The rain did not fall like rain.
It fell like punishment.
Thin, constant, seeping through leather, through wool, through bone. It turned the entire field into a dark marsh, where every step was labor and every breath came heavy, thick with the stench of trampled mud and rust.
The camp did not sleep.
Men do not sleep when they know they may not wake.
The fires were few, small, smothered by damp. The wood cracked weakly, spitting smoke more than warmth. Around them, soldiers huddled like beggars, hands outstretched, eyes hollow.
No one spoke loudly.
Even laughter came low, as if the world might hear.
Rowan walked slowly between the tents, his cloak soaked and clinging to his shoulders, his boots sucking mud with every step.
The sound was always the same.
Schlop.
Schlop.
Schlop.
As if the earth wished to swallow them all before Marrick ever needed to raise a sword.
He passed two boys leaning against a broken wagon, sharing a piece of hard bread.
One had a face full of pimples and a ridiculous fuzz on his chin.
"Do you think they'll really come?" the boy asked.
The other, older, laughed without humor.
"A mercenary will come even for his own mother if there's silver."
"My father used to say mercenaries don't fight… they only kill."
"Your father was wise."
The boy swallowed hard.
"I don't want to die here."
The older one looked at him for far too long.
"Then you're in the wrong place."
Rowan kept walking.
Further on, near the stacked line of shields, a group of veterans tossed knucklebones onto a scrap of cloth.
A man missing two fingers spat before he threw.
"Three."
"Shit."
"Always shit," another muttered. "Just like war."
A third, a scar cutting across his entire face, stared up at the sky.
"There'll be fog in the morning."
"How do you know?"
"Because God hates soldiers."
A few laughed.
But no one disagreed.
Rowan stopped when he heard his name.
"Hey."
He turned.
It was Tavin.
The boy who had arrived with the reinforcements from the nearest town. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, but he wore mail as if he were already a man.
His helm hung from his arm.
His face was pale.
But he smiled.
As if a smile were armor.
Tavin approached, glancing around as though expecting something grand.
"I've never been in a real battle."
"That's not something to want."
"I don't want—" he hesitated. "I mean… my father always said a man has to prove something."
Rowan stared at him.
"Prove it to whom?"
Tavin opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He had no answer.
He looked down at his own hands.
"They say Marrick has twice the men."
"He does."
"And still Ser Garron thinks we can hold."
Rowan let out air through his nose.
"Garron thinks we can because he has no choice."
Tavin laughed nervously.
"My mother would kill me if she knew I came."
Rowan almost smiled.
Almost.
"Maybe she'd be right."
The boy fell silent for a moment.
Then he asked, quietly:
"Are you afraid?"
Rowan did not answer at once.
The wind passed, making the tent canvas shudder like living skin.
Then he said:
"I am."
Tavin looked relieved.
"Thank the gods. I thought I was the only one."
Rowan looked at him.
He wanted to say something that would save him.
There was nothing.
Only truth.
"Stay close to men who do not run."
Tavin nodded quickly.
"I'll stay close to you."
Something heavy settled in Rowan's chest.
"No."
The boy blinked.
"No?"
"Stay close to a shield."
Rowan tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"I am not a shield."
Tavin opened his mouth to reply—
But a voice cut through the camp.
"LINE!"
A shout that was not panic.
It was command.
"LINE! EVERYONE TO THE LINE!"
The sound spread like fire.
Men rose.
Bones were abandoned.
Bread fell into the mud.
Helms were shoved on in haste.
Straps tightened with trembling fingers.
Rowan turned.
Ser Garron sat mounted, unmoving, like a statue carved from war.
Rain streamed down his helm.
The horse whinnied low, smelling what was coming.
"It's not an attack," someone murmured. "It's still dark."
Garron raised his hand.
The camp fell silent.
Even the wind seemed to listen.
Then he said:
"They're here."
A murmur rippled through the men.
"How…?"
Garron pointed.
And Rowan saw.
On the horizon.
No torches.
No screams.
Only shadow.
A mass too dark to be mist.
The entire field seemed to hold its breath.
Tavin stood beside Rowan, face white.
"I don't see anything."
Rowan did.
He saw movement.
He saw discipline.
Mercenaries did not come running.
They came like a blade.
Garron spoke again, low, deadly.
"Remember what I told you."
No one answered.
Because no one had saliva left.
"They will test you."
His gaze swept the line.
"And you will hold."
The first sound was not a scream.
It was a horse.
A sharp whinny, split by pain.
A spear burst from the fog as if the world itself had spat iron.
The animal fell, taking two men with it.
The impact sent mud spraying like black blood.
Then came the scream.
Not of courage.
Of terror.
"THEY'RE COMING!"
The line formed in desperation.
Shields slammed together.
Wood against wood.
Breath against the end.
Rowan drew his sword.
The steel felt too heavy.
The entire world was noise now.
Metal.
Footsteps.
Rain.
A man stumbled and vanished into the mud, swallowed like a stone in a bog.
Tavin was there.
Too close.
"Rowan—!"
An arrow.
A small sound.
Almost nothing.
Then blood burst.
Tavin stopped.
His eyes widened as if he'd seen something beautiful.
His mouth opened.
No words came.
The arrow was in his throat.
He fell to his knees.
Hands trying to hold the impossible.
Blood poured hot through his fingers.
Rowan caught him instinctively.
"No— no—"
Tavin tried to breathe.
The sound was horrible.
A bubbling.
A drowning inside himself.
He looked at Rowan.
In his eyes was surprise.
As if he were asking:
"Is this it?"
Rowan gripped him tighter.
As if strength could stop death.
But war does not respect strength.
Tavin trembled.
And then…
Stopped.
Rowan remained there a heartbeat too long.
Feeling the dead weight.
Feeling the blood.
Feeling the world end and continue at the same time.
Ser Garron screamed somewhere in the distance:
"HOLD!"
Another shout:
"THE LINE IS BREAKING!"
Rowan lifted his head.
And saw.
The center was giving way.
Men retreating.
Shields opening.
The mercenary mass pouring through like water through a crack.
Hell was inside.
And Rowan…
Rowan was in the middle of it.