Ser Garron's command tent was no larger than it needed to be.
No luxuries.
No tapestries.
Only thick canvas stretched over stakes, still dripping with the rain of the night before, and a heavy table at the center, covered in crumpled maps and small stones set down as markers.
The air stank of wet leather, iron, and weary men.
Torches fixed along the sides cast a trembling light, carving faces deeper, harsher, as though war itself had hollowed them out.
One by one, the squad leaders entered.
Some carried helms beneath their arms.
Others kept their hands upon their sword-belts, as if they needed reminding that they were still armed.
All of them bore the same thing in their eyes:
the weight of a day not yet begun.
Rowan remained near the entrance.
He was not the sort of man who filled space in a tent of captains.
He knew it well.
Most of those gathered had names.
Had sigils.
Had fathers laid beneath carved stone.
Rowan had only a well-kept blade, and a silence that was not choice — it was habit.
Ser Garron stood bent over the map.
When the last captain stepped inside, he lifted his head.
"Close it."
The canvas fell.
The world beyond vanished.
Only war remained.
Garron pointed to the markings upon the parchment.
"Marrick is here."
A dark stone.
"Mercenaries at the fore."
Another.
"Infantry behind."
Another.
"They have numbers. We have ground."
A tall man with a red beard made a sound of contempt.
"Ground does not halt four thousand."
Garron did not take offense.
"No. But it halts their haste."
The red-bearded captain folded his arms.
"Haste?"
Garron raised cold eyes.
"Mercenaries love to strike first. They hunger for plunder before the battle is spent."
Another leader, older, scars carved into his brow, murmured:
"They will run like dogs after meat."
"Just so," Garron said. "And dogs run swifter than they think."
His hand pressed upon the map.
"They will make the first charge. That is certain."
A murmur passed through the tent.
"Then we wait?" someone asked.
"We endure," Garron corrected. "We hold. We do not break."
The red-bearded captain laughed.
"Easy words, when it is not your flesh on the line."
Garron turned slowly toward him.
"I will be on the line."
The laughter died.
Silence returned.
Garron went on.
"The reinforcements that came…"
He paused, as though the word itself were too generous.
"…are what could be spared."
A thin man with wary eyes asked:
"And the rest?"
"They will come after. If they come at all."
"After is too late," someone muttered.
"After is always too late," Garron replied.
He drew in a breath.
"Today, we are the wall. There will be no other."
The red-bearded captain leaned forward.
"How many men have we, truly?"
Garron answered without hesitation:
"Fewer than them."
The honesty was almost cruel.
Some looked away.
Others clenched their fists.
Garron planted both hands upon the table.
"But they will strike first. And that is weakness."
"How?" the scarred elder asked.
Garron lifted one finger.
"The first man who runs to kill, runs also to die."
He let the words hang like a blade in the air.
Then he continued:
"They will come with shouting, with fury, with courage bought in silver."
His voice hardened.
"We shall meet them with silence."
The tent seemed colder.
Rowan watched it all.
He said nothing.
Not because thoughts did not stir within him…
But because thoughts carried no weight there.
Then—
A new voice cut through the air.
"Strange."
All heads turned.
The man who spoke was too young to command, yet too old to be dismissed as a fool. He wore a fine mail shirt, far too clean, and a small sigil stitched upon his breast.
Ser Alric Fenn.
A leader of lesser blood — but blood still.
He looked about as though seeking something.
"I have heard tell that Lord Edric has funded a soldier."
Silence.
Rowan felt his stomach tighten.
Alric continued, his tone steeped in false curiosity.
"A man… sponsored."
He spoke the word as though it were sour wine poured into a golden cup.
"I thought he might be here."
No one answered.
Alric tilted his head.
"Or perhaps he is."
His gaze drifted, slow and deliberate, until it settled upon Rowan near the entrance.
Calculated.
"Are you he?"
Rowan did not move.
"I am Rowan."
Alric frowned.
"Rowan who?"
The question was not innocent.
It was a knife.
Rowan answered evenly:
"Only Rowan."
A low murmur.
Alric smiled, without mirth.
"Only Rowan."
He repeated it, tasting the sound.
"And Lord Edric spends silver upon 'only Rowan.'"
He stepped closer.
"Strange, that I have not heard your voice until now."
Rowan held his gaze.
"I did not know my voice was required."
Alric gave a short laugh.
"Required?"
He spread his arms, gesturing to the tent, the maps, the men.
"We stand on the brink of being crushed by a greater host, and the man who holds the lord's favor sits in silence?"
His tone sharpened.
"I would think such a man ought to take command. Or at least pretend he belongs in this place."
Rowan felt every eye upon him.
Captains.
Veterans.
Men who would be dead before sunset.
He could answer with anger.
He could answer with pride.
But pride was a nobleman's disease.
Rowan spoke low.
"I belong to the mire as much as any man here."
Alric leaned closer, as if he had not heard.
"What?"
Rowan repeated, firmer:
"I belong to the mire. Not the throne."
The silence grew heavy.
Alric narrowed his eyes.
"Then why are you here?"
Rowan answered:
"Because I fight."
Alric's smile twisted.
"Many fight."
Rowan did not look away.
"And many die."
The smile faltered.
Before Alric could speak again, Garron struck the table with his hand.
The sound was like a hammer-blow.
"Enough."
All went still.
Garron looked at Alric as though he were an insect.
"This tent is not for measuring names."
Then he turned his gaze upon Rowan.
"Nor for hiding behind silence."
Rowan did not flinch.
Garron continued:
"When the first charge comes… it will not be banners that hold the line."
His voice grew harder.
"It will be steel. It will be discipline. It will be those who do not break."
He stared at them all.
"If any of you wish to quarrel over pride, do so after you have survived."
No one answered.
Outside, far off, a sound began.
A rumble.
Like thunder.
Hooves.
War was drawing near.
And within the tent, for one brief moment, they all understood:
it mattered little who was funded…
in the end, all men bled the same.