CHAPTER 113: THE WEIGHT OF ASH AND IRON.

The sun was too bright.

It stabbed through the gauze of Ryon’s bandages and the fog of his fever, a blade of gold he could not parry. He sat upright outside his tent, the dawn still clinging to the ground in ribbons of mist, and the camp moved around him like a hive disturbed. Every clatter of steel, every muttered word, every sideways glance carried weight.

He had stood before them at dawn and declared himself unbroken. He had spoken fire into silence. But words were lighter than iron, and now the iron pressed down on him from all sides.

The men were working—sharpening swords, patching armor, tending to horses—but none of it had the rhythm of unity. Every sound was jagged, misaligned, as if each soldier marched to a different drumbeat. And Ryon could feel it in their eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking. Some shone with belief, hard and desperate, clinging to his fire as their only light. Others smoldered with fear, suspicion, doubt.

The fracture was real.

He breathed shallowly, one hand braced against his ribs. Each inhale scraped raw against broken bone. Sweat beaded along his brow despite the morning chill. He was fire and ruin, and he knew it—but he refused to let them see weakness now.

"Bread," a voice muttered nearby. "Short again."

"Always short," another replied.

The words dug into him like hooks. Supplies. He had known it was coming, but hearing it aloud sent the weight crashing harder onto his shoulders. The wagons had been light for weeks, the northern raids cutting their lines thinner and thinner. Men had been tightening belts, trading bites of bread like coin, and hunger bred doubt faster than whispers.

Garron approached, broad shadow blotting the sunlight. His beard was streaked with ash from the morning fire, his eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness. He carried the day’s ledger in one hand, but he didn’t bother offering it.

"We’re three days from starving if the supply lines don’t hold," Garron said bluntly.

Ryon rubbed at his temple. "And if they don’t?"

"Then half these men will turn on you before the North ever lifts a blade."

The system stirred, oily and sharp.

"Hunger breaks men faster than steel. You must feed them. Or you must rule them through fear alone. Decide."

The commander’s voice slithered beneath it, more intimate, more insidious. They whisper because their bellies are empty. Fill their bellies with fear instead. Let them know that disobedience costs more dearly than hunger.

Ryon pressed his nails into his palm until blood welled. He would not let them rule him—not the system, not the ash, not the memory of the man he had slain. But choice had become a noose around his neck, tightening with every breath.

"Prisoners," Garron said suddenly. "The scouts dragged in three northerners yesterday. Raiders. Caught stealing grain from the southern farms."

Ryon’s eyes lifted. The men watched him from across the camp—bound, bloodied, their northern armor tarnished but still bearing the mark of the wolf. Prisoners meant more than enemies. They meant opportunity.

The soldiers’ gazes shifted between Ryon and the northerners, waiting, expecting. They wanted a decision. And they would measure him by it.

Ryon stood.

Pain ripped through him, a scream from bone and sinew, but he forced himself upright. Garron’s hand twitched as if to steady him, but he did not reach out. Perhaps he knew Ryon would reject it. Perhaps he, too, was waiting to see what choice would be made.

Ryon walked toward the prisoners, every step heavy with the weight of eyes. The camp hushed as he approached. The northerners straightened as much as their bonds allowed, their faces hard with defiance.

One spat at his feet.

Ryon stared down at him, then lifted his gaze to the circle of his men. Their hunger. Their doubt. Their fire guttering in the wind.

The system’s voice coiled tighter.

"Kill them. Feed your men their blood. Fear is food."

The commander’s echo followed, harsher, darker. Show them what it means to defy you. Break these wolves before your sheep. One act of cruelty now will bind a hundred men tomorrow.

Ryon’s heart hammered. His vision blurred, the sunlight fracturing into shards across the prisoners’ faces. He felt the eyes of his army drilling into his spine, waiting to see what kind of leader stood before them: tyrant, savior, or something in between.

His voice, when it came, was rough, ragged, but clear.

"These men came for our bread," he said. "They would see your children starve. They would see your mothers’ bellies empty. They thought us weak."

He drew his blade.

The air itself held its breath.

One of the northerners flinched. The others glared, proud even in defeat. Ryon raised the sword—every muscle in his side screaming, his vision black at the edges.

The system hissed approval.

"Yes. Break them. Break them all."

Ryon brought the blade down.

But not on the prisoners.

He slashed the ropes instead, severing them with a single strike. The bindings fell away, and the northerners staggered, stunned. The camp gasped as one.

"They will live," Ryon said, voice cold iron. "And they will work. Every grain they sought to steal, they will now earn. Every pound of bread they meant to take, they will bake for the men they sought to starve. They are prisoners still, but they will feed the South, not bleed into its soil."

A ripple ran through the soldiers—confusion, anger, relief, disbelief. Whispers surged like wind in dry grass. Garron’s eyes flickered, something between approval and fear.

The system snarled.

"Weakness. Mercy is fracture. You will pay."

The commander’s voice was laughter, bitter and low. You think mercy will save you? No vessel holds forever, boy. Yours will crack, and I will drink what spills.

Ryon ignored them. He sheathed his blade, his hand trembling, and turned his back on the prisoners.

The day moved forward. Orders were given. Work resumed. But the fracture did not close. If anything, it widened—half the men muttering that he had spared wolves, the other half clinging to the strange flame of hope his mercy sparked.

By nightfall, Ryon’s body was breaking again. Fever seared through him, his breath shallow, his limbs heavy as lead. He collapsed inside his tent, the world spinning into a haze of ash.

The system waited for him there.

"You cannot lead them both," it whispered. "Fear and hope do not share the same vessel. Choose, Ryon. Or the weight will choose for you."

The commander’s face flickered in the ash, scarred and smiling. I’ll be waiting when you break, boy. And you will break.

Ryon clutched his ribs, forcing breath into lungs that no longer wanted to obey. He could feel the cracks inside him widening—bone, flesh, will. Yet still, he whispered into the dark:

"I do not shatter."

And for one more night, he held.