Three days had passed since crossing the Nebel Pass. The Mist Pass—true to its name, they had crossed it with one hundred seventeen souls, the white haze crawling across the stone road like something alive. Ashna still carried it in her body: the cliff path where her feet found no purchase, the weight of supplies, Grimhart's breathing beside her. The moment they crested the pass, the wind changed. From the dry, rocky scent of the south to the damp smell of grass and earth. The northern air was different—she had felt it clearly then. Three days since. The Zeerie army had descended to the northern foothills of the Caldora Range and made camp in a forest before the trading town of Perna. At dusk, Ashna lay prone beside Grimhart at the southern edge of the forest. Scout support—or more precisely, forward reconnaissance as Halven had ordered. Confirm the regular route into Perna, determine whether contact could be made with the inn "The Grey Urn." That was all it should have been. The smell of grass. Evening light slanted in from the west, painting the stone walls of Perna's houses in shades of orange. Human voices carried on the wind. An ordinary evening in an ordinary town. It should have been. "...White cloaks," said low. His voice was compressed, barely audible. Ashna narrowed her eyes. Around the inn "The Grey Urn"—that rare establishment on Perna's southern edge where the proprietor Matine rented rooms even to the demonkind—shadows moved. Not one or two. The emblem on the cloaks was visible even from this distance. A white field with the star-staff sigil. The Holy Staff Ministry's advance guard. She counted. Fifteen. Surrounding the inn from three directions. Two stood at the front entrance, and at least four shadows had moved to the rear. And on the ground before the inn, people knelt. Four of them. Hands bound behind their backs, kneeling on the stone pavement. The first—a stout woman in her fifties—tried to raise her head. In that moment, a white-cloaked soldier struck her with the pommel of his sword. She fell. Something dark began to flow from her forehead. Matine, Ashna understood. She had never met her. But whenever Zeerie spoke of supplies in Perna, there was always a name she called: Matine. A person who had sustained the Zeerie army for more than a year. That person now lay bleeding on the stone pavement. Of the other three, one had cloth wrapped around their neck. From the edge of the cloth, something was visible—the outline of horns. Grimhart turned toward Ashna quickly. "[serious]Report to the main force tonight. Perna's locked down—the supply route is compromised. We'll have to find a detour. Let's go," said low, his voice decisive. It was a rational judgment. Ashna understood it in her head. Two against fifteen was reckless. Bringing back information held more value for the hundred seventeen than anything else. Grimhart began to rise. Ashna did not move. Matine was trying to lift her face from the stone. Once more. A soldier from the advance guard pressed her down with his boot on her shoulder. A small sound escaped the woman's lips. The wind was favorable—it carried all the way here. Ashna's mouth tightened for an instant. "[serious]That woman kept supplying us before we ever arrived," said. Grimhart's movement stopped. "[serious]If we don't help her, who will?" She had not spoken from emotion. There was no tremor in her voice. She had simply given voice to the answer that existed within her, and it came out like this. Grimhart was silent for a moment. A silence like thinking. Ashna could not know what passed through him in that space. She could not know if he remembered that night when they had spoken of the nameless dead. A sound came—a short, muffled click of the tongue. "[cold]I'll draw them off. Circle to the east. You cut the ropes and guide them through the back alleys," said. "[serious]Understood," replied. The two separated into the brush. --- Grimhart threw a stone into the eastern alley. The dry sound of stone striking stone, twice, three times. The advance guard's white cloaks turned east. Two ran. Then two more. In the gap where attention scattered—five seconds, perhaps less. Ashna ran. She circled to the rear of the inn. She moved along the wall like something crawling. The demonkind's night vision was slightly better than humans'. She saw hands bound with rope near the back door. One of the smugglers sat with his back against the wall. A demon with horns hidden beneath cloth. His eyes widened. Ashna put a finger to her lips. She gathered magic in her hands. Not flame—tonight she would use wind pressure. She compressed the pressure at her fingertips, drove it into the rope fibers—a thin sound, *ptu*, and the rope came free. The man tried to stand; she held him back and pointed toward Matine. He nodded. She cut Matine's ropes. The demon smuggler lifted the old woman. They freed the other smuggler, and all four ran into the back alleys. --- They ran along a dark path beside an agricultural irrigation channel south of Perna. The water in the channel carried the chill of night air, cold and deep. The mud beneath their feet swallowed sound. The footsteps of the advance guard multiplied behind them. Grimhart disabled two pursuers with the flat of his blade—a high-pitched sound twice, then nothing. Before more could follow, they plunged into the forest. The woods were dark. The moon was thin, the stars scattered. Matine fell. Her legs simply stopped working. The wound on her forehead was deep. She could not continue running. Seeing this, Grimhart crouched without a word and took the old woman onto his back. One of the smugglers came to Ashna's side. She leaned on his shoulder as they pressed deeper into the forest. Her breath came hard. Tree roots caught at her feet again and again. In the dark woods, she could see only Grimhart's back ahead. The broad back carrying Matine. His silver hair caught on branches, and he pushed forward almost without noticing. Ashna spoke toward that back. "[gentle]...I'm glad you came," said. Grimhart's feet did not stop. He answered while walking, without breaking stride. "[cold]I didn't think your judgment was right," said. Ashna paused for a moment, stepping over a root. "[gentle]But you came anyway," said. Grimhart did not answer. The darkness of the forest continued. Only footsteps, Matine's shallow breathing, and the sound of leaves stirring. Ashna kept walking forward. Grimhart's profile caught the thin moonlight filtering through the trees for just an instant. Nothing had changed. His expression remained the same. But the angle of his profile, the direction his face pointed, had tilted toward Ashna by the smallest degree. That was all. That was enough. --- Past midnight, they reached the camp. When the four returned to the camp in the forest where the fire burned, Halven came wordlessly and took Matine. The ancient soldier—an estimated two hundred and ten years old, a taciturn giant who managed the fortress—carried the old woman to where the herb-keeper demon waited. The two smugglers were guided to the medical section. Zeerie stood before her tent. Ashna walked straight to her and reported everything: that she had acted on her own authority, what she had seen in Perna, the composition of the advance guard, Matine's condition. Zeerie listened without changing her expression. Her silver eyes watched Ashna's face quietly. The black horns at her temples caught the firelight and cast shadows. The report ended. Silence came. Ashna waited for words of rebuke. None came. Zeerie gathered her adjutant Halven and the ancient soldiers, spread a map. An impromptu war council began. Ashna and Grimhart stood outside the circle, listening. "[serious]Perna is unusable. The supply route is cut off—we must assume this," said, her voice low and calm. Not disappointment, not panic, but simply accepting reality. "[serious]A direct assault is impossible given our current forces and supplies. Instead—we will temporarily sever the human army's eastern mountain supply route. We shift to a diversion to delay the transport of Donalc's wife and children," said. Halven tapped a point on the map with a thick finger. The ancient soldiers nodded. The strategy took shape. After the council dispersed, Zeerie came to Ashna's side. "[serious]What you did tonight was not strategically sound," said. Ashna nodded. She understood that. "[gentle]But—do not forget. Those who speak for the dead do not abandon the living. Now you know this," said. Ashna heard Zeerie's words. She tried to take them as praise, but it did not land that way. Rather—when she had raised her voice in that square that night, speaking to all the dead, including enemies whose names she would never know, something within her had been decided. Tonight, that decision had functioned again. The words came as confirmation of that. Deep in her chest, something took root quietly. Not sentiment, but something close to certainty. --- After the council ended, the camp grew quiet. The fires diminished in turn, and the demonkind withdrew into their tents. A sentry's voice called once in the distance, then the night became still. Ashna could not sleep. She pushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside. The forest on the northern foothills of the Caldora Range held a bone-deep chill in the night air. Different from the dry cold of the southern rocky mountains—a damp, penetrating cold. Night dew clung to the grass, and her boots grew wet with each step. Beyond the treetops, the night sky was visible. The stars were many. She knew the southern sky well. For thirty years, forty years, or perhaps longer, the constellations that must have always been there—Ventzel had taught her their names. Which was which constellation, which was which star. She had read the Star Records, so she knew the human names for the zodiac. She looked up at the northern sky. There was a light that should not have been there. A single point of radiance, small but brighter than the other stars, whiter, and—new. A light that had not existed weeks ago, born in a place she had never seen before. A passage from the Star Records moved through her mind. *—The Star of the Hero is a phenomenon wherein the Star God Polaris inscribes in the heavens the emergence of a new hero candidate, and it shines in the night sky for several weeks. The Holy Staff Ministry reads this as the will of God and conducts the selection and appointment of the hero—* The Eighth Period Hero, Ashna understood immediately. It was not a matter of logic. Her body knew. Someone younger than Orvan, or more optimized for the Holy Staff Ministry than Orvan, was being chosen. That person would come toward them. Eventually. She was afraid. She recognized it in herself. Afraid. Clearly. Because the light of that star before her announced the beginning of the next battle. But her feet did not stop. There was no reason for them to stop. She understood that now. Already understood it. Ventzel's voice came—*speak it forward.* Zeerie's words came—*a world where demonkind love, protect, and are mourned.* The memory came of Grimhart's silence in the dark forest, of how his profile tilted toward her by the smallest degree. That memory came. Ashna watched the star. She watched that light born in the northern night sky above the Caldora Range, watched it for a long time. --- The next morning, a full assembly was called. One hundred seventeen souls gathered in the open space of the camp. Matine had regained consciousness. The herbal treatment had worked; the old woman stood on her own feet, her face wrapped in bandages. A spy who had fled Perna brought intelligence. Orvan Sturm had returned from Vastok Fortress to the Holy Staff Ministry headquarters in the Holy City of Felictus. There he had submitted a proposal for a new large-scale subjugation campaign. He had never i