Chapter 116: THE BREAKING CIRCLE.
The night burned differently when men doubted.
I knew it before the words were spoken, before the soldier broke silence with his challenge. The fire gave no warmth anymore—it only threw shadows that swallowed more than they revealed. The men sat scattered, their faces gaunt, their armor dented and dulled, their hands twitching near blades that should have been resting easy. No laughter, no dice games, no murmured prayers—only the quiet grind of hunger chewing bone.
And above it all, the silence inside me.
Not peace. Never peace. But that silence storms wear, the silence of a sky too heavy with clouds to release its thunder yet. The system stirred there, coiled and waiting, its voice not a sound but a weight pressing against my ribs.
"They are already splintered. Strike, or be struck. It is the only law of circles."
I ignored it. Or tried to. I stared at the fire instead, watched how it sagged low, licked weakly at charred wood as if it too had grown weary of feeding men who did not deserve its warmth.
But then the voice rose.
"Why follow him?"
It tore the camp apart more cleanly than any sword could.
I looked up slowly, as if dragging myself out of water. He stood across the flames—a soldier, leaner now than when he had first sworn to me, eyes burning with the light of a man who had walked too long with hunger and found nothing but dust in return. His armor hung loose, his cheekbones cut shadows into his face. He wasn’t the youngest in the camp, nor the oldest. He was worse. He was ordinary. Which made his words sharper than any commander’s decree.
"Why follow him?" he spat again, stabbing a finger toward me. "We march nowhere. We bleed for dust. We starve, while he coughs his curse into the night. Tell me—what king leads men to graves dug by hunger? What warlock rules men with sickness?"
The circle formed as if conjured. Not of chalk or blood, but of men pressing closer, step by step, blades at their sides, eyes flicking between me and him. They weren’t cheering him, not yet. But they weren’t silencing him either.
Garron’s hand went to his sword. He half rose, scarred lips peeling back to growl something ugly. I raised my hand, stopping him.
This wasn’t his fight. It never could be.
I rose slow, deliberate, every bone creaking with fever’s echo. My cloak slid from my shoulders and pooled at my feet. Beneath it, my armor gleamed faintly in the firelight, dented, scratched, still crusted with dried blood from Hollow Pass. My hand went to my sword, not rushing, but certain.
"You speak loud," I rasped, my voice frayed but carrying. "Loud enough to shake men already hollow. Loud enough to stir cracks."
He sneered, steel flashing as he drew his blade in one quick motion. "Truth rattles louder than lies."
I drew mine slower. The sound of steel whispering free cut through the night like a promise.
"Then let truth be tested."
The hush was so deep I could hear the wind shift across dying embers.
He lunged first. Hunger made him fast, desperate. His blade hissed toward my chest. Fever slowed me, dragged at my muscles, but instinct carried my arm up. Steel crashed against steel, sparks spat. My knees nearly buckled. His strength came from fury. Mine had to come from something deeper.
He struck again, a wild arc toward my ribs. I twisted, felt the edge kiss my side, cloth tearing, skin burning. Pain flared sharp. Gasps circled us.
I drove forward, shoulder smashing into him, sword grinding against his. His teeth snapped together, blood spraying his lips. But he fought on, feral.
"You’ll kill us all!" he roared, eyes white, mouth frothing. "Every last one of us—you’ll drag us to dust!"
His blade carved for my throat. I ducked, slashed low, steel biting his thigh. He howled, staggered. I rose with the strike, elbow cracking across his jaw. He spun, fell to a knee, then surged back with a scream.
Our blades met again. My arms shook, fever making every motion heavier. He pressed, snarling, sweat stinging his eyes. His face was close now, close enough that I smelled the rot of hunger on his breath.
I shoved, hard. His balance broke. My sword carved across his shoulder, blood bursting hot in the firelight. He crashed onto his back, screaming, clutching the wound.
The circle froze. Every man’s breath caught.
I lifted my sword.
The system pressed close, a whisper in my marrow.
"Kill him. Show them fear. Fear binds deeper than bread. Kill him, and the circle seals."
My hand trembled. Every eye was on me, waiting. If I struck, their terror would chain them tighter than loyalty ever could. If I stayed, the fracture might spread, and soon.
The scarred commander’s voice slithered in memory, older than this night, older than my fever: Break them before they break you.
I brought my sword down—
And slammed it into the earth beside his head.
The ground shook. Dust sprayed his face. His eyes went wide, not with triumph, but with something rawer: confusion.
I bent close, so only he could hear. My breath ragged, my voice a growl. "If you want to die, do it facing the North. Not me."
I wrenched the sword free, raised it high, and pointed not at him but across the circle, sweeping every man in turn.
"You see him," I roared, forcing my fever-shaken voice higher, harder. "His hunger is your hunger. His fear is your fear. And still he fights—against me, against his brother. That is not courage. That is rot. And I will not let rot spread."
My blade gleamed, catching the dying fire.
"You will not die in dust. You will live to see the North break, or you will die with my sword in your spine if you turn it on your brothers first. Those are the only laws now. Live together, or die by me."
The silence after was suffocating. No crackle of fire, no shuffle of boots. Only breath—slow, shallow, waiting. Then, one by one, men lowered their eyes. Blades slid back into sheaths. The circle broke.
But it wasn’t victory. It was only delay.
The soldier lay gasping, clutching his torn flesh. No one moved to help him. But no one struck him either. He was left there, half broken, a reminder.
Garron exhaled slow, stepping close. His eyes searched mine, full of the same fire that had burned since the first day he swore himself to me. "You gambled," he muttered. "Another inch, and they’d have torn you apart."
I sank to one knee, strength bleeding from me. My sword dragged the dirt as I planted it like a crutch. "Another inch," I whispered, "and I would’ve let them."
The fever surged again, heat searing my skull, sweat pouring down my back. The system’s voice curled close, colder now, mocking.
"Mercy weakens. Fear binds. You chose mercy. The cracks remain. Soon, they will widen."
I closed my eyes against it, but the voice lingered, patient, promising. Around me, the men drifted back to shadows, but their silence was no longer loyal. It was brittle, trembling, ready to break.
The circle had not ended. It had only widened, swallowing us all.
And I wondered how long I could stand at its center before it closed in and crushed me whole.