We took his shout as a declaration. Yes, the prisoners are here, I thought to myself. Our line started up the incline with as much speed as the grade allowed, boots slipping a little on damp stone, shoulders tightening as the doorway widened above.

"Halt," Ashley called, and the single word cut clean through the drum of our steps. We stopped as one.

"Pull back," he ordered, voice calm and certain. "We'll let them gather, and then we'll show them what a mage can really do. We'll show them why we're not just battery fillers!"

We roared out our response as we inched down a few paces, keeping the door in our sights. The lone guard at the top kept flicking between us and whoever massed behind him, mouth working, knuckles white on the latch as if he holding it prevented us from moving.

I didn't know exactly what Ashley meant to unleash, but eagerness crept up my spine all the same. My own reserves felt almost half full, a slow tide returning, and if that was true for me it would be true for others. The thought of a real contest of spells, the kind whispered about in barracks tales and alley legends, set something bright and impatient burning in my chest. The corridor hummed with small sounds while we waited: leather creaked; a man coughed into his elbow; somewhere behind us a key jingled against a chain. Time stretched until the moments felt brittle, ready to break.

At last the door yawned wide and guards began filing through. Some faces I recognized from my time in Achrane, though none wore the smirks I'd hoped to erase.

"Steady," Ashley called from the rear. Hands flexed along hafts and hilts.

"Steady," he said again, and the word lowered the pitch of the room. The enemy had found shields from somewhere—clean and unblemished—and they settled into two ranks with more bodies crowded behind the threshold. It was a better show of order than we'd seen all night, the first hint that this might be their ground after all. I felt a thin seam of worry tug, then ease as Ashley's tone smoothed it flat. The guards took their first unified steps, shields nudging forward, boots measuring distance in disciplined inches.

"Split down the middle," Ashley commanded.

We obeyed without a question, our line shearing cleanly into two flanks and leaving a narrow channel up the slope. The front rank of guards faltered at the sight, confusion pulling at their mouths, but their officer barked them on and the shuffle began again. I still didn't know what was coming. I knew only that I trusted the commands. The air behind me brightened, a thin glare licking along metal and stone. A heartbeat later the guards saw it too, panic sparking along their front like dry grass catching fire. Men at the back tried to reverse, men at the front readied their shields, bracing for the blow that was coming.

The light came first. An orange glow lighting up the corridor from behind. Then there was the sound, a deep rumble building at the soles of my feet, then the rush of air that stole a half-breath from my lungs. Heat brushed my cheek as something immense and bright tore past the gap between our flanks. A ball of fire roared up the channel we had shaped for it, swelling as it climbed, hungry for air and space. The column of guards became a tangle in an instant. The rear ranks shoved to retreat; the front hunched behind lifted shields, trusting wood and iron to be enough. Nothing was enough. The fire hit the heart of them and folded around the formation like a closing fist, and for a bare second it seemed to hold them within itself.

Then it burst. The blast struck the walls and slammed back, a hot wave that washed down over us and shoved soot and breath into our mouths. I threw an arm across my face and felt the hair on it crisp, heard the hiss of leather sealing and the pop of buckles failing, smelled tallow and singed cloth and the sick-sweet reek of cooked meat. Sparks lifted and drifted like fireflies in a storm. When the first wave of heat passed, the incline ahead glowed with afterlight and the doorway boiled with smoke, and all along the slope the only sounds were the patter of settling ash and the low, stunned groans of men who weren't yet dead.

"March!" Ashley snapped, and the word slotted us back into shape. "Finish them. Let them feel our retribution at the ends of our blades."

We surged up the slope, eager and ugly, past men who crawled and rolled, some still burning where the mage's fire had kissed them. The spell had gutted the whole unit; the door lay twisted off its hinges and the stone around the frame had cracked so badly the doorway itself shed grit and fist-sized chips. A helmeted head poked through the ragged hole and froze. Knapper—Maggot—gaped like a fish, eyes flicking from the blackened bodies to our tight ranks climbing toward him. Every part of me wanted to break formation and sprint while shock still held him, but something kept my feet in line. By the time I swallowed that reflex he was gone, stumbling back behind the wall.

We worked methodically through the fallen, points probing and punching to make sure the fallen stayed down. It was awkward and hot work. The heat in the choke made the air shimmer, and it felt like I would boil in my armour if I waited there too long. Then there was the stepping over scorched bodies without losing balance which took more care than I liked to give. When we came within two arm lengths of the threshold Ashley's voice cut through the hiss of settling ash.

"Keep the momentum. Push through and weather whatever's on the other side. Use your skills if you need them."

The instruction was gleefully received by those around me.

The man with the charging talent answered before the rest of us could move, his ability cracking the air as he slammed the splintered jamb and drove straight through the fractured stone. Rock burst outward. The opening widened to something we could pour through rather than trickle, and I dived right in to find a corridor choked with smoke and fear.

To his credit, Maggot tried to make a wall out of what he had left. He shouted, pointed, dragged men into line. Some bore scorches along their sleeves and collars; more simply looked terrified. Their faces made me smile. I drove forward, sword first, and heaved sloppy, hacking strikes that were more pressure than finesse. It was enough to keep them giving ground while more of ours spilled in behind me. The guard across from me recovered his wits as the seconds ticked by and I could feel the fight turning, his blade starting to play mine like a clumsy instrument. He adjusted, measured, began to press. Then a length of steel bloomed through his neck as if grown there. He gave a wet, surprised sound and sagged; to my right a prisoner grinned like a wolf and wrenched the blade free in a single smooth pull. The guard dropped. The line wavered. And we moved to make the most of the break.

Guards dropped like flies as we advanced as my fellow fighters let loose. The prisoners had mana to spare and targets worth spending it on, and they relished both. Ice bloomed across the floor and seized ankles to stone. A brawler's fist hit a breastplate and the metal dented like soft tin. A blade flashed and seemed to be in three places at once, drawing three neat lines of red before I could even track the arm that swung it. Sparks crackled, air thumped, and the tunnel filled with the sharp, bright noises of magic doing what stories said it could. Every enemy I marked was claimed by someone else before I reached him, swallowed by frost or a phantom cut, buckled by a punch that didn't care about steel. It was brutal and dazzling and beautiful to witness.

Knowing I wasn't going to reach anything on the front line with so many eager hands in the way, I set my sights on the only target that mattered to me. Maggot. He'd fallen back a few paces, barking orders and chopping from behind the press, trying to knit a defence out of shaking men. I stepped through the chaos, knocking aside half-hearted thrusts, trusting the bodies behind me to deal with whatever I pushed out of my path. I wanted to be the one to put an end to him. I wanted to be close enough that I could see the life leave his eyes.

I was almost on him when a shape flashed overhead. A prisoner came sailing past, knees tucked, arms out, then dropped like a hammer straight onto Maggot's guard. Steel met steel and he managed to catch the blow, but the weight and momentum rattled his bones and wrenched the sword from his hand. It skittered across the stone and disappeared under feet. A follow-up slash scored his pauldron and spun him, and I met the stagger with a boot to the breastplate that dumped him flat. He rolled, trying to scrabble away, and I drove my point into the back of his knee where the greave left a seam. The blade punched soft tissue and his scream cut clean through the rest of the fighting, which had already begun to ebb behind me.

"Hello, Maggot," I said, letting the word turn mean in my mouth. "That's right. Wiggle."

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I yanked free and stabbed the other knee.

"Wiggle away like the insect you are."

The sound he made wasn't a word. It was wet and high and helpless. I drew the tip of my sword along his armour in a slow line toward his throat while he tried to turn over, palms skidding, breath hitching in little animal bursts.

"Did you imagine it ending like this?" I asked, the point resting just below his chin where the plates didn't meet. "I dreamt of the day I'd repay your lessons. Now I can deliver."

"No. Please. Don't," he whispered, the plea barely holding together. "Warlock, please. I'm sorry."

"Stop." Ashley's command cut across the space and into me.

I hadn't intended to listen. My arm paused anyway. Not of its own will, but not of mine either. I frowned in annoyance.

Around us, the tunnel breathed, the last of the guards went down hard, and Maggot stared up at me with wide, terrified eyes while I turned to glare toward Ashley, rage filling my mind.

"You!" I snapped, jabbing a finger at Ashley as he stepped through the ranks. "What are you doing to me?" He didn't answer. His eyes went to my blade, still resting against Maggot's exposed throat, and the set of his jaw hardened.

"Release him. We need to ask him questions," he said, steady as iron. My sword rose a few centimetres, an insult to my will, and the shock of it lit my nerves. I hauled the steel back under my control with a grunt, nostrils flaring as I looked from the blade to Ashley and understood that he was doing this. Commanding me to act against my wishes.

I would not allow that. Rage took over. I drove the sword down and through Maggot's throat, felt the stutter of gristle and the clack of stone beneath, then wrenched the blade free with deliberate cruelty. I turned on Ashley before the blood had finished welling, point lifted, stance set, the men who had fought beside me in battle now lining up behind him with hands on hilts and wariness in their eyes.

"No!" Ashley cried. "He was a senior guard! We needed information." The shock in his voice undercut his authority, but not enough to make me lower steel.

"You dare control my mind? You dare use your power on me?" I took a step toward him, point level with his breastbone. He flinched despite himself and brought both hands up, palms out.

"Easy," he said, voice level by effort. "There's no mind control here."

"Do not lie to me," I shouted, another step forward, feeling the line bristle. A few of the rebels shifted to put themselves between us, feet set to intercept if I lunged. Others stayed still but tightened, ready to move on a word.

"He's controlling us," I threw at them, sweeping the point to make them look. "Can't you see it? He gives orders and we follow before we've even registered them. Even when it goes against what we want."

Faces flickered. Some went uncertain, others stayed carved from the same belief that had carried them up the slope. Ashley's mouth flattened, and when he spoke there was a thread of panic quickly strangled.

"It's not like that," he said, spitting the words as if they offended him. "I'm not a mind controller."

The term sounded foul on his tongue, and to be fair, it was.

"My gift helps me lead in battle. It raises confidence, sharpens focus. Yes, it encourages people to follow, but only if they already believe they should. It swells with each clash. When the battle stops, it fades."

He was telling me, but he was telling them too, eyes moving across the faces behind his shoulders as if pinning the truth to each in turn. It fit, in its way. I had felt the press grow stronger with every engagement, a weight that nudged rather than dragged, slowly increasing in intensity as we went on. Maybe that was him recovering mana. Maybe it was the rhythm of violence we rode like a tide. I didn't like any of it. Paranoia and prudence held hands inside my skull and refused to part.

I looked at the wall of bodies between us and measured what my anger could buy. If I went for him now I would die—on their steel if not his—and if I lived it would be in a shape that did not belong to me. That choice was simple. Ashley must have read it in my stance because he spoke before I could.

"Come with us," he said, gentler than before. "I'm not doing anything nefarious."

I snorted, and he pressed on.

"We're taking the prison. We'll turn it into a fortress. We could use your help."

I shook my head and took a step back, easing the point down without lowering my guard. The sting of almost-obedience still burned in my wrist. The tension bled a little from the corridor, but no one relaxed enough to let go of their weapons.

"I'm getting out of here," I said. "I know where we are. I recognise the corridors. I'll find my own way."

"You're one man," he said, frowning. "You can't expect to fight through the front."

"I'll manage." I kept moving, small, measured steps.

A few of his people watched me with hungry looks, as if the armour and sword were meat they might carve off if Ashley gave them leave. He didn't. He held my gaze for a long breath, then nodded once, reluctant but clear.

The corner was fortunately clear, and I slipped out of sight before anyone from Ashley's line could decide my back looked like a good place to put a blade. I took two more turns without thinking, boots whispering over stone, breath loud inside the helmet. Most of my head was noise, overwhelming my thoughts.

How far I'd get before the rebels changed their minds, whether Ashley would send someone to drag me back into his orbit, whether I'd even make it to a door that opened.

So caught up in it that the world narrowed to worry and footfall. Only when voices rose ahead, close and familiar, did the fog tear and let me see where I'd come.

The scents of the infirmary filled my nose. Old blood and boiled linen, tang of spirits, something medicinal that stung the throat. The voices came from a room to the left, and the names behind them hit me like a thrown stone.

I didn't stop to think as I burst through the door and crossed the space in three long strides, the sword already coming up. The man in the nearest bed tried to twist away, his one good eye going round with shock. I put steel through him and screamed with it, a sound I barely recognised as mine. A year's worth of pain and humiliation poured through my hands. I wrenched the blade back and drove it down again, and again, until the straw and sheets were a pulp of red and the wall wore a new constellation of dark flecks.

"W-Warlock?" H's voice came small from the side.

"Brandon?" Ginge said, stunned, and I saw Carl half-hidden behind them, flinching with each wet impact.

I looked at the three of them and something in me curdled. Tom had led us into the jaws that closed on me and cost Billy his life. Tom had plotted and planned to make it happen. Tom had slept while I endured torture. If these three were at his bedside, if they still breathed the same room as him, then the map in my head drew a neat line from their faces to the word betrayal. It didn't matter that the proof was thin. It felt true and that was enough for me. I dragged the blade free and swung for H's neck.

"Brandon!" The voice from the doorway was thin and sharp. "Brandon Horlock, stop that right now."

Mistress Maggie stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking so hard the bones showed through the skin of her wrists. She tried for stern and almost managed it, but the distress in her eyes made something in me hitch. I pulled the sword back, chastened by my name said in that tone, a familiar response ingrained in me through years of repetition.

"What do you think you are doing?" she asked.

"They betrayed me," I said, and the words fanned the coals. The anger rose again, eager to be believed.

She glanced at what was left of Tom and a little colour drained out of her cheeks. The look made me feel like a dog shown the room it had destroyed.

"And you think killing them is the right answer?" she said. The way she shaped the question made it clear there was only one acceptable reply.

"Yes." I didn't dress it. The word knocked a breath out of the room.

"We didn't," H blurted, voice cracking. "We never betrayed you. We don't even know what happened, except—except you killed Grian, and his brother took it out on Tom."

"Liar," I growled, though uncertainty bit at the edge of the word.

"We didn't," Ginge said, stepping up beside H to back him up. "Honest. We don't know anything about a betrayal. We thought you were dead."

I didn't want to hear them. They were here with Tom, weren't they? Keeping him company. Sitting in the quiet while I learned new sounds for pain. In my head it was confusing. I just wanted it all to end.

"Brandon," Mistress Maggie murmured, and her hand was suddenly on my arm. I hadn't seen her cross the floor. My focus had tunneled to the space where H's throat met his jaw.

"Brandon, listen to me." She turned my face toward hers with a pressure so gentle it made my chest ache. "This isn't you. This isn't the boy I know."

I tried to look away and she held me, not with force but with that same quiet insistence she'd used to make sullen apprentices eat and sleep in better times.

"It isn't the man you want to be either," she said. "I know what they must have done to you. I know what they must have taken. But you have to remember who you are, not what they made of you down there. You are not a monster, Brandon. You are not them. Don't be them."

Something in the words went past the armour and found the soft place I had been guarding since it had all began. Her voice, her care, the way she shook and stood there anyway. The dam I'd built with anger and numbness cracked. Mistress Maggie wrapped her arms around me, small and fierce, and I let the steel go slack at my side while she held me up and whispered into my hair. The point of the sword dropped until it kissed the floor, the sound of it ringing out as my tears began falling, sobs racking my body.

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