"During the War of the White Ashes… Arzyel was on the battlefield."
The captain briefly lifted his hand from his shoulder. His sleeve clung to the wound before peeling away. He looked at the blood on his fingers, then pressed them against the fabric again. Nyros waited in front of him. Behind him, Tharion stood with his arms at his sides, Thalen perched on his shoulder. Around them, the soldiers had gone still among the shards of glass.
"We'd been told reinforcements were coming along the northern road. We'd been watching it since morning."
His gaze slipped between two soldiers toward the end of the street. For a moment, he seemed to search for what to say next, his lips parted. Nyros offered no help. A scrap of paper tumbled against his boot and caught there. The captain looked down at it before continuing.
"We were still waiting when our left flank broke."
The first man to come back down the slope had lost his helmet. He ran with one hand over his mouth; blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto his breastplate. He passed the captain without stopping. Farther up, two soldiers were dragging a third by the armpits. His heels cut twin furrows behind him. The smell of burning wood drifted down with smoke thick enough to sting the eyes.
"Where's your lieutenant?"
The man kept going. Another overtook him, stumbled over a stone, and scrambled on all fours before getting back to his feet. The captain stretched an arm across the path to stop him. The soldier collided with him; a metal buckle scraped his wrist. He shoved the man back, took a shoulder to the back, and had to widen his stance to keep from falling.
"Re-form the line! Behind the stakes!"
"Horses!"
On the ridge, the smoke parted around a dark head, then another. The captain searched for his spearmen. Two were still near the stakes; a third was trying to wrench his spear free of an overturned cart. The others were already falling back. He seized the nearest by his sword belt and hauled him back to his side. The ground was beginning to tremble beneath his feet.
"Close ranks! Here, in front of me!"
A boy passed on his left. He wore their army's insignia on his sleeve, almost hidden beneath the mud. A retreating man bumped into him without looking; the child caught himself with one hand on the ground, straightened, and continued toward the slope. A satchel bounced against his hip. He had neither helmet nor weapon. The captain stepped after him.
"Hey! Where are you going?"
"Are they coming from up there?"
The captain glanced toward the ridge despite himself. The riders were descending now, their mounts tearing dark clods from the path. By the time he turned back, the boy had gone beyond the stakes. He reached out, too far away. The lead rider lowered his lance. The child stopped in the middle of the path, directly in his way.
"Come back!"
The horse's legs buckled. Its chest struck the ground with a heavy thud, pitching the rider over its neck. His lance spun through the air, struck the path, and bounced into the stakes. The next horse crashed onto the first. A shrill scream tore through the air. The captain stepped back to avoid a piece of wood skidding through the mud.
One rider managed to get up. He limped, one shoulder lower than the other, but drew his sword and advanced on the child. The metal of his breastplate creaked. The man stopped, looked down, and brought a hand to his chest. He dropped his weapon to seize the edge of his armor with both hands. The captain watched his fingers search for purchase as the metal kept pressing inward.
A strangled sound escaped his throat. He tried to turn, then his knees hit the ground. The boy lowered his hand. Behind the captain, someone began a question and never finished it. A spearman had backed into the stakes; he was still staring at the crumpled breastplate. The captain caught him by the elbow and turned him back toward the path.
"Eyes front."
"I didn't know who he was yet," the captain said. "I learned his name afterward."
Tharion kept his eyes on him. On his shoulder, Thalen had leaned forward slightly, his talons motionless against the fabric. Nyros no longer seemed to see the soldiers. He was watching the captain's hand, whose fingers had just curled inward, imitating Arzyel's gesture. The man noticed and spread them apart.
"Their cavalry had broken through two of our positions that morning. I was told that later, too. At the time, all I really knew was that they weren't reaching us anymore."
"Why were they so determined to take that crossing?" Tharion asked.
"Our supplies were being moved across the river, along with the wounded. They wanted the bridge."
The captain shifted his weight and grimaced. He hesitated before continuing, as though the bridge and the wounded had been easier to speak of than the reasons they had been there at all.
"The war started over the wheat-growing land along the border. After the poor harvests, convoys were seized, villages occupied… By the time we arrived, each side was burning whatever it couldn't carry away."
Nyros looked up.
"Go on."
Enemy infantry emerged behind the riders. The first men slowed at the sight of the bodies; an officer ordered them to spread out on either side of the path. Shields came together, leaving gaps for crossbows. The captain recognized the maneuver and raised his sword toward his archers. Before he could give the order, a bowstring snapped.
The bolt shattered in front of the boy's face. He turned toward the shooter, but a second projectile was already coming. It glanced off a pale surface and buried itself in the bank. The child took a step back. Behind the shields, one man reloaded while another moved into his place.
"Archers! Cover him!"
The answering volley forced the crossbowmen to duck. The boy lowered his palm, and the earth beneath the enemy's front rank sank as though under an invisible weight. One man plunged in up to his thighs. His neighbor tried to hold him and was dragged down as well. Shields clashed; a spear fell, stood upright in the mud for a moment, then tilted. The men behind them tried to pull their comrades back.
The captain heard the cries before he realized the ground had closed around them. One soldier pounded the earth with his sword pommel; another threw off his helmet to struggle more freely. On the right, several men had found a way through and were running toward the boy. He looked at them. The bank heaved upward, throwing them against one another.
Then spikes of stone pierced the mud. The captain had not seen the first emerge. He saw the next lift a shield, force it back, then drive straight through it. His standard-bearer grabbed his arm before turning away to vomit. The captain took the flagstaff from him. When he looked up, the survivors were retreating toward the ridge.
A pale light spread out in front of them. Behind it, several figures raised their arms. A mass of fire flew over the barrier and plunged toward the boy. Water rose from the wheel ruts around him; steam burst outward with a hiss that drowned out the screams. The captain shielded his face. When the cloud dispersed, the child was still standing, one sleeve blackened.
He was moving toward the light now. The allied archers waited, unable to shoot without risking hitting him. The boy pressed his palm against the barrier. A crack spread from his fingers, vanished, then reappeared higher up. Behind it, one mage stepped forward; another moved beside him. Their mouths worked without pause, and with each effort the luminous surface straightened again.
The boy kept his hand in the same place. The barrier bowed inward once more. The captain recognized the slow buckling of the breastplate, that resistance yielding little by little beneath the boy's fingers. He saw one of the mages sink to a knee, then another seize his shoulder to support him. Enemy soldiers were backing away behind them. The light whitened around the small hand. The captain ducked before he even knew why.
The blast struck his face, laden with dust and gravel. He raised an arm across his brow. Something hit the stakes hard enough to make them shudder. When he could look again, the boy was still standing on the path. Beyond the debris, a few men were crawling toward the trees; the others no longer moved.
"We found the barrier's anchors in the ground afterward. Engraved stones. I'd mistaken them for rubble."
The captain shifted his stiff leg beneath him. A young soldier behind Tharion gripped his spear with both hands, his gaze fixed on a patch of ground. Nyros noticed his white knuckles. He thought of the men who had looked at Arzyel that way, then of the boy he had left behind. He searched for his brother's face in the captain's words and found almost nothing familiar.
"Our mages said it should have stopped a full charge."
Nyros barely heard him.
How long had you been fighting? I was only gone for two years…
He saw Arzyel's smile again, a little crooked whenever he tried to hold back a laugh. During his absence, that memory alone had made some days bearable. He had imagined coming home to find him taller, impatient, perhaps angry at having been kept waiting. Now every detail of the account settled over that image: the mud, the buckling armor, the men shrinking from his hand.
What happened to your smile?
"Who sent him?"
The captain raised his head.
"What?"
"Who sent my brother onto the battlefield?"
"The orders came from high command. I wasn't responsible for—"
"A name!"
The captain flinched. Nyros had stepped forward; his boot almost touched the man's knee. Behind him, Tharion straightened, and Thalen adjusted his grip on his shoulder. A soldier shifted his spear, then froze when Nyros briefly glanced his way. When Nyros turned back to the captain, his jaw was clenched.
"We had an agreement. I accepted their infiltration mission, and they kept Arzyel away from the fighting. That was my condition."
"I didn't know…"
"They did."
Nyros passed a hand over his mouth. He remembered asking the question a second time before leaving, the answer he had received, the relief he had felt. For two years, he had watched everything: his words, his glances, the habits that might betray him. Every time he had wanted to come home, he had reminded himself that staying in position kept his brother safe.
"Two years doing what they asked," he continued. "And all that time, they were sending him…"
"We needed a mage. Our line—"
"He was eight years old!"
Nyros seized the front of his jacket and pulled him forward. The captain braced his good hand against the ground to keep from toppling, his face contorted by the pain in his shoulder. A spearpoint lowered at the edge of their vision. Tharion immediately stepped forward, one palm raised toward the soldier. The rustle of Thalen's wings broke the silence.
"Nyros."
He looked at his hand clenched in the fabric. The captain was holding his breath, trying to keep his injured shoulder back. Nyros loosened his fingers and let him go. He remained bent over him for a moment, then slowly straightened. His anger had not faded; it simply made every word harder to choose.
"Who signed the orders?"
"I don't remember the signature. The assignments came to me through a liaison officer."
Nyros stared at the man until he stopped looking to his soldiers. He wanted to shake him again, to make him understand that he could not have forgotten something so important. But to the captain, it had been one sheet of paper among many. That was precisely what made him want to scream.
"You're going to think. The seal, the officer's name, what he said. Anything you remember."
The man nodded quickly.
Nyros stepped back. Tharion was still watching him; he did not try to meet his gaze. He needed to hear the rest, even if part of him wanted to stop the captain from saying another word. He lowered his hands to his sides and waited until his fingers had unclenched.
"Go on."
That evening, the captain recognized the boy by his shoes. The mud had dried in thick crusts along their sides. He sat against a cartwheel, his legs stretched out in front of him. A few paces away, a fire gave off more smoke than heat. The men had settled on its far side, leaving the space nearest the child empty.
The captain held a mess tin in each hand. As he approached, a spoon stopped scraping behind him. The boy's eyes were closed, his head tilted against the wood. One hand rested on his thigh; the other touched the ground. Near his fingers, a small pebble rolled, stopped, then moved back the other way.
The captain slowed. Dust was drawing into a narrow circle around the hand. He looked at the boy's closed eyelids, then at that steady movement nothing seemed to be directing. When the child opened his eyes, the pebble dropped flat. The captain realized he had stopped walking.
"Is that for me?"
"Yes."
He looked down at the tins, bent, and set one on the ground. A little broth spilled over the rim. He straightened immediately. The boy looked at the meal, then at the space between them. He had to lean forward to retrieve it, one hand braced in the dust.
"Thank you."
The captain backed away and went to sit with the others. For several seconds, no one asked him anything. Then a soldier leaned toward him to ask whether the child had spoken. He shook his head. Behind them, the spoon tapped softly against the rim of the tin. Both men turned.
"He thanked you," Nyros said.
The captain lowered his eyes. Tharion looked at the space between the two men before turning his face away. On his shoulder, Thalen had gone still. Nyros felt his anger rising again, but this time he held it back. That simple word of thanks hurt more than he would have expected; he recognized his brother in it.
"Yes."
Nyros waited. The captain added nothing. He had described the breastplate, the stone spikes, the shattered barrier. For that thank-you, he had found nothing to say.
"What happened next?"
Before dawn, the captain returned to the cart. The fire had collapsed beneath a layer of ash. Someone was coughing under a blanket, and the drivers were beginning to harness the horses. The boy slept in the same spot. His empty mess tin lay beside his leg. He had been called out twice during the night, to the posts guarding the bridge. By the time he returned from the second, the captain had already heard the drivers stirring beneath their blankets. He stopped a few paces away.
"We're moving out."
At the far end of the camp, a sergeant was selecting the men who would clear the way. The boy was to march with them.
No answer. At the far end of the camp, an officer gestured for him to hurry. The captain called again, then bent down and placed a hand on the child's shoulder. His throat closed. He tried to breathe in, but no air came. The ground fell away beneath his feet, and his boot struck the cartwheel.
He tried to brace himself against it and failed. His hands flew to his neck and found nothing but his own skin. The boy watched him, eyes open, without moving. The captain tried to say his name; a strangled sound escaped him. He tugged at his jacket collar, caught hold of his insignia, and raised it between them.
The metal trembled in his hand. The child's eyes dropped to it, and the captain fell to his knees. Air rushed in, burning. He coughed, one hand in the dust, the other clamped to his throat. Near the blankets, two soldiers had sat up, but neither came closer.
"Is it time already?"
The captain lifted his head. The boy had drawn his legs toward him. He waited for an answer, his eyelids still heavy. The man nodded first, then managed to say yes. Arzyel reached for his satchel. The captain stepped back before he stood.
"He went ahead again," the captain said.
His free hand had risen to his collar. He noticed and let it fall. Nyros remained silent. Behind him, Tharion now watched the man without hiding his unease. Thalen's feathers lay tight against his body. One of the soldiers carefully brought his spear upright again.
"I was afraid of him for the rest of the war. Even when he walked past me to get water. I watched his hands."
Nyros looked down at his own. Slowly, he opened them. He understood what the captain had just described, and that made none of it easier to bear. Arzyel had woken believing he needed to defend himself; moments later, they had placed him at the head of the column, where the next attack would come. No one in this account had even considered letting him sleep.
"But in the morning, you went back for him."
The captain did not answer.
"You knew he'd only just gone back to sleep. You'd already called him out twice that night."
Nyros crouched in front of him. The man stiffened, but this time Nyros did not reach out. He studied his tired face, the dust clinging to his sweat, the mouth from which he still expected answers. He thought of the liaison officer. Of the forgotten signature. He would come back to that.
"How much time did you give him?"
"I don't know."
Nyros leaned a little closer.
"Try to remember."