Page 110 of The First Scar
The Crownforged.
I knew that tread pattern. Had memorized it without meaning to—the weight distribution, the slight drag on the left heel from an old injury he never mentioned.
My knees hit the ground. My hand hovered over the nearest print.
He had been here.
I looked up, scanning the wreckage. The path of his footprints led toward the village center. Toward the worst of it. They didn't veer. Didn't hesitate. Just marched into the center of the fire.
He was here. When this happened, he was here. He did this.
The ground shifted under me. I pictured him walking through the flames. That rigid posture. That mask of control. Had he watched the buildings collapse? Heard the screaming? Had he stepped over the bodies—over the doll with its melted face—and kept walking?
My stomach lurched. I flung a hand over my mouth, swallowing hard against the bile rising from my gut.
"Amaria." Serenya's voice was hoarse. "We need to go back. We need to tell Kaelen."
She was right. I knew she was right.
But I couldn't stop staring at the footprints. At the path they carved through the ash, straight and true.
The stronghold shrank around us when we returned. The smoke came with us — ground into our clothes, our hair, the creases of our skin. It mixed with the stale underground air until every breath tasted like both places at once. The torches seemed dimmer. The ceiling lower. Voices hit the walls and came back flat, swallowed before they could carry.
Kaelen had gathered everyone in the main chamber. No fire in the brazier this time. No wine. Just grim faces and the weight of smoke still clinging to our clothes.
"We move tonight," Kaelen said without preamble. "The Ancient Catacombs beneath the Old Capital. It's defensible, hidden, and far enough from here that the Crown's hounds will lose the scent." His gaze found mine. "And the Codex vault is beneath them. We regroupandwe retrieve—two moves with one march."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Brannick's lip curled. Maxx leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Serenya stepped forward. "There's something else." Her voice was steady, but I could see her hands trembling at her sides. "We found footprints in the ash. Crownforged boots." She paused. "Eryndor's."
The murmurs died. Silence, thick and lethal.
Kaelen's expression didn't change. He simply nodded—slow, grim, like he'd been expecting it.
“Come with me," he said.
He led us through the back tunnels, past the sleeping quarters, to the supply room. The door was already open. I knew before we stepped inside.
Empty.
The shelves ran floor to ceiling along three walls. Bare. A few crates sat with their lids wrenched off, splinters curling from the edges. One had been flipped—a boot print stamped into the base. The grain dust that usually coated every surface had been disturbed into drag marks across the floor, and the air was stripped clean. No dried herbs. No leather oil. No salted meat. Just bare rock and the faint sourness of wood left open to damp.
A single roll of bandage cloth sat in the corner where it had fallen behind a shelf. Whoever cleaned us out hadn't bothered to grab it.
Kaelen stood in the center of it, letting us take it in.
"Same night as the fire," he said. "This wasn't coincidence."
Aaron had been in charge of inventory. Aaron, who the flames had brandedtraitorjust last night. Had he panicked—fast-forwarded some plan already in motion? Did he have anything to do with burning an entire village… just to sell supplies? Something didn’t add up. But, math never did when it came to betrayal.
Serenya gripped my hand. I couldn't tell which of us was shaking.
"How long do we have?" Brannick asked. "The rest of our supplies. How long can we stretch what's left?"
"Days," Kaelen said. "A week if we ration severely. The catacombs have old caches—if they haven't been raided. We'll know when we arrive."
He turned to address the room, his voice carrying to the rebels who'd gathered at the doorway.
