"Hey, Josh. What do you think?" Tarrin asked, voice low and casual, like they were talking about breakfast and not public executions. "You really think that guy could've pulled it off?"
Josh glanced at him with a look that said everything without a word: Seriously?
"No way," he said, voice flat. "You see him? Guy's just an engineer. Doesn't even have a Scar, far as I heard. Doubt he's even held a blade outside drills. But no one's gonna question the Colonel. Someone had to take the fall."
Tarrin gave a slow nod, the kind you make when your thoughts are dangerous enough to get you strung up. Conversations like this weren't the kind you repeated—or even had, not unless you trusted the man beside you with your silence.
"I can't believe I almost died for this lie," Tarrin murmured. "James too."
Josh exhaled hard through his nose. The cigarette between his fingers quivered—not from fear, but that tight, molten kind of anger that leaves a man shaking from the inside. "Jakhar deserved better than this circus."
Tarrin stared at the ember of his own cigarette, letting the silence pool between them until it felt like weight pressing on the chest.
"He did," he said at last.
Then, a bitter chuckle escaped him, dry as dust. "Guess we all do. But here we are—watching some poor bastard take the noose while the real traitor sips coffee somewhere, laughing his ass off."
Josh's jaw flexed, eyes hard. "Fuck that."
Tarrin shrugged, as if none of it surprised him. His gaze drifted toward the scattering crowd, faces returning to their routines like they hadn't just watched a man condemned.
"Unless you've got a way to get that engineer alone," he said, voice almost thoughtful, "and ask him why he's so damn eager to die for something he didn't do…"
He didn't finish. Just took a long drag.
Josh's boot scraped the ground. "Might know someone in the prison block. Guy owes me."
Tarrin didn't look over. Just flicked ash and nodded like they were talking weather again. "Must've been one hell of a favor."
Josh's voice dropped a little, quieter now. "Saved his sister's life during the Hollow Peak cleanup."
He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.
"But if I call it in now," Josh added, "that's it. Favor's gone. Burned."
Tarrin finally turned, met his gaze—calm, quiet. No pressure. No plea. Just shared weight. "James would've done it," he said softly. "For you."
The words hung there like smoke. Heavy. Unsaid: And you're not James.
Josh ground his cigarette into the dirt, the crunch of paper and ash loud in the stillness.
"Meet me at the west gate in two hours," he said. Then leaned in, voice hushed, breath tinged with bloodwine and grit. "And Tarrin? If this backfires… you don't know me."
Tarrin's lips curved—half-smirk, half-mask. "Who are you again?"
Then Josh turned on his heel and walked off, calm as a man who'd just scheduled a lunch—not someone who'd just agreed to flirt with treason.
Tarrin watched him go, gaze lingering on the broad silhouette. One last glance from the corner of his eye, thoughts coiling behind a neutral face.
Hope I'm right about him.Because if I'm not… my head'll be rolling before I can even blink. But if I am—he won't crack. Not even if they rip his fingernails out one by one.
Before he knew it, he was back with his squad, the sudden shift jarring. They were staring at him like he'd just shown up wearing enemy colors.
Riko was the first to speak, suspicion thinly veiled in his tone. "Who were you talking to? Isn't that one of the old dogs who couldn't stand you?"
Tarrin gave a faint smile, calm and measured. "Yeah. We had our little spats," he admitted with a shrug.
"But over a game of poker, we figured it was time to bury the hatchet. Was just offering my condolences, actually. One of his guys died on the wall yesterday."
The moment he said it, the air around them shifted. A quiet weight settled in, heavy and cold, pressing down on their shoulders like snowfall that never melted.
No one said anything. They didn't need to.
Because even if no one voiced it aloud, Tarrin could see it in their eyes—they knew. Everyone knew something about the attack didn't add up.
The numbers didn't make sense. The breach shouldn't have happened. The response was too slow. The scapegoat too convenient.
The truth was lingering in the silence.
Not the what.
But the who—
and more importantly, who stood to gain.
The two hours passed like smoke—thin, fleeting, gone before anyone could grasp them. Tarrin spent them training with his squad, going through the motions while his mind spun elsewhere. The meeting loomed in his thoughts like a storm cloud, dark and inescapable.
The others noticed. Of course they did. His footwork was off, his strikes slower, his focus frayed at the edges. But no one called him out. They chalked it up to the trauma from yesterday's attack.
And they weren't wrong. Not entirely.
Ten minutes before the appointed time, he raised his voice just enough to be heard. "Hey, I'm bouncing. Got a few people to meet."
As he turned to leave, a hand caught his arm—tight, firm, unmoving. Celith. She stood beside him, gaze locked onto his like a blade pressed to skin.
Tarrin's head snapped toward her, startled, but then he saw it—the look in her eyes.
It was like she could see right through him. Like she knew.
What could this girl possibly know?
He forced a smile onto his face, but it was hollow. It didn't reach his eyes. It didn't even try. And judging by the way her fingers tightened once more before letting go, she saw that too.
She gave him a slight nod, then waved him off in silence.
Tarrin turned away, his chest tight. Each step toward the western gate weighed heavier than the last. Doubt gnawed at his gut. Was this the right move? Was he about to walk into something he couldn't walk back from?
Maybe.
But he was done being a pawn—just another piece shuffled around on someone else's board. If breaking a few rules was the cost of gaining real intel—of finding out who the real players were—then so be it.
He slipped into the shadows near the west gate, blending in with the stone and dim light. The few soldiers stationed nearby barely spared him a glance. Perfect. Just how he wanted it.
That's when he saw him.
Josh. Leaning casually against the base of the right-side tower, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Too close to the tower's door to be accidental.
Tarrin approached quietly, keeping his pace steady and his profile low.
Without turning, Josh spoke. His voice was low, firm, unhurried.
"Step inside the tower. There's a hatch under the stairs. Open it, head down. He'll be waiting. And remember—"
He took a slow drag, exhaled smoke without looking Tarrin's way.
"—you don't know me. And I will know if you talk. That guy down there? He's not some rookie that would snitch."
Tarrin gave a single, heavy nod. No words. Just understanding. Just weight.
The moment Tarrin stepped through the tower door, silence met him like a wall. No guards. No movement. No sound. Just the stale scent of dust and damp stone pressing in from all sides.
At first glance, the place looked abandoned. But he knew better.
He circled the base of the stairs spiraling upward, hugging the edges. And there it was—a metal hatch tucked beneath a thick film of dust, like it hadn't been touched in weeks.
'Guess they prefer the entrance in the main building', he thought, lips twitching in mild amusement.
He pulled it open, the hinges groaning softly, and began his descent into the dark.
The staircase carved into the mountain spiraled downward for what felt like forever. Fifty meters, at least.
Each step echoed off the stone walls, bouncing into the silence like whispers that didn't belong.
Tarrin kept his guard up, senses taut, half-expecting something to lunge out from the shadows.
Finally, a door came into view—old, iron-banded, and just slightly ajar.
That was all he needed.
He grasped the cold handle, pulling slowly, careful not to make a sound. Beyond it, dim torchlight flickered faintly, casting elongated shadows across the stone.
And there, just inside the gloom, stood a silhouette—still as stone, watching the door open with a calmness that felt almost rehearsed. Like this wasn't anything new. Like he'd done this before.
The man stepped into the light.
Greying hair. Two Scars running down his face. Eyes that didn't flinch.
"You the one from Josh?" he asked, voice flat and level, like a man used to giving orders—and having them followed.
Tarrin stepped inside fully, boots landing on cold stone. "Yeah. You know what I'm here for, right?"
The man nodded once and turned without another word, walking deeper into the corridor like he was leading a tour through hell.
Tarrin followed, gaze on the man's back.
'Definitely Scarbound. And not a weak one.'
After a few quiet paces, the man finally spoke, laying out the plan with surgical precision.
"Here's how this goes. I leave the cell door unlocked. Call the guard out for a smoke. You slip in, do your thing, fast and clean. You've got five minutes. No more."
He stopped walking, turned his head just slightly.
"No harm comes to the prisoner. None. If it does, I'll report this. No hesitation."
His words weren't a threat. They were a fact.
Tarrin didn't respond. Just nodded, jaw tight. His heart pounded, loud in his ears. This was it. No turning back now.