Ser Garron let the silence linger only long enough for every man inside the tent to feel ashamed that he still drew breath.
Then he turned back to the map.
There was no room left for pride.
Only necessity.
He shifted a small stone — the mark of the first squad.
"Captain Harlon."
The scarred old veteran lifted his chin.
"Aye."
"You hold the left, near the low ground. I want no advance. I want no heroics. I want a wall."
Harlon gave a harsh sound.
"They'll try to flank us."
"I know."
Garron pointed to another stone.
"That is why the second squad remains behind you, hidden among the wagons. When the mercenaries overrun themselves in haste, you close like a trap."
The red-bearded captain spoke again, sober now.
"And me?"
Garron's gaze fixed on him.
"You crave blood?"
"I crave victory."
"Then choke down your thirst until the proper hour."
He tapped the center of the map.
"Marrick will loose his dogs first. When they come…"
A pause.
"You do not retreat."
Another pause.
"You do not run."
Another.
"You do not shout."
The dripping of rain from the canvas suddenly sounded too loud.
Garron went on, his voice as steady as stone.
"You let them die upon their own impatience."
He straightened.
"When their line breaks… only then do we advance."
A murmur of grim approval passed through the tent, restrained, fearful.
Then Garron looked to Rowan.
"Rowan."
Every eye returned.
Rowan did not welcome it.
But he did not flinch.
"You ride with me. The center."
Ser Alric Fenn raised an eyebrow, as though it were some jest.
Rowan remained still.
"The center?" someone muttered.
Garron answered before Rowan could speak.
"The center is where nameless men become history… or carrion."
He let the words weigh upon them.
"I would sooner know which one he is."
Rowan only nodded.
There was no glory in it.
Only fate.
Garron drew a breath.
"Go."
The leaders began to leave, one by one.
The red-bearded captain went first, his heavy cloak swinging like a funeral shroud.
Harlon followed, murmuring prayers that seemed meant for no merciful god.
Alric Fenn passed Rowan slowly.
Too close.
His voice came low, venomous.
"I pray Edric's silver buys courage, at the least."
Rowan gave no answer.
Alric left all the same.
The canvas opened.
Cold rushed in.
And with it… the distant rumble of war.
Rowan lingered last.
Ser Garron stared out across the field beyond, like a man gazing upon his own burial.
"They come swiftly," Rowan said.
Garron did not smile.
"Mercenaries always come swiftly."
He looked at Rowan.
"And men such as you… always remain."
Rowan did not know if it was praise or sentence.
Before he could answer—
The mire vanished.
The stink of blood was replaced by cold stone, ancient incense, and the crushing silence of a home that was no longer home.
The hall was heavy as a crypt.
There was no music, no laughter, no warmth a castle should hold against the winter. Only the distant sound of wind rattling the tall windows, and the faint crackle of torches, as if even the fire feared burning too fiercely.
Maelyra stood before her father, motionless, yet far from serene. Her whole body was tense, like a blade poised to be drawn. Her fists clenched at her sides over the dark dress, nails digging into her own flesh. She did not lower her eyes. She did not beg for mercy.
Edric did not, either.
He stood rigid, with the posture of a man who spent a lifetime believing command was destiny itself. His eyes were cold, but beneath them simmered something more: a nearly personal fury, as though his daughter's disobedience had torn from him something never meant to be taken: control.
"You sent men," he said, his voice cutting the air like iron. "Without consulting me. Without my command. Without even understanding the weight of it."
Maelyra drew a deep breath, her chest rising and falling too quickly.
"I understood perfectly," she answered, her tone worse than defiance. It was conviction. "I understood they were dying out there."
Edric stepped forward.
The sound of boot on stone echoed like a strike.
"You are no lord."
"I am your daughter."
"You are a piece," he snarled, the word bitter. "A piece that should know its place."
Maelyra's eyes flamed.
"My place? In silence? In the hall, stitching while men are crushed in mud for a foolish war?"
Edric advanced another step, and for a moment Elyse moved, instinctively, as if to place her body between them.
"Edric…" she murmured.
He did not look at his wife.
"You did this out of pride," he said to Maelyra. "To prove you can act as if you were… as if you were—"
"As if I were free?" Maelyra interrupted, her voice trembling now—not with fear, but with rage. "Yes. Perhaps I did it for that, too."
The hall seemed to shrink.
Elyse finally spoke, her voice low but firm, like a hand pressed over a raw wound.
"She acted because she was desperate. Because she knew those reinforcements were all that could reach them now."
Edric turned his face slowly, like a man forced to look upon something he despised.
"All that could reach them… now," he repeated, the word now tasting like poison. "Always now. Always urgency. Always emotion."
He faced Maelyra again, and his expression hardened further.
"You sent the city guards. Men who should have been protecting our walls, our roads. You tore them from their duty because you fancied yourself a commander."
Maelyra stepped forward as well, eyes blazing.
"I did not fancy. I saved lives."
Edric laughed once, dry, humorless.
"Saved? You think you saved anything? You think war can be saved?"
He struck the table.
War pays, the echo boomed.
Maelyra stood motionless, face pale.
Then Edric spoke slowly, as if each word were carved in stone:
"When this war is ended… you will wed."
The air shifted.
Maelyra blinked.
"What?"
"You will wed whom I choose. Whomever is necessary to erase this shame."
Elyse stepped forward, alarmed.
"Edric, no—"
He raised a hand, cutting her off as if she were nothing.
His eyes fixed on his daughter.
"And if you dare defy me again… if you dare act as though your will matters more than the blood of this house…"
His voice dropped, lethal.
"I will kill you myself."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Not even the wind breathed.
Maelyra stood for a heartbeat, as though struck. Not physically. Worse: inwardly.
Then her face twisted.
Hatred.
Pure, trembling, uncontrollable hatred.
She spun sharply, shoving a chair in her path. The scrape of wood across stone was violent, almost a scream.
She strode toward the door without looking back, shoulders rigid, hands trembling.
As she passed down the corridor, her voice fell low, broken by fury:
"One day… you will swallow these words."
And she was gone.
The hall felt far too empty.
Elyse remained, breathing hard, as if she had just survived an attack.
Edric did not move.
He seemed a statue of duty and cruelty.
Elyse spoke at last, very low:
"You did not mean it."
Edric answered without looking at her.
"I said what needed saying."
"She is your daughter."
"She is a risk."
Elyse felt a chill within her.
"You are destroying your own house."
Edric finally turned his face, exhaustion buried beneath rage.
"My house will be what I command it to be."
Elyse realized then that this war was not only in the mire.
It was here, inside these walls.
In the field, the night seemed endless.
Rain fell, fine and relentless, turning the world to mud and cold.
The entire camp smelled of wet leather, soiled iron, and men who had not slept properly in days.
Rowan sat beside a weak fire, too small to warm anything but hands. Around him, his squad murmured in low voices, as if speaking aloud might summon death sooner.
A man named Tavin spat to the ground, his face streaked with mud.
"Useless war," he muttered. "Everyone knows."
Another laughed, joyless.
"Useless or not, Marrick won't leave just 'cause we think it's stupid."
"Marrick fights for pride," said a third. "We fight because someone ordered it."
Rowan stayed silent, listening.
Tavin looked to him.
"And you? What do you think, lord's funded man?"
The tone was venom.
Rowan lifted his eyes slowly.
"I think tomorrow there will be blood."
Silence fell.
One man let out a nervous laugh.
Tavin leaned closer.
"No, I mean—do you think it's worth it? You, with the ear of the high… you, chosen one."
Before Rowan could answer, another soldier cut in, harsher.
"He cannot speak his mind."
Rowan turned his face.
"How so?"
"He cannot," the man repeated. "Lord Edric placed you here. Gave you sword, name, place. You serve. You do not think."
Something tightened in Rowan's chest. Not anger. Truth.
He stared at the fire.
"To serve does not prevent feeling."
No one answered.
For feeling was too dangerous.
In the distance, a horn blew, deep and solemn, announcing movement.
Men began rising.
Conversation died.
Boots sank into the mud.
Swords were adjusted.
The whole camp seemed to hold its breath.
Rowan stood, pulling the soaked cloak over his shoulders.
It was not yet battle.
Only the waiting.
And the waiting, he knew, was where courage rotted first.
The mire was ready.
And dawn would come like a blade.