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Tiberius's eyes cut through the gloom like a hawk's. His voice came fast and sharp, leaving no room for doubt.
"Habro, Demetrius!" he snapped, pointing at the two most seasoned commanders. "Pick me eighty of your hardest bastards—the ones who've seen blood and don't flinch at dying. I want killers, not boys."
He spun on Lysaro, voice low and heavy with the weight of every life in the room. "Lysaro. Listen close. Whether your father ends up rotting in a Volantene mine or rides back to Lys as governor… that's on you now."
Lysaro's face went white. The sudden load hit him like a hammer.
Tiberius kept firing orders, each word hammering home. "You're Mario Ferrero now. Throw on your flashiest armor and cloak. Take me and those eighty men—no long spears, no shields, nothing. Strip the armor off. We jump straight off the walls. Full show. Then you lead us out the main gate under a white flag like a beaten man begging for mercy."
He turned to Habro and Demetrius. "You two take everyone else who can still breathe and hide behind the gate. Block every other exit with whatever shit you can find. One way in, one way out. When Vito gives the signal from the walls, you charge like fucking lunatics. No fancy formations—just hit them fast and hard before they know what's happening."
Finally he locked eyes with Vito. "Your job's the most important. Hide the civilians and wounded in the shadows at the base of the wall. But leave a couple clever bastards up top. Have them scream their lungs out—make it sound like we're starving, broken, and ready to eat each other. 'They abandoned us!' 'You bastards took all the food!' 'We're out of arrows, out of weapons!' I want every Volantene down there to hear we're finished and falling apart. Make them drop their guard completely."
"This only works if every single one of us gives everything we've got," Tiberius said, sucking in a breath. "So do it right… or we're all dying in this nameless little shithole."
The men scattered, faces tight with grim resolve or raw nerves.
---
Lysaro stopped outside his father's sickroom. Through the door he could hear Lysandro's weak, pained groans. He slid down the cold stone wall and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.
"Father… whether we live or die now… it's on me?" His voice cracked with disbelief and bitter laughter. A few weeks ago he'd been nothing but a spoiled brat playing at war. Now hundreds of lives—and his own father's—hung on his shoulders.
The pressure nearly crushed him. He smiled, but it looked more like a grimace.
Then he lifted his head and looked at the men outside preparing for the desperate gamble, especially Tiberius's hard, trusting stare. Something fierce and new stirred in his chest. He wiped his face and stood, eyes hardening.
"Fuck it. Let's do this."
He marched to his ornate armor, slammed the helmet onto his head, and muttered, "Might as well call it another blood combat."
---
"My lord, this is Young Master Mario Ferrero's surrender letter… and his token of good faith."
"Vito" knelt and offered a jeweled sword, a fine brooch, and a neatly written letter with both hands.
Mohata glanced at the letter and the flattering words inside. His last doubts faded.
"Very well," he said with a satisfied nod. "If Young Master Mario wishes to swear loyalty, we accept. Tomorrow at eight in the morning, Vito. We'll meet at the gate."
"Yes, my lord." Tiberius kept his eyes down, voice trembling just right. From Mohata's angle he looked like a terrified little servant who'd pissed himself.
Mohata smirked, pure contempt flickering in his eyes.
Of course. A weak master breeds weak servants.
"Tell me," Mohata asked suddenly, "how much food is left inside the town?"
Tiberius's mind raced. Why the hell is he asking that?
He had no idea Mohata had brought not just regular Tiger Cloak legions and heavy cavalry, but also a swarm of noble "volunteers" who'd paid their own way—private slave-soldiers, family retainers, and their own sons. Their reward was supposed to be land, slaves, and loot from the Three Daughters' territories. Mohata was already counting coins and thinking about the tax farms he might win after the war. Saving a little grain here and there felt like smart business.
"Enough for three days, sealed in the stores and ready for your inspection, my lord," Tiberius answered, voice shaking.
Mohata curled his lip. "Pathetic. If you still had food, why surrender at all? I thought you were starving."
Tiberius almost thought the man had seen through the ruse—until he caught the arrogant, dismissive look. Mohata wasn't suspicious. He simply despised the "coward" who'd surrendered.
Thank the gods, Tiberius thought, forcing his pounding heart to slow.
Mohata's mind had already moved past the fight. He was busy imagining how impressive he'd look when he accepted Mario Ferrero's surrender in full noble style.
"One more thing…" Tiberius lifted his head.
"What now?" Mohata frowned. A surrendering slave bargaining with me?
"It's not me, my lord—it's my master, Young Master Mario," Tiberius said quickly. "He wants to know the terms after surrender… and whether, as your honored guest, he might be allowed to stay at your estate."
Mohata almost laughed out loud.
The first thing this coward asks about is his own comfort? He shook his head, amused. Of course. Weak master, weak servant. These Lysene spice traders and moneylenders are all the same.
"Tell your master to relax," Mohata said with a broad, condescending smile. "He'll be treated like a guest in my own home—fine silks, the best food, every luxury. After all…"
He glanced toward the distant walls of Stone Crow Town, already picturing the frightened, starving soldiers inside.
Yesterday General Marcus sent new orders: secure every market and outpost along the Flank Corridor. Once we take Twinbridge Town, the peninsula ports and Bloodline Pass will fall soon after. This war is already won.
The thought warmed him. Maybe I'll even be named governor of one of the new districts.
He waved a hand. "Go on. Tomorrow at the gate. And bring your master's appetite—he'll eat better than he ever did in that miserable town."