The Midnight Run

​The mountain trail at night was a death trap. Cold rain had begun to slick the narrow granite ledges, turning every foothill into a treacherous glide toward a steep fall into the gorge below.

​Zafaro moved through the pitch-black shadows like a shadow himself. He wore a dark wool cloak wrapped tightly over his leather breastplate, shielding the sealed dispatch tube tucked against his chest. His feet knew every root, rock, and sharp bend on these lower slopes of Mountain Soga—he had hiked these paths as a boy gathering firewood, long before war had brought iron and blood to the valley.

​Above him, the rumble of distant thunder echoed off the peaks, mingling with the muffled boom of siege engines still firing near the upper gorge. The frontline was getting desperate, but down here in the lower pass, the silence was almost eerie.

​Suddenly, Zafaro froze, pressing his back flat against the wet rock face.

​A few yards ahead, where the trail widened into a small plateau, the dim flicker of a campfire danced against the fog. Low voices speaking in a harsh, guttural dialect drifted through the wind.

​Gbantala scouts.

​Zafaro eased his hand down to the hilt of his short hunting blade, keeping his breathing slow and shallow. Three enemy scouts were clustered around the small fire, their dark iron helmets gleaming in the embers. They had managed to slip past Captain Vane’s perimeter and were positioned directly along the main trail leading down to Town Sogala.

​If they caught him, the dispatch would never reach the council. More importantly, it meant Gbantala was already scouting paths to launch a surprise midnight raid on the town itself.

​I don't have time for a fight, Zafaro thought, his jaw tightening. I need to move.

​Keeping low to the ground, Zafaro crept along the outer edge of the cliff, where the path narrowed to barely a foot in width. The drop to his right was a sheer three-hundred-foot plunge into the roaring Soga River, but he didn't look down. Step by agonizing step, he slid past the camp, his boots making no sound against the wet moss.

​Just as he reached the far side of the clearing, a loose pebble dislodged beneath his heel and clattered down the rocky slope.

​"Who goes there?" one of the scouts growled in heavily accented speech, rising instantly with his spear raised.

​Zafaro didn't hesitate. He burst into a full sprint, darting into the dense pine forest lining the lower trail.

​"An intruder! Stop him!"

​Shouts rang out behind him, followed by the sound of heavy boots crashing through the underbrush. An arrow whistled past Zafaro’s ear, embedding itself deep into a pine trunk with a sharp thwack.

​Zafaro ducked beneath low-hanging branches, using his intimate knowledge of the terrain to his advantage. He veered off the main path, taking a steep, hidden deer trail that plunged straight down the ridge. The Gbantala scouts, weighed down by heavy iron armor, quickly fell behind, their frustrated curses swallowed by the howling wind and rain.

​He didn't slow his pace until the dense canopy gave way to the familiar stone outcroppings overlooking the valley.

​Below him lay Town Sogala. Its ring of perimeter watchtowers glowed with torchlight, standing like silent sentinels in the dark expanse of the valley.

​Zafaro wiped the rain and sweat from his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. His heart was pounding against his ribs, but as he stared down at the town, his eyes sought out one specific compound near the eastern district—Rashida’s home.

​Hold on, he thought, adjusting the dispatch tube under his cloak. I'm almost there.

​Meanwhile, inside the main estate of the council precinct, the hour was late, but the lamps in the chief steward's private office were still burning brightly.

​Hikma stood near the tall arched window, sipping hot spiced tea from a porcelain cup. Opposite her sat Chief Steward Haren, an elderly man with thin grey hair and eyes weighed down by decades of administrative stress. On the table between them lay several official documents, including new land deeds and trade exemption forms for the upper district.

​"You speak with remarkable clarity for a young woman whose family holds no seat on the high board," Haren said, setting down his feather quill and studying Hikma with cautious admiration. "Lord Kaelen spoke highly of your proposal earlier, but this... allocating your father's grain reserves directly to the council's private guard rather than the public market? That is a bold play."

​Hikma smiled serenely, taking a delicate sip of her tea. "Public markets breed panic in times of scarcity, Chief Steward. When people queue for grain, they talk. They spread rumors. But if the council's guard is well-fed and secure, order is maintained. And order is what keeps Town Sogala standing."

​Haren nodded slowly, conceding the point. "And what does your family ask in return for this... generosity?"

​"A simple arrangement," Hikma replied softly, stepping closer to the desk. "My family’s name is added to the secondary merchant charter for the southern province once the war concludes. And, of course, priority protection for our compound should the outer walls ever be breached."

​"A reasonable trade," Haren murmured, reaching for his official wax seal. "Consider it done."

​Before he could press the seal onto the parchment, the heavy oak doors of the office burst open.

​A young guard rushed into the room, out of breath and dripping wet from the storm outside. "Chief Steward! A runner from the mountain vanguard has just breached the northern gate!"

​Haren stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his inkwell. "A runner? Did the pass fall?"

​"No, sir! It’s a single soldier carrying an emergency dispatch from Captain Vane! He demands an immediate audience with the council board!"

​Hikma’s tea cup froze halfway to her lips. Her eyes narrowed into sharp, icy slits as her mind raced.

​A runner? From the frontline?

​She stepped backward into the dim shadow near the bookshelf, keeping her composure perfectly hidden while her heart beat with a cold, calculated fury. If a messenger had arrived directly from Captain Vane, it meant the unofficial casualty list she had burned earlier might be publicly disproved before she could lock in Rashida's match with Dorian.

​The heavy footsteps of a mud-soaked soldier echoed down the stone corridor.

​Zafaro stepped through the doorway.

​His cloak was torn, his leather armor streaked with dried mud and blood, and his face bruised from his wild sprint down the mountain. But his eyes were clear, fierce, and full of unyielding determination. He held out the bronze dispatch tube sealed with Captain Vane’s mark.

​"Dispatch from the mountain vanguard for Chief Steward Haren," Zafaro announced, his voice deep and resonant in the quiet office.

​Haren stepped around his desk, eagerly snatching the tube from Zafaro’s hand. "Speak, soldier! What is the status of the upper gorge?"

​"The vanguard holds," Zafaro declared firmly. "We repelled three major assaults this week. The pass is secure, but Captain Vane requires three supply wagons of iron-tipped arrows and fresh rations delivered to the lower camp before tomorrow evening."

​Haren let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, unrolling the scroll to inspect the captain's signature. "Thank the mountain... The rumors were false. The pass has not fallen."

​In the shadowed corner of the room, Zafaro’s gaze shifted—and caught sight of Hikma.

​Their eyes met across the dim office.

​Hikma’s face was an unreadable mask of cold elegance, but in her dark eyes, Zafaro saw a dangerous flicker of resentment. He knew immediately that she had been orchestrating something in his absence, using the chaos of the war to manipulate her sister and consolidate power.

​"Zafaro," Hikma spoke, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic purr as she stepped out from the shadows. "What a surprise. We were told... the frontline was far too treacherous for anyone to travel back."

​"I know every trail on Soga, Hikma," Zafaro replied, his voice laced with unspoken warning. "I promised I would return. And I always keep my promises.