“Welcome, ladies and… well, actually, it’s just gentlemen.” My voice echoed lightly across the interior of the command tent, laced with false cheer. “Thank you all for attending this very important meeting.”

  Twelve men sat around a heavy oak table, all of them dressed in variations of military uniform—some more polished than others, all bearing the symbols of rank and command. Each of them held a quill poised above parchment, expressions ranging from curiosity to restrained irritation. These weren’t just any officers. They were the spine of the command structure—the ones who, in theory, could challenge Arthur’s authority if they ever chose to.

  I paused for dramatic effect before taking a step up—right onto the table.

  Their eyes followed me, confused, uneasy, and silent. The sound of my boots thudding softly against the wood as I walked slowly along the length of the table was the only noise in the room. I reached the far end, turned sharply, and strode back, meeting each pair of eyes as I passed.

  “I have just one simple task for all of you.”

  One man, grey-haired and square-jawed, didn’t take kindly to the theatrics. “You have no authority to give us orders,” he snapped, voice clipped with barely restrained disdain.

  I stopped mid-stride, looked directly at him, and then raised an arm in a lazy gesture toward Arthur, who stood beside Markus, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but stern.

  “Maybe not,” I replied, tilting my head slightly. “But he does. And my orders are his orders. Understood?”

  No one looked happy about it, but no one protested either. The message had landed. And walking across their sacred table like I owned it? That only cemented their impression—like a queen surveying her pieces on the board.

  “Don’t worry,” I said with a reassuring smile. “This will be easy. Nothing more than a simple spelling exercise. I noticed some rather… unfortunate spelling mistakes in the latest reports, and honestly, it grated on my nerves.”

  There was a flicker of disbelief among them, but they didn’t dare laugh.

  “So,” I continued brightly, “we’re going to do some dictation. I’ll read out the sentences, and you’ll copy them down. Let’s begin, shall we?”

  I cleared my throat dramatically, then began reading from the carefully prepared sheet in my hand.

  “Write the following as the headline: Admission of Guilt. Under that, draw a neat line to begin the statement.”

  Some of them had already started writing, albeit with stiff hands and twitching brows.

  “Next line. ‘I,’” I said, slowly pacing again. “Now, insert your name—your name, not the words ‘insert your name.’ And definitely not ‘your name’ either. I trust at least a few of you can follow basic instructions?”

  There was a small huff of laughter from somewhere—probably Tom just outside the tent—but I ignored it.

  “Continue: ‘I am guilty of inciting insurrection within the army.’ Got that? Everyone?” I didn’t wait for nods or confirmation. “Great. Now, just sign your name at the bottom of the page.”

  I glanced around. Some were writing hesitantly; others, more confidently. A few still stared at their paper like it might explode.

  “Now take the second sheet,” I went on cheerfully. “On that one, write the full alphabet—uppercase and lowercase. A bit of handwriting practice. I’ll fill out the rest myself later. Thank you!”

  That’s when the voice from earlier returned, sharp and suspicious.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the same officer barked. His paper remained blank. Not a single word. Pity.

  I tilted my head, wide-eyed and innocent. “We were practising spelling,” I said sweetly, already beginning to collect the completed sheets from the more compliant officers. Roughly half had written the full statement, unaware—or perhaps simply too nervous to object.

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  I stopped collecting papers and turned slowly to face him. His defiance was admirable, but ultimately unwise.

  “Alright,” I said, my tone changing—cooler, deadlier. “If you want the truth…” I stepped off the table with calculated calm and walked toward him slowly. “There have been… troubling signs. Disappearances. Unauthorized meetings. Contradictory reports. We suspect a coordinated attempt to undermine Arthur’s command—possibly even an uprising.”

  I came to a halt directly behind him.

  “This,” I continued, voice dropping to a murmur, “was a test of loyalty. And you failed it.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat but didn’t turn. My breath was just beside his ear now.

  “You will pay for Luna’s death,” I whispered.

  A flicker of tension passed through his shoulders—fear, or both.

  Then I straightened again, letting the moment pass like it hadn’t happened at all. I resumed my slow circuit around the table, my fingers brushing lightly along its edge, my heels clicking softly against the floor.

  The room had changed. The air felt heavier. The unspoken threat lingered like smoke—one word away from catching fire.

  And I smiled.

  “So tell me,” I said softly, my voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade, “are you disloyal?”

  I stared into his eyes—dull, cloudy, disturbingly vacant. That emptiness said more than words ever could. He was the only one here whose body no longer belonged to him. A parasite nestled within his flesh, turning a once-proud officer into a puppet.

  “This isn’t about loyalty,” he snapped, panic rising to the surface beneath a brittle layer of outrage. “This is madness! Arthur—would you fill out something like this?”

  He turned toward the duke as if clutching at the last threads of reason, desperate for reprieve.

  Arthur didn’t even flinch. He simply extended a hand, presenting his own completed document—an admission of guilt, same as all the others. The only difference? His crime was conspiring against the king, carefully tailored by Tom’s hand. A perfectly composed confession.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The color drained from the officer’s face.

  “Are you loyal,” I repeated, “or disloyal? Choose. Or I will choose for you with the authority of the king himself. Arthur has nothing to do with this. As the kings inquisitor, it is my task to root out the traitors within our ranks.”

  He trembled. His hand hovered uselessly over the parchment, unwilling to write a single word. I didn’t bother waiting.

  A dagger whistled through the air and sank into the man’s back with a sickening thunk.

  It wasn’t me.

  It was Markus.

  The body slumped forward against the table, lifeless. A faint, wet sound followed as blood pooled under his chest, staining the parchment he had refused to sign.

  “Illegally using military funds for personal purposes is a capital offense,” Arthur declared, his voice cold and formal. “Under military law, I hereby sentence you to death.”

  A moment late, but ultimately unnecessary. The deed was done.

  Around the table, the rest of the officers hastily grabbed their quills and scribbled furiously. Sweat poured down their brows, dripping onto their pages. One man smudged the ink so badly in his panic he had to start over, his hands trembling as he fumbled to recopy the confession.

  I collected the papers calmly, satisfied. The atmosphere had shifted. The message was clear: even Arthur was now disposable. If push came to shove, I could unseat him with Tom’s peculiar gift.

  His forgery skills, as it turned out, were disturbingly impeccable. He had revealed them only a few hours prior, casually displaying a letter “from the king” that none of us could distinguish from the real thing.

  Of course, if Arthur ever became infected, we’d be in far deeper trouble. There would be no salvaging the chain of command then. I could only prepare him the best I could—subtle advice, survival instincts sharpened to a knife’s edge—and meanwhile spend the entire night combing the officer’s barracks, searching for soulless eyes in shadowed bunks.

  By dawn, the count stood at two hundred and thirty.

  Two hundred and thirty officers, deemed traitors through perfectly forged admissions of guilt, were dragged from their tents and burned at the stake before the first rays of sunlight hit the camp. Their bodies exploded spectacularly, just like the others.

  Blood, smoke, and fire painted the sky in grotesque streaks.

  The gore was… excessive, even by my standards. And yet, tragically underappreciated. Most of the soldiers had been ordered to stay away. Too few saw what had become of their leaders.

  An hour before sunrise, exhausted but still burning with purpose, I made my way back to Tom’s quarters. He sat hunched over his small table, putting the final touches on the last batch of forged documents.

  “Heyho,” I greeted, picking one up and skimming its contents.

  Admission of Guilt

  I, Jean Wolf, am guilty of insurrection within the army. I colluded with an underground organization of unknown origin to overthrow His Majesty’s command. I confess to planting seditious ideas among my peers and undermining the authority of Duke Arthur with the intent to destabilize the military structure and weaken the human front against the Elves...

  It was perfect—down to the hesitant strokes in the signature line, as if written by a man who had come to terms with his impending death. It bore the same hand as the real Jean Wolf’s other documents. The sentiment was spot on—subtle, defeated, terrified.

  A chill ran down my spine, not from fear, but from admiration.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” I asked, honestly curious. I could mimic a language in a heartbeat, translate it into a hundred tongues—but crafting a soul through ink on paper? That was something else entirely.

  Tom didn’t even look up. He just shrugged, brushing a fleck of ink from his sleeve.

  “I spent a few years pretending to be a noble,” he said casually. “Hopped from bank to bank, living off loans. Took a lot of paperwork to build those identities. Birth certificates, property deeds, letters with royal seals. Marriage certificates—sometimes even death notices. You know, the usual.”

  I stared at him, stunned for a moment. It wasn’t just the skill. It was the audacity. The sheer nerve it took to walk into a bank with nothing but lies and leave with a fortune.

  He smiled faintly, amused by my expression.

  “You’d be surprised how many doors a well-written lie can open.”

  I chuckled darkly. “Or how many it can close. Forever.”

  He gave me a knowing look, and for a fleeting second, we understood each other perfectly.

  Both of us were liars.

  Just of different kinds.

  “And why did you end up with the bandits after all that?” I asked, tilting my head with a faint smirk. “Sounds like a fairly comfortable life you had going. Fraud, noble life, forged letters… tea in the afternoons?”

  Tom gave a quiet laugh, one without much humour.

  “It was boring,” he admitted, eyes fixed on the firelight flickering in the distance. “Incredibly so. I thought I’d enjoy the peace, but it turns out even forged nobility gets tedious. Same lies, different rooms. Eventually, I figured a bandit’s life might suit me better.”

  I studied his profile, mildly surprised. I’d never quite pegged him as the reckless type. But maybe that’s what boredom does—it builds pressure behind calm eyes until it finally has to go somewhere.

  “Do you regret that decision?” I asked after a beat, keeping my voice low and neutral.

  He didn’t answer immediately. His hand went to his chin, rubbing at the stubble there while his eyes wandered the camp’s perimeter. It wasn’t a casual pause. He genuinely didn’t know.

  “Partially,” he said at last. “I’m not the kind of guy who enjoys waving a blade in someone’s face. The bandits… they were too loud, too bloodthirsty. I was better at cracking the ledgers than cracking skulls.”

  That made sense. Tom’s strength had always been his mind—cold, sharp, and patient. He didn’t overpower people. He outplayed them.

  “I see,” I murmured, and left it at that.

  He gave a slight nod, then glanced toward the eastern tents. “Markus and I are finished with our part. All the gear’s packed, the routes chosen. Everything’s ready.”

  “As for me…” I let my tone drift lower, more dangerous. “I’ve burned so many traitors at the stake I’ve lost count. The sky reeks of smoke and charred flesh, and the worms—well, they know it was me. They have to.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow.

  “Our enemy should be seething by now. Furious. Which means she’s going to come looking for me. Too bad I wont be there to greet her.”

  I stepped out of the tent, and Tom followed. The night was cold, and the wind carried with it the acrid remnants of the purge. Ash clung to the tents like a warning. We moved silently across the camp until we spotted the glow of a fire in the distance.

  Markus and Arthur sat together beside it, the flames casting long, warped shadows across their faces.

  We stopped short of entering the light, choosing to wait. They noticed us, but made no move to wave us over. Whatever they were discussing seemed personal. Arthur’s expression was carved from granite—stern and unreadable. Markus, on the other hand, looked faintly bored, prodding at the fire with a stick as though willing the conversation to end.

  I doubted they were speaking about anything important. Neither of them knew the full scope of what was about to happen.

  They didn’t know what we were about to do.

  And perhaps it was better that way.

  The less they knew, the harder it would be for the enemy to extract it.

  Still, as I watched them from the shadows, a faint sense of unease settled over me like a second skin.

  Because soon, we would vanish into the unknown.

  And not all of us were guaranteed to come back.