The stink of iron and burnt salt clung to the canvas like a curse.
Ronan sat on an overturned crate with his back to a supply wagon, boots planted in mud churned black by blood and rain. The camp's lanterns swung on their hooks, casting restless circles of light across bedrolls, bandage heaps, and bodies that didn't move.
They'd put the dead in a line.
Not neat—nothing about this was neat—but in a line all the same, cloaks pulled up to chins, hands folded because someone needed to pretend there was still order left in the world. A third of the raid. Ronan's eyes kept counting without permission: one, two, three—stop. He forced his gaze away and it slid right back like a blade finding a gap in armor.
There were sounds you didn't hear during the fighting.
Not the clash and shout, not the roar of beasts or the crackle of spells. The after-sounds.
The wet cough of a man breathing through punctured lung.
The thin, childlike whimper of a veteran who'd finally run out of stubbornness.
The steady, too-steady murmurs of Civic healers reciting prayers because if they stopped talking, they might start screaming.
A young healer—barely past sixteen, hair braided tight, hands already stained red—moved from one patient to the next with eyes wide and hollow. She pressed a glowing palm to a shredded thigh, swallowed bile, and whispered, "Hold. Hold, please hold."
The glow flickered.
Ronan watched her hands tremble and felt something cold settle in his chest. Not fear. Not grief. The other thing. The thing that came after you'd watched enough people die to stop being surprised by it.
His knuckles were raw where leather gloves had torn. A shallow cut split his right palm. He'd wrapped it himself and it bled anyway, stubborn as a bad memory.
Across the camp, in the brightest pool of lantern light, the loot lay piled like an altar.
Dungeon cores—fist-sized stones pulsing a dull inner sheen.
Chitin plates stacked like roof shingles.
Sacks of coin that had been wet when they'd been shoved into packs and were now drying into hard lumps.
And one larger chest, iron-bound, with a king's seal burned into the waxed rope—meaning someone had decided the crown already owned what was inside.
Lucien Harrow stood over it like a man admiring a trophy.
His armor was cleaner than it had any right to be. Polished plates, gold trim, a crimson sash that hadn't seen the inside of a tunnel. He kept his helmet tucked under one arm so everyone could see his face—the straight nose, the sharp jaw, the expression that belonged in a portrait more than in a mud-caked camp full of dying people.
He spoke loudly enough that half the camp heard him whether they wanted to or not.
"Do you know what this means?" Lucien said, spreading his hands over the haul. "This—this is proof. The Surge was contained. The core is intact. If I submit this to the king's quartermaster myself, the record will show it. It'll be on parchment. A commendation. An achievement noted by the War Court and the crown both."
He laughed, bright and pleased with himself.
"General," he added, tasting the word like wine. "That's the path, you see. You distinguish yourself. You bring results. The court notices. The king notices. In ten years, you'll all say you stood with Lucien Harrow when the March turned."
Someone near him—one of his personal guards—chuckled obligingly.
Ronan's jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
He didn't move. Moving meant walking over there. Walking over there meant speaking. Speaking meant losing control.
A hand landed on Ronan's shoulder.
"Don't," Brann muttered, voice rough with exhaustion.
Brann was a broad-shouldered shieldbearer, the kind who looked carved out of oak and then set on fire. Right now, he looked like someone had tried to split that oak with an axe. His left arm was strapped tight to his chest, the shoulder swollen. His beard was matted with dried blood that wasn't all his.
Ronan glanced up at him. "I wasn't going to."
"You were," Brann said flatly. "I saw it in your eyes."
Ronan exhaled through his nose. The air tasted like smoke and rot. "Fine."
Brann lowered himself with a hiss onto the crate beside him, careful of his shoulder. "He's celebrating the loot like it's a festival."
"He's celebrating himself," Ronan corrected.
On Ronan's other side, Tamsin sat cross-legged, back against a tent pole, arrows laid out in a neat row as she checked them for warping. Her hands were steady, but there was a faint tremor in her left wrist from where an acid-spit had grazed her bracer. She didn't look up when she spoke.
"One third dead," she said. "And he's talking about parchment."
A soft laugh came from Pike, who lay on his stomach nearby, face half buried in his bedroll. Pike was small and fast—scout's build—usually full of chatter. Tonight his voice came out dull, like someone had packed cotton in his mouth.
"Maybe parchment is all he bleeds," Pike said.
Ysolde, their healer, stepped into the lantern light with a satchel slung across her body. Her robe was torn at the hem and dark with blood. There was a bruise blooming purple along her cheekbone where a stone had clipped her. She set down her satchel and started pulling out fresh bandages, herb paste, and a small vial of amber liquid.
"Hold still," she told Ronan without preamble.
"I'm fine."
"You're breathing," Ysolde said, like that was the only definition of fine she trusted. "Which means you're not dead. That is not the same thing."
Ronan didn't argue. He offered his wrapped hand.
She peeled back the cloth and clicked her tongue. "You tied this like a sailor."
"I tied it like someone who needed his hand to keep working."
"Next time, let me do it."
"There won't be a next time," he said before he could stop himself.
Ysolde froze. Tamsin's eyes flicked up. Brann went still, like even his pain paused to listen.
Ronan stared at his own palm, watched blood bead up again as Ysolde dabbed it away. The words hung in the air between them, heavier than any loot chest.
Pike rolled his face toward them, one eye opening. "You mean next time with Lucien," he said carefully.
Ronan's mouth twisted. "That too."
A gust of wind shoved at the tents, snapping canvas. Somewhere out beyond the lantern glow, the dungeon mouth yawned black against the cliff—sealed for now, ward-stones planted in a ring. Sealed because they'd paid for it in bodies.
Ronan looked toward it, remembering flashes: slick stone underfoot, the stink of brine and old fish, the way the tunnels narrowed until breath felt like a privilege. He remembered the Surge pocket—how the air had gone wrong, how torches had burned blue, how the walls had pulsed like living flesh.
He remembered Lucien's voice barking orders from the front.
"Push through! Don't slow! We'll lose the advantage!"
And Ronan, behind him, seeing the signs two heartbeats before everyone else: the tremor in the floor, the shiver in the ward-stones, the way the scouts' candles bent as if pulled by an unseen tide.
He'd shouted a warning. He'd thrown flares. He'd dragged his team into an alcove he'd marked on his map three days earlier—because he always mapped. Because he always planned. Because instincts kept you alive, but preparation kept your friends alive.
Lucien hadn't listened.
Lucien never listened.
Ysolde finished cleaning the cut and smeared herb paste across Ronan's palm. It burned like nettles. She wrapped it tight, then leaned closer, lowering her voice.
"You're not the one who should be apologizing," she said.
Ronan blinked. "I wasn't."
"I know." Her gaze flicked toward the line of cloaked bodies. "But you'll do it anyway, in your head."
He didn't answer. That was answer enough.
Brann spat into the mud. "He'll go back to Greyhaven and tell it like he saved the March."
"He'll tell it like the dead were the price of his glory," Tamsin said, tone flat as stone.
Ronan's eyes drifted again to Lucien Harrow, who was now directing two exhausted porters to lift the iron chest.
"Careful," Lucien said, as if the chest might bruise. "That seal is the king's. Don't scuff it. I want it intact when we present it."
One of the porters—face smeared with ash—stumbled, knees buckling. The chest dipped. A groan of strain. The man's hands shook.
Lucien's expression sharpened with irritation. "For the love of—if you can't carry it, step aside. There are others who can."
The porter's eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week and might not sleep again.
Ronan stood up.
Brann's hand shot out, clamping on Ronan's forearm with his good hand. "Ronan."
Ronan didn't yank away, but his muscles locked. "He's going to get someone killed after the raid."
Pike made a soft sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't carried so much bitterness. "After's his specialty."
Ronan forced himself to unclench his fist. The herb paste on his palm cracked.
"Tomorrow," he said instead, voice low. "We get back. I report to the guild master."
Tamsin's brows lifted. "You think the guild master will listen? Lucien's got court friends."
"I don't need the guild master to like me," Ronan replied. "I need him to know the truth."
Brann grunted. "And if the truth costs the guild contracts with the crown?"
Ronan's gaze stayed on Lucien. "Then the guild's already rotten."
Silence fell. Not comfortable. Not respectful. Just heavy.
Ysolde sat back on her heels, wiping blood from her fingers with a rag that used to be white. "What are you going to say?" she asked quietly.
Ronan's voice came out steady, but it took work.
"That Lucien violated protocol in a Surge environment. That he ignored scout signs. That he pushed the line past fallback points to chase a core." Ronan's jaw tightened again. "And that if I hadn't pulled my squad out when I did, you'd be wrapping our bodies in cloaks right now."
Tamsin looked down at her arrows. "We all know it."
"Knowing and recording are different," Ronan said. "He wants parchment? Fine. I'll give him parchment. The kind that stains."
Pike exhaled. "That's going to make him hate you."
Ronan's mouth twisted into something that wasn't a smile. "He already does. He just hides it behind speeches."
A shout rose from the far side of the camp—someone calling for more bandages, more water. Then another shout, sharper, panic-laced. A healer ran, skirts hitched up, hands glowing.
Ronan's body reacted before thought. He took one step, then stopped when he realized it wasn't his team. It was another squad—War Court bruisers—one of them convulsing as poison worked through his veins.
Ronan watched, helpless, as the healer slammed both palms onto the man's chest, glow flaring. The convulsions slowed. The healer sagged, shoulders shaking with effort.
Ronan's stomach turned.
He'd seen too much of this. Too many nights where the campfire was surrounded by moans instead of laughter. Too many mornings where the roll call took longer because someone had to find the right cloak.
He lowered himself back onto the crate.
His knee popped when he bent it.
Not loud. Just enough to make him wince.
Brann noticed. Of course he did. Brann noticed everything that mattered. "Your knee again?"
Ronan shrugged. "It's fine."
Ysolde snorted. "That word should be outlawed."
Ronan leaned back against the wagon, eyes half-lidded. The world swam with exhaustion. His bones felt heavy, like someone had poured lead into his marrow. The old scars on his ribs ached where the weather changed. His right shoulder—always his right shoulder—throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He used to recover faster.
At twenty-five, he'd sleep for four hours on cold stone and wake up ready to cut the world in half.
At thirty-five, he slept and woke up still tired.
He'd told himself it was temporary. A bad season. A string of hard raids. The March was unstable. The gates were worse. The kingdom was stretched thin. Everyone was tired.
But the truth sat in his joints and refused to move.
He was wearing out.
Tamsin finished checking her arrows and started fletching a new one with careful fingers. "You saved us today," she said without looking up.
Ronan's eyes stayed on the firelight. "I did my job."
"You saved us anyway," she insisted.
Pike rolled onto his side, grimacing at bruised ribs. "The way you yelled when the air went wrong—" He shook his head. "I didn't even know air could go wrong. You did."
Ronan swallowed. He remembered that moment too well. The way the tunnels had pressed in. The way the torch flame had bent sideways. The way his skin had crawled.
Instinct, yes. But instinct earned with blood.
He'd learned to read a dungeon the way sailors read storms. The way some men could smell lightning before it struck.
He hated that he was proud of it.
Brann leaned his head back against the wagon. "We should drink," he said, half-joking.
"We don't have anything worth drinking," Pike murmured.
Brann's mouth twitched. "Then we drink water and pretend it's victory."
No one laughed.
Lucien Harrow's voice carried again, as if the camp was his stage.
"Make sure the core is logged," he told a scribe, gesturing grandly. "Write my name clearly. Clearly. There are men who'd try to muddy records."
Ronan's fingers flexed around the edge of the crate. He could feel the urge, hot and sharp, to walk over there and tell Lucien exactly what he thought of him. To shove him into the mud. To make him see the faces under the cloaks.
But Lucien would turn it into theater. He'd smile, apologize publicly, then punish privately. That was his kind of cruelty—clean, plausible, and always pointed away from himself.
Ronan didn't play those games. He ended them.
He let the anger cool into something harder.
"I'll file the report," Ronan said again, more to himself than to them. "And after that…"
Ysolde looked at him. "After that what?"
Ronan stared at the dungeon mouth beyond the ward ring. It sat there like a wound in the earth, patient, waiting for the next set of fools.
His voice came out quieter than the camp.
"After that, I'm done."
The words didn't feel dramatic. They felt like admitting hunger.
Brann's brows drew together. "You mean… retire?"
Ronan's laugh was short, humorless. "If the guild lets me. If the crown doesn't decide it owns me."
Tamsin finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp in the firelight. "You've been talking like this for months."
"And I've been ignoring my own bones for years," Ronan said.
Pike opened his mouth, probably to make a joke, then closed it. He didn't have one.
Ysolde's gaze softened—not pity, not even sympathy. Something like understanding. "What would you do?" she asked.
Ronan could have answered with a dozen practical plans. Leave Greyhaven. Take a security contract. Train recruits. Buy a fishing boat and let the sea take him.
Instead, an image flickered through his mind—uninvited, absurdly vivid.
A warm room.
A sturdy door.
A hearth with steady fire instead of the snapping, dying kind.
A bed that didn't smell like sweat and fear.
Food that tasted like more than survival.
He almost hated the longing it sparked.
He didn't say any of that.
"I don't know," Ronan admitted. "Something that doesn't involve counting corpses by lantern light."
Brann let out a long breath. "You've earned it."
"Have I?" Ronan asked, and the question was sharper than he meant it to be.
Tamsin's reply was immediate. "Yes."
Pike nodded, slow. "Yes."
Ysolde didn't speak. She just reached out and squeezed his wrist once—brief, firm—then pulled away like she didn't want anyone to mistake it for softness.
Ronan looked back toward Lucien Harrow.
Lucien was still talking.
Still smiling.
Still making plans that involved other people's blood.
Ronan felt something settle inside him again, but different this time. Not cold. Not numb.
Decision.
He stood, joints protesting. His team shifted, watching him.
"I'm going to sleep," Ronan said. "We move at first light. Keep your packs ready. Keep your wounds clean. If anyone starts fevering, wake Ysolde."
Ysolde snorted. "As if I'll be asleep."
Ronan gave her a look that was almost a smile. "Try."
He walked toward his tent, passing lantern-lit suffering, passing the loot pile, passing Lucien Harrow without turning his head.
Lucien didn't notice. Or pretended not to.
Inside his tent, the air was stale and warm from shared breath. Ronan unbuckled his sword belt, set the blade down with care. Habit. Respect. He peeled off his gloves and stared at his hands.
They looked older than they should.
Calluses on calluses. Old scars. New cuts. Nails cracked from rock and steel. A slight shake in his fingers when he held them too still.
He lay down on his bedroll. The ground was hard. His knee throbbed. His shoulder pulsed. His ribs ached like a warning.
Outside, the campfire crackled. A man screamed once, then cut off as someone shoved a cloth in his mouth.
Ronan stared into the darkness and listened to the wind worrying at the tents.
Tomorrow they would march back to Greyhaven with their wounded and their dead and their loot, and Lucien Harrow would stride at the front like a hero in a story that hadn't bothered to include the cost.
Ronan closed his eyes.
He pictured parchment.
Not the king's commendation.
His report.
And beyond it—something quieter. Something warmer. Something that didn't smell like iron.
His body sank into exhaustion like a stone into deep water.
If he was lucky, sleep would take him fast.
If he wasn't, he'd lie awake counting again.
One, two, three—stop.
Tomorrow, he told himself, as the darkness finally blurred at the edges.
Tomorrow, I start ending this.