The Comrade's Betrayal

The wax seal on the warrant snaps under your thumb before you even leave the of the tent. Voss's cold smile follows you out into the biting wind, but you don't turn around. You've memorized the shape of that smile—the same one he wore when he signed the execution orders at Ravenspire, the same one he wears now as he sends you into the mountains with a rope around your neck called a deadline.

Kael is waiting exactly where you left him, leaning against a supply cart with one boot propped on the wheel. The coil of rope over his shoulder is new, as is the way his eyes flick to your iron hand before meeting your gaze. He doesn't flinch from the blade glinting in the hinge of your prosthetic. He's seen it draw blood before.

"We need to move before the pass freezes," he says, his breath fogging in the dusk. His voice is flat, deliberately empty—a man who's learned to keep his words as clean as his blade. "Voss gives us three weeks, and the first snow's already dusting the ridge."

You look past him to the jagged teeth of the Spires, their peaks catching the last blood-red light of the setting sun. Somewhere up there, buried in a vault of fallen stone, waits a crown that could save your family—or get them killed faster than Voss's axe ever could.

Kael shifts his weight, impatient. "Say the word, and we go. Or say no, and I'll find another way up."

He's giving you the choice. That alone makes you trust him less.