Ser Alira strode through the torch-lit corridors of the barracks toward the small chamber reserved for officers. Her boots echoed on the stone. The weight of the day clung to her like damp armor.
She pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, a young woman in simple linen tunic and leather belt rose quickly from a stool. Conny—barely eighteen, dark hair tied back, eyes bright and watchful—bowed her head.
"Ser Alira. Welcome back."
Alira set her helm on the wooden rack with a soft clank. "Report."
Conny straightened. "Patrols returned without incident. Two minor skirmishes on the northern ridge—Dormanian scouts, driven off. No casualties on our side. Supply wagons arrived an hour ago; grain and arrows distributed. The farrier is shoeing the last of the destriers now."
Alira nodded once. "Good. Anything else?"
"The quartermaster asks if you still want the extra quiver of bodkin points held for your squad."
"Tell him yes. Dismissed, Conny. Get some rest."
Conny hesitated only a second, then slipped out quietly, closing the door behind her.
Alira exhaled.
She began unbuckling the straps of her plate armor, piece by piece. Greaves first, then vambraces, breastplate, pauldrons. Each fell to the floor with a dull metallic thud. Beneath the steel she wore a fitted gambeson, sweat-darkened and clinging. She peeled that off too, revealing the lean, scarred body of someone who had trained since childhood and fought since she was seventeen.
Long blonde hair, freed from its braid, spilled down her back. Faint scars traced her ribs and left shoulder—souvenirs from four years of war.
She crossed to the small adjoining bath chamber. A copper tub already waited, steam rising from water heated by servants earlier. She stepped in, sinking slowly until the heat reached her collarbones.
Her eyes closed.
The war had started four years ago. The first Dormanian raid had come at dawn. Lagisa—her village—burned in hours. She had watched her father fall defending the mill, sword still in hand. Her mother never made it out of the house. And her little sister… ten years old then… vanished in the smoke and chaos. Sixteen now, if she still lived.
Alira had clawed her way out of that burning night with nothing but her father's longsword and a vow. She trained until her hands bled. She killed until the name "Thorned Rose" became a curse on Dormanian tongues. At twenty-one she commanded her own lance—feared, respected, untouchable.
But the ache never left.
She leaned her head back against the tub's rim. Water lapped softly.
"I'll find you, Lira," she whispered to the empty steam. "One day."
Down in the undercroft, the cold had seeped into David's bones.
He sat curled against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around himself. The straw beneath him was damp. His breath fogged in the dim torchlight that barely reached the cell.
Heavy footsteps approached.
A guard—different from the giant earlier—appeared outside the bars. He carried a wooden tray with rough bowls. He slid one through the slot at the bottom of each door without a word.
David's bowl held a hunk of stale bread and a thin, watery soup that smelled faintly of cabbage and old grease.
The other prisoners tore into theirs like wolves. Slurping. Grunting. One laughed through a mouthful.
David lifted the bread. It was hard enough to crack teeth. He dunked it in the soup anyway, took a bite.
The taste hit wrong—bitter, metallic, like the water had sat too long. His stomach twisted. He forced down another mouthful, then pushed the bowl away.
He leaned back, staring at the low stone ceiling. Cracks spiderwebbed across it. A single drop of water fell every few seconds, plinking into a shallow puddle in the corner.
"I just want to go home," he muttered.
No one answered.
The torches guttered. Shadows danced.
Exhaustion finally won. David's eyelids grew heavy. He slid sideways until his shoulder rested against the wall, head tipped back.
His breathing slowed.
Sleep took him—deep, dreamless, the only mercy the cell could offer that night.
Outside the bars, the guard collected the empty bowls and walked away, boots fading down the corridor.
The undercroft fell silent again.
Only the drip of water measured the long, endless hours until dawn.