THE RISING BASTARD SON-Chapter 28 - - - Ashes of the Blaze

Ashes of the Blaze

The flames had finally died.

After hours of frantic effort, the forest fire was smothered—nothing left but the scent of charred wood and ash hanging heavy in the air. The camp, once echoing with sirens and panicked commands, had quieted. Slaves slumped where they stood, collapsing into exhausted sleep across the damp forest floor. Soldiers moved like shadows, patrolling the perimeter, their eyes still sharp despite weariness.

Sam, too, had fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber. His body throbbed from the brutal labor, his back still aching from the lashes. For now, he slept without dreams. Without fear.

But peace, in these woods, never lasted long.

(Poor Sam. Even in sleep, fate was sharpening its claws.)

Elsewhere in the camp, Garrik was still moving—sleepless, tense, and determined. He hadn’t rested before the fire, hadn’t stopped during it, and wasn’t about to now.

Kadran’s command still rang in his ears: "Find the enemy. Or don’t bother breathing again."

With no time to spare, Garrik had already formed three reconnaissance teams, sending them to scour the treelines and ravines around the perimeter. If there was an infiltrator—someone who’d set the blaze as a distraction—they would be found.

He raced up the rocky incline of the observation hill, his boots slipping once in the ash-slick grass. At the top, silhouetted against the pale moonlight, stood Lieutenant Kadran—arms folded, cloak fluttering in the breeze. From this vantage, the entire camp lay visible: scattered tents, flickering torches, and sleeping bodies strewn across the field like broken marionettes.

Kadran turned as Garrik approached, his expression unreadable—but his eyes burned like embers.

"Sir!" Garrik saluted, chest heaving. "Reporting on the fire incident. No casualties confirmed, no major damage to the camp structures. The fire has been extinguished completely. All soldiers are accounted for and on high alert."

Kadran narrowed his gaze.

Garrik hesitated, then continued. "No enemy found so far, but I’ve dispatched scouting teams into the woods. They’ll be checking for traps, enemy trails, or any sign of movement."

For a moment, silence.

Then—Kadran exploded.

"No enemy?" His voice boomed across the hilltop like thunder. "No one?"

Garrik flinched. He stood his ground, but the air around Kadran felt colder now.

"You had one job," Kadran growled. "One. Job."

"S-sir, I—"

"Save it. You let this happen while I explicitly told you not to disturb my tent. And this is how you repay my trust?" His voice sharpened to a blade. "Do you realize how much coin those slaves are worth?"

Garrik swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. "Sir, I’ll make sure the guards double up. I promise, we’ll find whoever—"

Kadran stepped forward, just inches away now.

"No more promises," he hissed. "Here’s what’s going to happen. You won’t sleep tonight. Not even for a breath. You’re on your feet until that bastard is caught."

Garrik nodded quickly. "Understood, sir."

"And one more thing." Kadran’s smile turned cruel. "You’re not allowed to touch a single woman until the enemy is caught. If I hear anything about you breaking that order, Garrik..."

He leaned in.

"That will be your last night alive."

Garrik paled. "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Without another word, Garrik turned and ran down the slope, heart hammering. Whatever mercy existed in the flames of earlier had now turned to ice in Kadran’s gaze.

And the night—though the fire had ended—was far from over.

Kadran stood for a moment longer atop the hill, the dying wind tugging at the edges of his cloak. The fire had ruined his night—his carefully prepared night. The taste of control he’d held earlier now soured on his tongue. He wasn’t in the mood anymore—not for indulgence, not for domination.

He spat to the side and turned toward the camp.

By the time he reached his tent, his temper had cooled to a bitter simmer. The scent of smoke still clung to the fabric, the faint cries of soldiers echoed through the trees, and the moon hung high, indifferent.

Inside, Moon lay as she had earlier—back in her cell, curled tightly into herself, silent and unmoving. Kadran didn’t glance her way. He loosened his belt, stripped off his coat, and threw it across a chair.

"Damn this night," he muttered, collapsing onto the furs.

Tomorrow would bring more work, more marching, more pretending he didn’t want to gut someone just for breathing the wrong way.

"We’ll leave this wretched place in the morning," he thought. "By tomorrow night, we’ll be halfway to the city. Two more days, if we push hard, and we’ll be there."

The idea soothed him slightly. The city would bring fresh comforts. New prey.

Tonight, he would sleep. No more fire. No more reports. No more interruptions.

Meanwhile, deep in the slave sleeping area , Sam twisted on the ground.

His back ached. His hands, though no longer bound, still throbbed from where the ropes had been. His body cried for rest, yet his dreams—shapeless and hot—kept him turning. Sweat clung to his brow, and his mouth moved in whispers as if caught in a nightmare.

Then suddenly—hands.

Rough, calloused hands slammed over his mouth.

Sam’s eyes flew open. A figure loomed over him, shadowed, fast.

He tried to cry out, but the grip on his face was iron. He kicked out with his legs, flailing silently as panic surged.

"Shh!" a voice hissed in his ear. "Stop moving!"

He didn’t recognize the whisper—sharp.

He didn’t stop moving.

Another hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Hhhh! Hhhggh!" Sam choked, trying to scream through the fingers.

The figure carried him, moving swiftly, quietly through the maze of sleeping bodies. No one stirred. The guards hadn’t seen.

He was dragged into the forest, branches scratching his arms, twigs snapping underfoot, his heart pounding louder than the drumbeats of war.

Where was he being taken?

And most of all—why him?

[ To be continued ]

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