Chapter 17: The Truth in the War Room

　　The passage was a throat of cold, stagnant air, so narrow they had to shuffle sideways. The only light came from a faint, sickly green luminescence emitted by Xaden’s hands—a byproduct of the siphoned magic he still held, a ghost-light to guide them through the gut of the fortress. The air tasted of dust and age, of secrets buried deeper than stone.

　　Caden’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum in the oppressive silence. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back. This was not his world. He was a creature of quiet spaces and whispered words, not of cramped, ancient tunnels leading to the lion’s den. But behind him, he felt the grim presence of the marked ones, a wall of resolve pushing him forward. There was no retreat.

　　Violet led the way, her movements sure and silent. She had internalized his lessons on the old citadel’s layout, navigating the branching tunnels with an uncanny certainty. She was no longer just a student of history; she was a weapon forged by it.

　　After an eternity of groping through the dark, they reached a crude, iron-rung ladder leading upward. Violet held up a hand, and they all froze. From above, muffled by thick stone, came the faint, unmistakable sounds of the war room: the crisp rustle of paper, the low murmur of voices, the scrape of a chair. They were directly beneath it.

　　Caden’s mouth went dry. General Sorrengail was up there.

　　Xaden extinguished the glow in his hands, plunging them into absolute blackness. The only sound was their own breathing, held taut with tension. Violet’s plan was audacious to the point of insanity. They weren’t here to confront the General. They were here to steal from her, to pluck the truth from under her nose while she directed the war games meant to break them.

　　Violet pointed upward. A square, faintly outlined in the barest sliver of light from above, was set into the ceiling—a forgotten service hatch for the undercroft, leading up into the war room’s floor. It was their way in.

　　Garrick, despite his wounded arm, moved forward. With painstaking slowness, he began to work on the hatch’s rusted latch, his tools making no more sound than a mouse’s scratch. Minutes stretched into an agony of waiting. Caden’s mind raced, imagining the scene above. The General, surrounded by her maps and her officers, utterly unaware of the ghosts rising from her own foundation.

　　With a final, almost silent click, the latch gave way. Garrick eased the hatch upward a fraction of an inch. A slice of light, warm and golden, cut into the darkness, illuminating the grim, determined faces around him. The sounds from the war room became clearer.

　　“…the Cockatrice resistance has collapsed in the southern valley,” a male voice reported. “Barlowe’s unit is mopping up the remnants.”

　　“And Sorrengail’s squad?” The voice that answered was like a shard of ice, cutting through the air. Lilith Sorrengail.

　　“Unaccounted for, General. Since the incident at the box canyon. They’ve… vanished.”

　　A pause. Caden could picture the General’s face, the cold calculation in her eyes. “They’re not ghosts. They’re hiding. Find them.”

　　“Yes, General.”

　　There was a shift in the room’s energy. The sound of chairs scraping back, of footsteps moving away. A door opened and closed. They were being left alone. Caden dared to hope. Perhaps the General was taking a moment of solitude.

　　Garrick lifted the hatch another inch. Through the narrow gap, Caden could see a sliver of the room: the edge of a massive oak table strewn with maps, the gilded hilt of a sword mounted on the wall. And then, a pair of polished black boots, planted firmly on the ornate rug, just feet from the hatch.

　　The General had not left. She was standing right over them.

　　Violet’s hand shot out, gripping Caden’s arm, her fingers like iron. Her eyes, wide in the dim light, held a silent, desperate command: Wait.

　　“You can stop pretending, Violet.”

　　The General’s voice was calm, conversational, and it echoed in the stone chamber below like a death knell. Caden’s blood ran cold. She knew. She had known all along.

　　“I felt the resonance in the wards. A siphon’s work. Crude, but effective.” She took a slow step, her boot heel grinding into the rug. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own daughter’s handiwork? This reeks of your newfound… subtlety.”

　　Violet remained frozen, her face a mask of horror and fury. The entire plan, their desperate gamble, had been a trap from the start.

　　“Come out,” Lilith commanded, her voice dropping, losing its pretense of calm and turning deadly. “Let’s not drag this out in the dirt. Face me.”

　　This was it. The moment of truth, arrived not by their design, but by the General’s. Caden looked at Violet. He saw the struggle on her face—the fear, the rage, the desperate desire to confront the woman who had betrayed her brother. But he also saw the strategist he had helped create.

　　Violet’s eyes met his. Then, with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she released his arm. She wasn’t going up. She was rejecting the confrontation. She was choosing survival.

　　But it was too late. A new voice, rough and triumphant, sounded from the main door of the war room.

　　“We found their entry point, General! The old citadel passage. We have it surrounded.”

　　Barlowe. They were trapped. The anvil had fallen.

　　In that moment, with despair closing in, Caden’s eyes, adjusted to the slice of light, caught a glimpse of something. Tucked partly under the rug, almost hidden by the leg of the massive table, was a small, reinforced strongbox. It was unadorned, utilitarian. It stood out in the opulent room like a scar. The General’s personal log. It was right there. Inches away.

　　The evidence was within reach, but the hand that could grab it was trapped.

　　Lilith Sorrengail’s boots turned, walking away from the hatch towards Barlowe. “Secure the perimeter. I want them taken alive.” Her voice was cold, devoid of any maternal feeling. “It’s time to end this little rebellion.”

　　As her footsteps receded, Violet made a sharp, cutting gesture with her hand. Retreat.

　　It was over. They had failed.

　　But as Garrick began to lower the hatch, Caden made a decision. The fallen knight had one move left. It was not a move of strength, but of sacrifice. He would not let the truth be buried again.

　　As the hatch began to seal them back into darkness, Caden’s hand shot out. Not towards the strongbox—that was impossible. But towards the edge of the heavy, ornate rug upon which the General had been standing. With a final, desperate tug, he pulled a corner of it, rumpling it, dragging it slightly over the hatch.

　　Then, the hatch closed, plunging them back into blackness.

　　“Move!” Xaden hissed.

　　They scrambled back down the tunnel, the sounds of shouting and booted feet echoing from the passage behind them. They had been discovered. But as he ran, Caden clung to one, faint hope. His action had been small, seemingly insignificant. A disarranged rug. But for a woman as meticulous, as controlling as General Sorrengail, such a small imperfection in her sanctum would be an irritant. A clue. A message.

　　He had not retrieved the truth. But he had marked its hiding place. The game was not over. It had simply entered its most dangerous phase.

　　Chapter 17 - End