into that storm blind. Redmore wants me dead. Wants my squad gone, quiet, cleaned up like spilled ink under a boot. But I don’t give a damn about whether I live or die. That’s fate’s game. But I swear by every grave I’ve dug and every soldier I’ve trained—I won’t let one more of mine die for someone else’s profit.

  Not while I still draw breath.

  ****

  They say time heals all wounds. Whoever said that never carried rage like mine. Time doesn’t heal a damn thing—it just teaches you how to store it better. By the time the orders came down that afternoon, my anger hadn’t cooled. It had just been filed away in that deep, scorched part of my soul where I keep the kindling dry. I’ve learned how to let it burn low and slow, like an ember tucked behind the ribs. You don’t snuff it out. You feed it when the time’s right.

  And the time was getting close.

  Brann found me near the supply shed, elbow-deep in a crate of cracked crossbow bolts. He didn’t say anything at first—just held out a folded slip of parchment sealed with the warfront sigil.

  “Summons?” I asked, not looking up.

  “Command tent. You, me, and the rest of the freak show.”

  That meant infiltration specialists. The Queen’s shadow dogs. The ones who don’t march in parades. The ones who don’t come back whole.

  I wiped my hands on my cloak and nodded once. “Let’s see what flavor of suicide they’re serving today.”

  The command tent was larger than most chapels I’ve seen. Canvas and brass, stitched in sigils that only mattered to people who hadn’t bled yet. The inside was dim, lit by mage-lamps that glowed a cold blue. Tables were scattered with maps, pins, and the stale stink of dried ink and colder politics.

  There were three other sergeants already inside.

  Sergeant Korrick, scarred from nose to navel, looked like he chewed flint for breakfast. His crew were demolition rats—goblins and dwarves with a talent for blowing mountains sideways. Sergeant Maureen, calm and quiet, didn’t look like much until you saw her eyes. They were the eyes of someone who knew what it meant to kill slowly and clean. Her squad handled poisons, traps, and psychological nastiness. The last was Sergeant Bale. Youngest of us, but dead behind the smile. His people were ghost runners—silent, fast, deadly. Perfect for throat-cutting in the dark.

  And then there was me.

  We didn’t nod. We didn’t salute. Just clocked each other, one by one. A battlefield kinship, unspoken and laced with blood. At the front of the tent, standing too straight and too clean, was a lieutenant with golden curls and armor that had never seen more than parade dust. His lips were pursed like he was trying not to breathe too deep. Second son, I’d bet. Maybe third. One of those noble-blood boys sent to “earn distinction” before being tucked back into velvet chairs and wine-stained banquets.

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  Behind him, on either side, sat two colonels we didn’t know. Their coats were black, trim cut just a little too crisp. No unit markings. No names. Eyes like glass knives. Spooks. Crown handlers. The kind of men who say we never had this conversation before you’re halfway through your sentence.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat like it owed him something.

  “Thank you all for arriving so quickly,” he began, voice too bright for the tent. “You’ve been summoned because the Queen’s final offensive is being launched within seventy-two hours. Our scouts report that Warlord Dravak’s forces are moving to occupy the Frostmarch Valley and stage a full assault on Graywatch within the week.”

  No one reacted. We already knew. You feel that kind of momentum in your bones before the brass ever writes it down.

  The boy officer gestured to the central map. “Your squads will each be deployed to prepare the battlefield for our main assault force. This will involve disruption operations, elimination of enemy officers, and coordination with high-mobility cavalry for strike-point sabotage.”

  I folded my arms. “In plain words, Lieutenant?”

  He blinked. “You’ll be behind the lines. Deep.”

  “Suicide run,” Bale said flatly, still smiling.

  “We’ve survived worse,” Korrick grunted.

  “Have we?” Maren asked softly.

  The lieutenant pressed on. “Each squad has a specialty. Sergeant Korrick, you’ll deploy ahead of the 3rd heavy infantry. You’re to create chokepoints and rockfall traps on the northern trail routes. Your goblin sappers are authorized to use tier-three pyrosigils.”

  Korrick nodded once.

  “Sergeant Maureen, your team is tasked with seeding the enemy water caches west of Mount Caldrith. You’ll have access to our full alchemical supply. Use discretion.”

  Maren gave a quiet, humorless smile. “I always do.”

  “Sergeant Bale—your unit will breach the warlord’s mobile command post and eliminate command relay officers. Our intelligence suggests they’re using a tri-spell echo system. Sever the chain.”

  “No echoes, no orders,” Bale murmured. “Elegant.”

  Then the boy turned to me.

  “Sergeant Blackthorn…”

  The pause told me everything. He knew the name. They always did. I didn’t make people comfortable. Especially not the ones who looked like they’d never had dirt under their nails.

  “Your squad will move ahead of the main assault force through the ice caves under North Ridge. We’ve had reports of a command network being built beneath the surface—supply caches, barracks, even temporary rituals carved into the rock. You’re to find the chain of command and sever it. Permanently.”

  “Any support?” I asked.

  The boy looked back at one of the silent colonels. The man’s eyes didn’t move.

  “Limited,” the lieutenant said.

  Which meant none. Brann shifted behind me. I felt the question unspoken. I didn’t voice it. Not here. Not in front of them.

  “Your squads move at dusk tomorrow. You’ll have until first light on the third day. After that, the assault begins.”

  The lieutenant gave a brittle smile. “May the Queen’s strength guide your blades.”

  Korrick barked something that might’ve been a laugh. “And may your curls stay unbloodied, Lieutenant.”

  He flushed. We turned to go.

  But I paused at the tent’s edge. Turned back.

  “Sir?” I asked, cool and quiet.

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “You said the ice caves were ‘reported’ to hold enemy command structures. Who gave that report?”

  A flicker of hesitation. “Our sources are reliable.”

  “I didn’t ask if they were reliable,” I said. “I asked who.”

  The colonels didn’t blink. The lieutenant looked at them. Then back to me.

  “Your orders stand.”

  I nodded. But I didn’t smile. Because I already knew what they were sending us into. And this time, I was ready for it.

  ****

  You can tell a lot about a soldier by the way they clean a blade. Some go slow, like they’re polishing silver for the Queen’s own table. Others do it fast, distracted—just muscle memory and nervous sweat. But mine? They handled their steel like gamblers handle dice. Not just tools, but ritual. Every nick was a story. Every sharpened edge was a promise someone else was gonna regret.

  We gathered in the barracks after the briefing. Not the formal mess tent—our space. The walls were thin canvas and reinforced board, the corners piled with packs and weapon racks and charms strung from old kills. Trophies. Wards. Trash. Home.

  Tavor flicked his fingers and cast the silence ward—quick, clean, and invisible. A shimmer in the air like a breath caught in the throat. The sound of the outside world vanished. Now it was just us and the ghosts we carried. I stepped forward and let them see it in my eyes.

  “We’re going in tomorrow,” I said. “Deep.”

  No one flinched. A couple of them swore under their breath. Familiar curses. Useful ones.

  “They’re sending us through the ice tunnels under North Ridge. Objective is to cut the warlord’s command network off at the knees—kill officers, sabotage their ritual prep, and soften the way for the main force.”

  Brann grunted. “So we’re the knife before the hammer.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “We’ve got twelve hours to prep. You know what that means.”

  Groans all around. Erla, the new dwarf lass, still scrub-faced and sharp-eyed, raised a brow. “We getting proper support?”

  I barked a laugh. “What do you think?”

  She rolled her eyes. “So that’s a no.”

  “Correct. Quartermaster’s already been told to keep us light. Official word is ‘stealth priority.’ Unofficial word is they don’t want to waste gear on ghosts.”

  Pip—our raccoon-faced beastkin—gave a chirping snort. “So we loot?”

  “You requisition, and acquire,” I said. “Anything that isn’t nailed down, kiss it, bless it, and pack it.”

  I pulled out a crumpled scrap of parchment and tossed it on the crate we used as a table. “Here’s the list. We need explosives. Smoke. Burn-charms. Alchemical flash runes. A few rope glyphs if you can find ‘em. And bolts. Gods help us, a shit-ton of bolts.”

  Tavor raised a brow. “Whose kit are we raiding?”

  “Anyone’s. But keep it quiet. I don’t want to hear about it in the morning.”

  That got a chuckle. I unholstered my favorite piece and dropped it on the table—a sleek hand crossbow, gleaming obsidian frame, fitted with Smith Weston's newest self-draw gearing. Dwarven work. Elegant and vicious.

  “This beauty,” I said, tapping it, “is why we’re still alive. Get yours clean and tight. No jams. You miss a shot down there, you don’t get a second.”

  Brann leaned in, voice low. “This another burn run, Boss?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Might be tactical. Might be bait. Might be the only shot we get before the warlord digs in deep. Doesn’t matter. We do what we always do.”

  “And what’s that?” Erla asked.

  “We break shit and we win,” Brann said, before I could.

  The squad laughed. Not joy. Just recognition. I let the moment breathe. Then my tone dropped.

  “You’ve got twelve hours. Visit your gods, your lovers, and the quartermaster—in that order. If someone you love deserves a goodbye, don’t skip it. If there’s a prayer that still works, say it.”

  Tavor asked, “And if we come back?”

  I smiled, teeth sharp. “Then we drink. Hard.”

  They started to scatter, voices low, gear slinging into packs. Pip grabbed the list with sticky fingers. Erla shouldered her axe and muttered a dwarven death-song under her breath. Brann lingered, but he knew I had another fire to tend.

  I found the boy-lieutenant by the supply wagons, talking to a quartermaster who looked like he’d rather be chewing rocks. The sun was bleeding out behind the hills, painting the sky in war colors. It was the kind of light you don’t trust. I waited until the quartermaster stepped away. Then I grabbed the kid by the collar and yanked him behind the tent into the alley between supply stacks—dark, tight, and quiet.

  He yelped. “Sergeant Blackthorn! I—”

  I crushed a silence rune against the wooden wall behind us. It fizzled and caught, sucking the noise out like a vacuum. His mouth moved again, but no sound came out.

  Good. I shoved him back against the wall into the sound proof bubble, one hand braced on his chest, the other flicking my knife just far enough from its sheath that he could feel it.

  “Now,” I said, “you’re going to tell me everything.”

  He swallowed. His eyes darted like a man realizing he might actually die in his polished boots. I leaned in, all nearly seven feet of steel, blood, and sheer mean will. “No dancing. No titles. No spin. What do you know about the tunnels?”

  He tried to stammer, still mute. I tapped the rune on the wall—it blinked, gave him just enough voice to whisper.

  “I don’t know much—I swear. I’m not part of Intelligence. I was handed the orders and told not to deviate. Just a relay, that’s all—please!”

  I growled low. “You want me to believe that? They’re sending us in with no backup. No exits. A map drawn by liars. That’s not strategy. That’s execution by proxy.”

  “I—I only know that one of the colonels—Redmore, I think—he pushed for this assignment. Said you were the only squad ‘qualified’ for deep severance ops.”

  “And you didn’t ask why?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t ask questions in my position.”

  I stepped closer, until my breath fogged against his cheek.

  “Well, here’s a question you’ll remember.” I grabbed his collar and hauled him up onto his toes.

  “If one of my soldiers dies because you held something back—because you let some noble bastard pull strings instead of telling me the whole board—I will find you. Even if I have to claw my way back from the Nine Hells. And when I do…”

  I let the blade rest gently at his beltline. “I’ll use this to see if your family name bleeds like the rest of us.”

  He whimpered. I dropped him.

  “Pray I don’t have to come back.”

  Then I stepped out into the dark, the rune dying behind me. The wind was colder now. But I was warm. The fire was burning again. And tomorrow, it would spread. But I had one more person to visit.