After the brutal clash, Aden and the hounds cleared the remaining outskirts of the orc village, shifting their camp closer to the ruins for tactical advantage. The air still reeked of blood and charred flesh, but they moved in silence, focus sharpening with each step.
That night, under the glow of the campfire, Aden sat sharpening his blade, his eyes fixed on one figure across the camp—the spy. His every movement, every breath felt off. Wrong.
"You move too quiet for a loyal man," Aden said as he approached, voice low and edged with steel.
The man didn't look up. "You've got ghosts in your head, Vasco."
"Then explain how you always volunteer for water duty. Or how you knew where I kept the coded maps."
A twitch. A slip. That was all it took.
"You don't know what you're talking about," the man muttered, standing slowly.
"I do. I know the Remes household uses poison that smells faintly of mint. Like the water you brought this morning."
The spy struck fast—dagger drawn, eyes wild—but Aden was faster. Their blades clashed in a spark of steel, the noise sharp in the tense night. The hounds scrambled to their feet, weapons drawn but uncertain.
"Stand down!" Garron shouted.
But no one moved.
With practiced grace, Aden dodged a feint and countered with a ruthless blow to the gut, knocking the wind from the traitor. The man hit the dirt hard, the blade spinning from his hand. Aden kicked it away, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against a charred beam.
"Tie him," Aden ordered.
Ilric hesitated. "He was... he was one of us."
Aden stared at him for a second, No words were needed.
Rope bit into the spy's wrists. Blood trickled from a split lip. Yet he grinned.
"You think you're safe now?" he responsed.
The hounds gathered around. There was no ceremony. Garron stepped forward first, cracking his knuckles.
"Talk," he growled.
The spy spat blood. "You're no better than the orcs."
Ilric landed the first punch. The spy's face jerked back, but he laughed through broken teeth. "You want truth? The Remes household sent me. their orders were simple—if Vasco loses control, he dies. If he doesn't, he still dies."
More blows followed. Bone crunched. A tooth flew across the dirt.
"We know what you are now," Garron hissed.
The spy coughed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you don't know what I had."
From beneath his torn sleeve, his fingers twitched—too late. Aden's eyes widened.
"Get back!" he shouted.
The small block hit the ground. A blinding flash. Then fire.
The explosion shattered the quiet night. When the smoke cleared, only a blackened scorch mark remained. The spy had turned to ash, taking two crates and part of the tent with him. A few hounds groaned nearby, burned and bleeding.
Ilric lay dazed, his face cut from the blast. "He... he blew himself up!"
"He feared what might happen if he revealed too much," Aden muttered, stepping forward through the smoke. His voice darkened.
"Which means we were close to something much larger."
The hounds stood silent, battered by both flames and betrayal.
Aden stood tall, face expressionless.
His voice cut through the settling silence. "How many more among you were planted to watch me?"
No one answered.
Then, slowly, Garron stepped forward. He drew his blade, slashed his palm, and pressed it to the imperial crest on his cloak.
"I swear on the Emperor's name—I follow you, Aden Vasco, until the mission is done."
One by one, the hounds followed, blood sealing their oath.
Aden said nothing. He just looked at their faces—bloodied, bruised, but no longer uncertain.
In the ashes of betrayal, something else had taken root.
A bond.
Fragile. But real.
They pressed onward.
The air stayed tense, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts, but the work continued. Day by day, they cleared the surrounding terrain of the orc village. Tunnels were collapsed, patrols eliminated, and watchposts burned to ash. Each night, they returned to the camp—smaller now after the explosion—exhausted but alive.
Ilric grumbled about the cold. Garron muttered curses as he stitched his own wounds. Bren kept complaining about the work But they all moved in sync, each hound pulling weight like a war machine.
Aden barely slept. His dreams were uneasy, filled with flashes of the berserker rage that had overtaken him and the face of the traitor laughing through blood. He didn't speak of it. There was no need.
One week later, as the red sun dipped beyond the cliffs, the hounds stood at the top of a hill overlooking the now-empty orc settlement.
"We did it," Ilric whispered.
Garron snorted. "We're not dead yet. That counts for something."
Aden looked out over the barren battlefield, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
Two days later, with the vicinity secured, Aden called for a private meeting under the broken pavilion roof at dusk. A decision had been made. One of them would return to the Empire to report the progress made in Dahaka.
"Bren," Aden called, his voice steady. "You'll ride back. Take everything we've documented—maps, cleared paths, records of the fallen. The Empire needs to know what's been done."
Bren looked up, surprised. "You sure about that? I'm not exactly the talkative type."
"Which is why they'll believe you," Aden said. "You speak in facts, and you're the fastest rider we've got."
The other hounds nodded in agreement. Ilric patted Bren on the shoulder. "Try not to get stabbed on the way, yeah? We're only just starting to tolerate you."
Bren smirked, securing the scrolls and reports into his satchel. "If I die, I'm haunting you lot."
With a solemn nod to Aden and the others, Bren mounted his horse and set off under the crimson dusk, galloping toward the Empire.
The camp stood quieter after his departure, a fragment missing—but the resolve remained.
The mission was far from over, but they had taken the first step.
The first of many.