He had been standing in the same place since morning.
Shield resting against his knee. Spear butt pressed into the mud. The line ahead of him shifted now and then as men adjusted their footing, boots sinking deeper than they should have. Someone coughed. Someone else spat and wiped their mouth on a sleeve.
No one talked much. Talking drew attention. Attention had a way of finding the wrong people.
The ground underfoot was too soft for how dry the season had been. Grass bent under weight and stayed bent, flattened into pale streaks where men had stood before. Here and there, old iron showed through the mud — a spearhead without a shaft, a buckle eaten thin by rust.
When the arrow passed close enough to be felt, it was the first thing that changed.
It struck the mud in front of him and stayed there, quivering.
He stopped.
The man behind him ran into his back and swore. A shove followed, sharp between the shoulders.
"Keep moving."
He nodded once, eyes forward, and stepped back into line.
The horns sounded then, low and uneven, and the levy went forward.
He was third-row infantry. That meant he was meant to live long enough to replace someone else. Shield in the left hand, spear in the right. He knew where to stand by habit, not thought.
The lines met with a sound like wood splitting.
Steel rang. Shields struck. Men shouted words that did not last long enough to mean anything. A blade glanced off the rim of his shield and numbed his arm to the elbow. He shoved forward with the others, spear scraping uselessly across armor.
A man fell against him. Then another. The weight took him off his feet.
Mud filled his mouth. His shield slipped free. He rolled, coughing, and shoved the body off himself with both hands. The man's eyes were open, unfocused.
He stood.
Only after he was upright again, still breathing, did the tightness in his chest ease slightly — the way it did when a strap was loosened after being pulled too hard.
He did not think about it. There was no time.
A shout rose behind the line. Not panic yet. Recognition.
A blessed one was coming through.
The man moved without haste, armor catching light it should not have caught under a dull sky. The glow under his skin pulsed unevenly, like something struggling to stay contained. His eyes were clear and empty.
He swung once.
Men fell.
He swung again, slower this time. The light surged too bright, too fast, and he screamed — a thin, broken sound. His hands clawed at his chest. Smoke leaked from the joints of his armor.
His knees struck the mud.
The glow flickered once more, then failed.
He collapsed forward and did not move again.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Only after the body lay still did the air change.
Not suddenly. Not kindly.
Just enough that something tight in the world seemed to ease, as if a strain had finally given way.
He stood with his hands on his knees, breathing hard, and waited for the shaking in his legs to stop.
By midday, the field had gone quiet in the way only battlefields ever did.
The wounded were gathered. The dead were moved only when someone important was missing. Blood soaked into the ground too quickly, vanishing instead of pooling.
He carried a man with a shattered leg toward the road. The man groaned but did not scream.
As he walked, he found himself stepping around certain patches of earth without meaning to. Darker places. Places where the mud looked deeper than it should have been.
He stopped near one.
The soil there was slick and black, but no blood stood on it.
A hand closed on his shoulder.
"Don't," an older soldier said.
He looked back. Scarred face. Armor worn smooth by years.
"Why?"
The man glanced east, toward the low horizon where the land thinned and color bled away.
"Because it remembers," he said, and let go.
He stepped closer anyway.
Nothing happened.
No sound. No sign.
But the air felt tight, like a held breath. A dull ache crept in behind his eyes.
He stepped back.
The ache eased slowly, as if whatever had been pressed too far no longer needed to be.
He looked at the ground for a long moment.
So it wasn't warning.
It was aftermath.
He lifted the wounded man again and started toward the road.
Far to the east, beyond banners and kings and prayer, something old shifted in its sleep.
And the world, for a moment, felt less strained than it had before.