The front never slept.
Men moved like ghosts between canvas and timber, shoulders hunched, boots sinking into mud that had not dried in months. Orders barked. Steel clanged. Somewhere deeper in camp, a man screamed, not loudly, not for long. The rain had stopped, but the ground still remembered it. The roads were churned into a brown mire slick as blood.
A young girl darted between soldiers' legs, weaving through the press of bodies with the reckless confidence of someone too small to be noticed and too desperate to care. She struck knees and hips without apology. A curse followed her. Then another.
Her foot found a hollow in the mud. She slipped. The earth rushed up to meet her. And stopped. She hung suspended by the back of her shirt, boots kicking inches above the sludge. A hand held her there. Steady. Effortless.
She twisted and looked up into deep red eyes set in a face worn thin by years that had not been kind. The stranger's expression was unreadable, though there was a weight behind his gaze, something ancient and measuring. He set her upright as though placing fragile glass upon a shelf.
"Thanks, mister," she said breathlessly. "That was a close one." She was already gone before he could answer, swallowed by canvas and bodies. The man exhaled through his nose, the sound closer to smoke than breath. Mud streaked his cheek. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his long black-gray military coat, the fabric stiff with rain and old ash.
Clumsy, he thought, though whether of her or himself, even he was not sure. He placed a cigarette between his teeth. A single finger rose. Flame bloomed at its tip, small, controlled, obedient. It did not flicker in the wind.
"Didn't think you the charitable sort, Flamewarden." The voice came from behind him, smooth as polished metal. He turned. The crowd parted without realizing why.
The newcomer was tall, almost luminous despite the gray sky overhead. His eyes were solid gold, and unblinking, catching what little light the day offered. Hair of the same molten shade fell in loose waves to his jaw. His coat was military cut like the other's, but burnished yellow, the color of gold trapped in cloth.
"Then you'd be correct, Ossyrix," the red-eyed man replied. His voice was low and steady, as though raised voices were beneath him. "But the child is not part of this war."
Their hands clasped in greeting. It was a soldier's grip, firm and unyielding, but there was something else beneath it. A pressure. A test. Old as mountains. Ossyrix leaned his elbow casually on the other's shoulder, eyes tracking the girl as she disappeared into the mass of bodies.
"You know she lifted two silver from you."
A pause.
"Did she?" Ulthraxis slipped a hand into his coat, patting his pockets with mild curiosity rather than alarm.
Ossyrix smirked. "Right pocket. You've grown soft since I left. Couldn't even stop a street rat." Ulthraxis found the absence. Considered it.
"Perhaps she needs it more than I do," he said at last. "Primes know they drown us in coin to keep us burning."
Ossyrix gave a quiet huff of laughter. "Spoken like a martyr."
"Hardly."
They fell into step toward the command sector. Soldiers moved aside instinctively. No one met their eyes for long. Even in human skin, something about them pressed outward, heat and pressure and the promise of violence held in check.
"Stormdrake Phylacthyr called for me," Ossyrix said, rolling his shoulders. "If they're summoning both of us, it won't be routine. Think we're finally pushing north? Or maybe they want a stealth operation." He laughed at that, sharp and bright. "Imagine it. Us. Subtle."
Ulthraxis gave a faint smile, though his mind was elsewhere. Both of us. That was not common. The enemy had held the river for three years. The capital had grown quieter with each passing season. Supplies were thinner. Spies had been found hanging from the eastern watchtower last week. And Phylacthyr did not summon weapons unless she intended to use them.
A hundred possibilities flickered through Ulthraxis' thoughts like sparks in dry brush. Had the line broken? Had something ancient stirred beyond it? They approached the command tent, larger than the rest, reinforced with timber beams and warding sigils etched into iron stakes. The air around it felt heavier. Ulthraxis took a slow drag from his cigarette. The ember flared brighter than it should have.
War had a scent. Rot. Iron. Wet ash. And beneath it all, anticipation. Something was about to burn.