CHAPTER 114: THE ASH THAT HOLDS OR SHATTERS.

The night had teeth.

It gnawed at Ryon’s flesh, sank cold fangs into the marrow of his bones, and left him shivering even beneath the thick woolen cloak Garron had thrown across his shoulders. He sat hunched near the dying fire, the embers breathing out a weak glow, little more than fading hearts scattered across blackened wood. His hands trembled as he held them near the light, but the heat never reached him.

Every cough tore through him like a blade. He spat red into the dirt and felt the eyes on him—dozens, hundreds, watching from the shadows. His soldiers huddled in their small circles, wrapped in cloaks, whispering over scraps of bread, clenching fingers around the last dribbles of dried meat.

The Hollow Pass was behind them, but its ghost had followed.

He could hear it in the way men murmured. A hiss beneath the dark, threads of doubt twisting together. His victory over the scarred commander had been sung with fire in their throats for the first day of march. But the songs had died faster than the meat in their satchels. Now they sang nothing. They whispered instead.

"Cursed."

"Not mortal."

"His fire burns too bright—it will consume us too."

Ryon closed his eyes. The system’s voice coiled in the silence like smoke in a sealed chamber.

"They see your cracks. A vessel that shakes cannot be trusted. To hold them, you must bind them. To bind them, you must break them."

He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.

Not yet.

Not until his body failed utterly. Not until he could no longer force his legs forward.

"Ryon." Garron’s voice cut through the fog. The older man knelt at his side, his broad shoulders shadowing the firelight. His eyes were heavy with worry, but his tone was steel. "You have to sleep. The men don’t need to see you choking your lungs out by the embers. They need to believe you can still carry them."

Ryon barked a laugh that dissolved into a hacking cough. His throat burned. His ribs felt like cracked boards under each breath. "If I lie down now, Garron... I may not rise again."

"Then lie down anyway," Garron growled. "Because if you collapse before them, it will be worse than death. You’ll see their faith drain out like blood from a slit throat."

The words hit harder than any northern steel had. Ryon rubbed at his face, feeling the grime crusted along his skin, the salt of dried sweat and the sting of his still-healing cuts. His body had become a battlefield in its own right, every limb waging a war he could not win.

But Garron was right.

The army was breaking.

And dawn had not even risen.

By morning, the murmurs had swollen into open rumbles.

They broke camp slowly, dragging their feet, avoiding his eyes. Ryon forced himself onto his horse, though the beast’s sway nearly unseated him more than once. Garron rode close, one hand hovering as if ready to catch him should he topple. He hated it. Hated the weakness, hated the visible cracks.

They rode across barren flats, the land scarred by retreating northerners who had salted earth, burned crops, poisoned streams. The sun was a pale disc behind smoke-haze, casting everything in a gray half-light that leached hope from bone.

By midday, the shouting began.

A supply wagon had been emptied—grain sacks torn open, meat gone. Only crumbs remained.

Men bellowed at each other, blades were drawn. "Thieves among us!" one spat, shoving another soldier to the dirt. "Brothers starving while rats fill their guts!"

The camp circle seethed, soldiers shoving, shouting, spitting curses that tasted more like desperation than rage.

Ryon dismounted, boots sinking into the dust. His vision blurred as he shoved his way into the throng. Garron’s warning hissed at his back, but he ignored it.

He saw the wagon, saw the torn sacks, the hollow emptiness. He saw the men—gaunt faces, sunken cheeks, eyes bloodshot with hunger and fear.

The system stirred like a knife slipping free of its sheath.

"This is the fracture. Bind it or bleed with it. Mercy will be seen as weakness. Weakness will shatter the vessel."

His skull rang with the weight of it. His body trembled, fever burning in his blood, but he forced his voice to rise.

"Enough!"

It cracked like a whip. The circle froze. Men turned, their eyes snapping to him.

Ryon stood tall though his knees begged to buckle. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves. His hand found the hilt of his sword, not drawn, but resting—silent, promising.

"You think we can afford to tear at each other while the North waits ahead?" His voice carried through the stillness. "You think hunger will kill you faster than steel? You want to bare your throats to the enemy before they even swing their blades?"

Murmurs rippled. Some looked ashamed. Others only glared.

A soldier spat into the dirt. "Words don’t fill bellies, commander. We bleed for you, we march for you—and what do we eat? Ash? Smoke?"

Another snarled. "If he weren’t cursed, food wouldn’t rot in our sacks!"

The word stung sharper than any arrow.

Cursed.

It clung to the air. A poison.

Ryon’s hand trembled on the hilt. The commander’s ash-voice whispered with cruel delight: Break them. Make them fear. Fear binds longer than bread ever could.

He could. With a single order, he could have the accused strung up, lashes tearing flesh until screams silenced doubt. He could set an example so savage none would dare whisper again.

He could.

And yet—his fire fought against it. That inner blaze, the one that had carried him through the duel, through the Hollow Pass, through every fracture. It flared against the whisper, against the system’s command.

He lifted his chin, bloodshot eyes sweeping across the circle.

"You’re right," he rasped. The words drew a ripple of surprise. "Words don’t fill bellies. I won’t lie to you. We are starving. We are hunted. We march through a land turned to ash."

The silence deepened.

"But listen to me. If you steal from your brothers, if you tear each other apart, you save the North the trouble of killing you. You hand them victory with your own hands."

His voice rose, ragged but blazing. "So choose. Starve together—or die divided."

The words burned through him, each one dragging fire from lungs that barely had breath left. He swayed, vision swimming, but he held their eyes. He would not fall.

Not here. Not yet.

The circle shifted. No one spoke. No one moved. Then Garron stepped forward, his voice carrying weight.

"You heard him. No blades turned inward. You eat less, you march more, but you live. That’s the only law now. Live."

Reluctant, grudging, the murmurs dimmed. Blades slid back into scabbards. The circle loosened.

But Ryon saw it.

The cracks.

Not sealed—only stretched thinner.

That night, fever claimed him again.

He lay in his tent, sweat soaking through his bedroll, his body shaking so violently his teeth clattered. Garron sat at his side, pressing a rag to his forehead.

"You can’t keep this up," Garron muttered. "You’re burning from the inside out."

Ryon’s lips cracked into a faint smile. "So they say."

His vision blurred, shapes twisting. He thought he saw the scarred commander crouched in the corner, eyes hollow, whispering through blood. He thought he saw flames licking at the tent walls, though the fabric remained whole.

The system’s voice coiled soft, intimate, merciless.

"You hold them still—but only barely. Your fire dims. Soon they will see. Then you will lose them. Unless you break them first."

Ryon’s breath rattled in his chest. His hand clenched around empty air.

"Not... yet," he whispered.

The dark closed around him, but he clung to that last ember of will.

Not yet.

He would not shatter.

Not yet.