Jaden Raijin crested the ridge at a dead run. Below him, a village burned. Black smoke poured from thatched roofs. A wooden bridge over the swamp had collapsed into the water, its beams still spitting flame. Somewhere in that wreck, his warlord had passed through again. Jaden drew the katana with the lightning sheath and started down the slope. He cut through the outer path and saw the pikes first. Heads of villagers stared down from sharpened poles, mouths open. At the base of one pike lay a child's wooden fishing float, dropped in flight. Jaden did not slow. Anger was the bait. He swallowed it and kept moving toward the screams. Two fishing huts roared with fire, the doors barred from outside. Voices cried from within. Jaden raised his blade and pulled the storm down. Lightning split the air and shattered both doors in a single white crack. He kicked the burning wood aside and dragged out a woman, then a boy, then an old fisherman coughing soot. Three more followed on their own. The huts collapsed behind them in a shower of sparks. Jaden counted six survivors gasping in the mud. He did not speak. He wiped his blade, turned toward the tracks leading out of the village, and saw fresh hoofprints in the ash. The warlord's column had ridden out within the hour. Close. Closer than ever before.