CHAPTER 796: THE RAVENS CALLED (1)

General Kael Vardon did not like the way Ashen River pulsed on the relief map.

The carved stone continent lay across the great war table like a frozen thing, its mountains and coasts smoothed by years of use. Tiny runes flickered where scouts had placed fresh reports. Trade routes and borders glowed faintly. But the mark at the centre—the symbol for the dungeon—beat like a second heart.

It brightened. Dimmed. Brightened again.

"Again," Kael muttered.

The spymaster beside him cleared his throat.

"The latest pulses match the readings from the Technomancer attempt," he said. "Their sensors woke half the relay towers for a day. After that..." He gestured at the twitching rune. "This."

Kael listened without looking at him. He had already read the written report twice.

League activity increasing around the site.

Concordat mercenary skyship sighted changing course.

Holy mana signatures from the south—Valtis, probably, pretending to be neutral.

And, buried in a corner of the report, almost as an afterthought:

Silvarion prince-consort confirmed alive on site. Not withdrawn.

So the forest pup lived, Kael thought. The dungeon spit him out and he still stayed close.

He curled his fingers against the stone table.

If the League and Silvarion locked down that core first, Kharadorn’s demon-steel and siege runes would be toys compared to what they could build. Long-range light cannons. Moving fortresses powered by an endless heart.

"If we cannot rule the light," he said quietly, more to himself than to the spymaster, "we will make sure it burns on our terms."

"General?"

Kael straightened.

"Call them," he said. "My ravens."

The spymaster bowed and slipped out, his cloak whispering against the stone.

Kael stayed where he was, watching the Ashen River marker beat.

If someone else owns you, we kneel for thirty years, he thought. If we own you, our enemies bend instead. Simple math.

Bootsteps sounded at the door.

Seven figures entered the war room with the easy, unhurried confidence of people who had walked out of too many impossible missions. Their plain travelling cloaks could not hide the way they moved—coiled, controlled, always measuring distance.

At their head walked a woman with dark hair braided tight against her scalp and eyes like polished stone.

"Reporting, General," she said.

"Captain Rhaen Var," Kael said. "You took your time."

Her mouth twitched at the corner.

"You told us to look like we belonged in the lower city," she said. "The lower city does not march."

The others fanned out in a loose line behind her.

Darec, broad-shouldered even under the cloak, demon-steel gauntlets strapped at his belt as if they were just gloves. He carried himself like a boulder that had learned how to sprint.

Isolde, slight and quiet, hood shadowing her eyes. Kael knew that if he blinked, he might lose her in the background.

Thane, long-limbed ward-smith, fingers stained with chalk and old burns, small rune-plates hanging from his belt.

Marek, the crossbowman, with the lazy half-smile that made people forget how fast he could draw and shoot.

Sera, compact, hair tied back, the subtle silver threads of a healer’s wards woven into her sleeves.

Irin, demon-binder, a slim woman with calm eyes and a sealed black cylinder strapped to her back—a demon-core, humming faintly under its runes.

And last, Korr, heavy-axe fighter, younger than the rest, with the sharp, eager look of someone still surprised to be counted among them.

"My ravens," Kael said.

They relaxed a fraction at the familiar name. Not many people ever heard that tone from him.

He nodded toward the map.

"You already know the rumours," he said. "Ashen River woke. The League poked its heart with a toy prince and almost lost him. Now every vulture on the continent is circling."

The Ashen River rune pulsed again, as if agreeing.

Kael tapped it.

"If someone else locks this down," he went on, "our demon-steel becomes scrap. Our siege magic turns quaint. The League builds light engines. Silvarion binds the core with forest rites. Valtis calls it a ’gift from the Light’ and sits an army on it. The Concordat sells tickets."

Marek snorted softly.

"Sounds about right," he muttered.

Kael let it pass.

"I will not watch our kingdom become a footnote," he said. "So I send you."

Rhaen’s gaze never left his face.

"You don’t send us lightly," she said. "And you don’t gather all of us unless you expect the road to be ugly."

Kael allowed himself a short breath that might have been a laugh.

"Ugly is polite," he said. "The dungeon already rejected a man who plays with mana like a scholar. The League is moving their machines. Others will go. But you..." He looked at each of them in turn. "You are the blade I trust most."

There was no flattery in his voice, only a hard statement of fact.

"You remember the Frostwound Citadel," he said.

Darec rolled his shoulders, as if feeling old scars.

"Three months in a cursed ruin," he said. "I remember."

"And the Glass Chasm," Kael added.

Isolde’s lips quirked.

"We remember you said not to fall," she said. "So we didn’t."

Kael’s mouth twitched.

"You walked out of both when no one else could," he said. "You broke a siege we were supposed to lose. There is no one else I would send into that hole and still expect to see again."

The room grew very quiet.

"What do you want, exactly?" Thane asked softly.

"Leverage," Kael said.

He tapped the dungeon rune again.

"If you can reach the core and steal a fragment, do it. If not, bring me paths. Doors. Weak points. Anything that proves this thing can be wounded, shaped, or shattered. Maps we can use. Patterns we can break."

His hand curled into a fist on the stone.

"If we lose you, we lose seven ghosts," he thought, not saying it aloud. Seven names carved into a wall, missing from my next war.

"But if we gain Ashen River," he went on, voice steady, "we gain thirty years of dominance. Maybe more."

Korr swallowed.

"And if we fail?" he asked.

Kael looked at him.

"If you fail," he said, "you die as criminals."

Korr flinched.

"Officially, you are rogue mercenaries," Kael continued. "You carry no Kharadorn colours. No demon-steel openly. You do not drag our banner into the mud if someone catches you. You avoid large clashes. You slip between the big pieces. You find an overlooked path. You go in where no one thinks to look."

His gaze sharpened.

"If you succeed," he said, "you come back as the hand that holds the knife at the world’s throat."

Rhaen’s eyes gleamed.

"That sounds heavy, General," she said.

"You have strong wrists," he replied.

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across her face.

"We leave at dawn?" she asked.

"You leave now," Kael said. "By the time dawn hits Ashen River, I want you closer than any of the other fools."

He stepped around the table.

For a moment, he let the distance between him and his ravens shrink. In private, in a corner of his mind, they were still the half-starved recruits he had pulled from border mud and city gutters. Now they stood straight and deadly, scars and experience sitting on them like extra armour.

He reached out and, one by one, clasped their forearms.

"Come back," he said. "Or make sure your deaths matter."

Rhaen’s grip was firm.

"They always have," she said.

The road toward Silvarion smelled of wet earth and lies.

Rhaen walked at the head of the small column, cloak pulled tight against the chill. Their armour was plain steel and boiled leather, the kind any sellsword might wear. Demon-steel hid under cloaks and packs, dull and quiet.

Fields rolled by on either side. The trees thickened as they moved toward the distant shadow of the forest kingdom. Here and there, other travellers shared the road.

A caravan of wagons rattled past, painted in bright Concordat colours. The traders smiled too widely and their guards’ spears hummed with subtle wards.

"Merchants, my ass," Marek murmured.

Rhaen’s eyes flicked toward the nearest wagon. Painted on its side was a harmless-seeming symbol of a glass coin.

She had seen the same mark on ledgers that never made it to public records.

"Keep your head down," she said.

They did. The caravan passed, leaving a faint trail of perfumed smoke and the prickling sense of being measured from behind shuttered windows.

Later, a group of pilgrims in white robes trudged by, sandals dusty.

"Blessings upon your road," one of them said politely.

Sera nodded in return, lips pressed together.

When the robed figures were out of earshot, Irin spoke softly.

"Valtis sigils on their belts," she said. "Light above, knives beneath."

"Let them stab someone else," Darec grunted.

Farther still, near a bend where the road dipped, they overtook a ragged band of six.

One man’s arm hung in a sling. Another walked with a limp. Their armour was scorched and cracked. A woman with cropped hair sat on a stone, staring at the dirt as if it might lunge for her.

Rhaen slowed.

"Trouble ahead?" she asked casually.

The limping man flinched as if waking from a bad dream.

"Dungeon shock," he said. "We went as far as the skin. It threw us out. Blew our wards like candles."

His eyes flicked over Rhaen’s plain gear.

"You going in?" he asked.

"Thinking about it," Rhaen said.

He opened his mouth as if to warn her, then closed it again. Whatever words he had felt heavy.

"Pray you don’t go as far as we did," he muttered instead.

As they walked on, Isolde shifted closer.

"They smelled of burned mana," she said quietly. "And fear."

"Everyone on this road smells like that," Marek answered. "They just hide it better."

"Everyone is lying," Isolde said. "And everyone thinks they’re the only ones who are clever."