The Exiled Cartographer's Truth

The stone corridor was cold against your back, the torchlight a distant flicker that barely reached the crack in the war room door. You'd meant to pass unnoticed, a servant carrying linens to the eastern wing. But the voice that cut through the heavy oak made you stop.

General Marik's voice—sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath.

"The exile lands harbor a creature. Not a man. A thing that wears flesh until it doesn't. My scouts saw it shift at the treeline, three nights past."

You pressed your palm flat against the stone, steadying your breath. Your own flesh tingled, a warning prickling along your spine. Shift.

"The crusade leaves at moonrise," Marik continued. "We burn the forest, and we burn whatever crawls out of it."

A second voice, quieter, familiar. Ysara. "And the people who live there?"

"They harbor the monster. They die with it."

The words landed like a blow to your gut. Innocent people—your people—marked for slaughter because of what you are.

You slipped away before the guards could see you, the linens clutched to your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. By moonrise, you would either be their guide—

Or their monster.