I reached the camp before sunset. The sky began to burn with artists' colors, only here beauty bordered absurdity. Road dust ate into the cloak, and air trembled with polyphony: smoke, sweat, leather, and that elusive something hovering over people awaiting orders or death.
Captain Raoul de Flamier waited at the camp's edge—tall, with the military bearing of one who's looked death in the face. Campfires lit his figure; he waved as if warding off Death itself.
— Sholn de Lorens! Over here! No mines here! —his voice cut the air with the loudness of an artillery commander.
He mentioned minefields so casually, like puddles after rain. Habit to absurdity—when death becomes everyday.
— Coming up! —I replied, feeling leaden fatigue on my shoulders.
Each step echoed pain in muscles, but stronger ached inside—where conscience lives. Raoul waited with the patience of those who've learned to value meetings: the next might not happen.
— What winds bring you, old friend? —warmth of those who've been through fire sounded in his voice. Slapped my shoulder—firmly, like an older brother.
— Wanted to see you. Decided to drop by.
Decided to drop by... As if to a neighbor for salt, not with news that could overturn the kingdom. But that's human nature—turn tragedy into ordinariness to survive.
— Come to the tent.
Inside—Spartan luxury of military life: rough boards, rolled maps, dim lantern. Silence thick, as if walls absorbed war's moans. A special atmosphere of male friendship where words aren't needed.