Pike’s words were a cold current through the heat of my shame. “Who?” I demanded, my voice a strained whisper, barely audible over the scraping of chairs as the other officers departed. The lingering scent of beeswax and stale parchment filled the war room.
Pike glanced over his shoulder, his eyes darting to Borin’s retreating back. “Cadet-Master Orrin. He’s Borin’s nephew. Been the chief cartographer for three years. The Voryan maps… the ink, the style of the notations. It’s Orrin’s handiwork, I’d stake my life on it. Borin’s been feeding him the routes, Orrin marks them, then ‘intercepts’ the Voryan copies as proof of their intelligence.”
My mind raced. Borin was not merely incompetent; he was a traitor, or at best, grossly negligent, sacrificing homeland lives to sabotage me. The flawed intel he had given me for the presentation, the one Marek had so publicly dissected, was no mere misdirection. It was a trap, designed to fail, designed to kill.
“A trap for who?” I murmured, the implications sickening.
Pike’s face was grim. “The gorge patrol. The very scenario he set for your ‘lesson’ today. Three battalions of the border guard, moving through the defile at dawn. They were scheduled to follow *your* proposed route. His original route, now. But he switched it, didn’t he? Made it look like you were suggesting a folly. He meant for them to march straight into the trap, and for the blame to fall on *you*.”
The air around us seemed to chill. My earlier humiliation curdled into a furious resolve. Borin had not just tried to make me look foolish; he had tried to orchestrate a massacre and frame me for it. My blood simmered. This was no longer a simulation; it was butchery in the making.
Marek Sova, who had lingered by the vast map table, turned. His gaze was sharp, discerning. “Something troubles you, Zosia va Kost?”
I met his stare, letting none of my inner turmoil show. “Indeed, Lord General. I believe the tactical simulation for the gorge requires… immediate re-evaluation.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “The simulation is concluded. Your proposed strategy was… wanting.”
“My proposed strategy was based on deliberately corrupted intelligence,” I stated, my voice steady, though my stomach churned. “I request a live re-simulation, using real-time field reports for the gorge contingent. I wish to demonstrate the *true* viability of the vanguard’s current position.”
Marek studied me, his expression unreadable. “A bold claim. And reckless. If you err again, the consequences will be severe.”
“I understand, Lord General,” I replied, keeping my chin level. “Those troops are at risk. I can extract them.”
A long moment passed. Then, Marek nodded slowly. “Very well. Borin! Marshal the runners. We reconvene in ten minutes. Zosia va Kost will oversee the live scenario.”
Borin, who had been halfway out the door, spun around, his triumphant smile melting into a scowl. “Lord General, with all due respect, the woman has proven herself incapable!”
Marek’s stare hardened. “You question my judgment, Colonel? Or are you afraid of what she might uncover?”
Borin snapped his mouth shut, his face paling. He bowed stiffly. “No, Lord General. At once.”
Ten minutes later, the war room was tense. The air crackled with suppressed hostility from Borin and his sycophants, and watchful curiosity from the rest. The parchment of the realm, particularly the crags flanking the defile, lay weighted under brass compasses. Runners, their tunics still damp from the mist, stood ready. I faced the table, breath slow, iron settling into my posture.
“The column is currently navigating the Vale of Whispers, heading toward the throat of the defile,” I announced, recalling Pike’s intel. “Their pace invites slaughter; the strike will spring within the hour at the narrowest ledge, the Fang.”
A runner, an earnest youth with mud-splashed boots, saluted. “Report from the pass, Lady Zosia! Hostile scouts sighted on the eastern ridges. Trap confirmed.”
A ripple went through the room. Borin looked genuinely shocked, but quickly composed himself, a sneer returning to his lips. “As predicted. The vanguard is doomed.”
“Not yet,” I countered, my voice cutting through the murmurs. “Send this order immediately: The forward cohort, under Captain Veridian, halts. Deploy skirmishers on the north face, not to engage, but to draw arrows. The two rear units peel off and ascend the southern bluffs via the Goat’s Path – double-time. Establish an elevated volley line. Turn their trap against them.”
Borin scoffed. “The Goat’s Path is barely a game trail! Impossible to move three hundred men stealthily, let alone swiftly!”
“They won’t be stealthy,” I said, a mischievous glint in my eye. “They’ll be loud. Deliberately. Sound travels oddly in the Pass. It will confuse the Voryans, make them think the main force is flanking them from above. Once in position, wait for the signal: the skirmishers firing a concentrated volley at the Voryan main body in the Pass. Then, open fire.”
The boy sprinted out. Minutes dragged across dry throat and ticking clock. The staff exchanged dubious glances. Marek watched me, unblinking. I could feel the cold stir of the Echo Rot within my bones, a faint thrumming against my ribs, a reminder of the price of this power.
A fresh runner burst in, breathless. “Report, Lady Zosia! Captain Veridian’s skirmishers are engaging, drawing heavy hostile fire! The two rear echelons are struggling up the scree, but gaining ground. Enemy ranks in the defile are wheeling to face the bluffs!”
A murmur of surprise went through the room. Borin’s face was a mask of disbelief. He had built his life on outdated manuals. This was not mere terrain; it was bait and misdirection.
“Excellent,” I said, a fierce satisfaction blooming in my chest. “Send this: Captain Veridian, disengage toward the bluffs. Southern ridge, open fire upon their center column! Target their draft beasts first, then their exposed flanks!”
The next report arrived with clattering scabbards. “Lady Zosia! The southern riflemen are tearing through their column! They’re breaking ranks! But… green flame from their pack-catapults! It’s igniting the dead gorse on the bluffs, cutting off our retreat!”
A collective gasp filled the room. Alchemical fire was a new, terrifying weapon, rarely seen, and utterly devastating. Panic flared amongst the officers. The trapped force, having seized the heights, choked on sulfur. Borin’s sneer crawled back. Even Marek’s jaw tightened. No manual accounted for unquenchable pitch.
Frost bit the marrow of my knuckles. The rot stirred, a hollow scrape against my ribs. I shut my eyes, picturing the gorge cleft, the gray vapors that suffocated these northern ridges. I thought of the ancient legends, of the original Zosia, the saintess who could command the very air. I needed a miracle.
I extended my hand, palm flat, over the parchment gorge where painted markers signaled the alchemical blaze. A profound cold, deeper and more intense than anything I’d felt before, radiated from my core, through my arm, and out my fingertips. It was a draining, aching emptiness, like a vital part of me was being hollowed out. I saw a faint, silvery shimmer rise from my skin.
“The mist,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Call the mist. A localized, dense fog over the Pass. Now.”
The command went not to the runners, but to the silence sleeping inside the stone. Nausea hit like a club. The floor slanted under my boots. I dug my nails into the cedar edge to stay upright.
A soot-caked scout broke through the doors. “Lady Zosia! Fog! Thick as curdled milk rolling over the ridges, drowning the fire! The invaders are blind, breaking ranks! Our line is pulling back toward the upper ridge, unharmed! The flames went dead!”
A stunned silence fell over the war room. Officers stared, slack-jawed, at the courier, then at me. The air itself seemed to vibrate. I had done it. I had saved them. My competence was not just proven, it was elevated to something inexplicable. But the cost…
A searing pain shot up my left arm. I gasped, stumbling slightly. The cold emptiness in my chest intensified, radiating outwards. I glanced down. Across the pale skin of my wrist, black filaments spiderwebbed toward the forearm, etching an intricate, rotting lace under the epidermis.
I instinctively yanked my arm back, trying to hide it, but it was too late. Marek Sova was suddenly beside me. His hand, strong and warm, clamped around my wrist. His fingers brushed against the newly blackened skin, feeling the unnatural, bone-deep cold emanating from it. His stare locked onto my skin, then snapped up to meet mine, cold appraisal giving way to acute, dangerous wonder.
“What was that?” he demanded, his voice low, a dangerous rumble.