My P.O.V

  The cold seeped into my bones as I tossed and turned in my bedroll, the nightmare clinging to me like a wet cloak.

  I saw them again — my comrades from the Third Border War. Their faces pale and broken, their bodies rotting in the mud where they had fallen.

  Once, we had laughed together around campfires, drinking stolen wine, celebrating small victories in a war that gave us nothing.

  Now, they haunted me, their hollow eyes staring, mouths opening in silent accusation.

  You sent us to die, they whispered. You should have fallen with us.

  I woke gasping, drenched in sweat, the darkness around me pressing down like a weight.

  I didn't deserve to live. Perhaps I never had.

  Footsteps approached the tent. The flap was pushed aside, and the firelight outside outlined a familiar figure.

  "Commander?" Ser Rodirik asked cautiously, stepping in. His brow furrowed as he studied me. "The soldiers said they heard... commotions inside."

  I sat up slowly, wiping my face with trembling hands. "I'm fine, Ser Rodirik," I lied. My voice was hoarse.

  I reached for the waterskin at my side and took a long drink, hoping it would steady me. "How are the men?"

  Rodirik hesitated, then answered grimly. "Worn thin, my lord. Last night’s raiders unsettled them. Many haven’t fought the Sami before... and those who have know better than to sleep soundly."

  I nodded slowly. "I remember my first fight against the Sami berserkers," I muttered, more to myself than to him. "We thought them just another savage horde. Then we watched them tear through our ranks like wolves among sheep. That fear never really leaves you."

  Rodirik shifted uncomfortably. "They've only faced scattered raiders so far. If they meet the real Sami soldiers..." He trailed off, grimacing.

  "They will." I set down the waterskin. "And they’ll have to stand their ground when the time comes."

  Rodirik straightened, returning to his report. "I’ve ordered scouts to circle the camp. No signs of enemy forces nearby yet.

  I also dispatched foragers — our supplies are running low, dangerously so. There's a village about a day's march from here. If fortune favors us, we might find grain, maybe even horses."

  I frowned. "What of our supply lines from Divina? Shouldn't the wagons have caught up by now?"

  Rodirik shook his head. "We’re moving too fast, Commander.

  The wagons are slow and the roads are getting worse — the cold turns the dirt to thick mud. If we wait for them, we lose precious days."

  I sighed heavily. Every decision was a gamble now.

  "Understood. First light tomorrow, I want you and Varus in my tent. We’ll need to plan our next moves carefully."

  Rodirik gave a respectful nod. "Of course, Lord Commander. Rest while you can."

  He turned and left, the tent flap falling closed behind him.

  I was alone again, with nothing but the crackle of the campfires and the howl of the distant wind.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, though sleep was a stranger to me now.

  My mind wandered — to Aria. Her gentle laughter, her fierce spirit.

  Was she safe in Divina?

  And Leo... even after everything between us, even after his endless disdain, part of me still wished him well.

  The world was cruel enough without adding brotherly hatred to the tally of sins.

  I clenched my fists beneath the blanket, forcing myself to breathe slowly.

  Tomorrow would come too soon.

  And with it, blood.

  Morning came quickly, the harsh bite of the cold air creeping through the seams of my tent. I had barely slept, my mind tangled in the nightmares that plagued me. The faces of the men I had lost in the Third Border War, their decaying bodies forever etched in my thoughts, wouldn’t leave me alone. I had been the one to send them to their deaths. I had failed them. And deep down, I felt I didn’t deserve to live.

  Ser Rodirik and Varus were already at my tent, ready for the council we had planned. The weight of responsibility hung heavy over me, but I couldn’t let it show.

  Ser Rodirik broke the silence first, his tone professional but tinged with concern. "We are marching at a steady pace, Commander, but some of the men are growing uneasy. Fear is starting to spread through the ranks. The thought of facing those Sami berserkers again is wearing on them."

  Varus, as always, was more direct. "It’s not just fear of the Sami, Commander. The men are weary. They've been marching for weeks, and with every passing day, the road ahead seems longer. Their morale is fragile."

  I nodded, taking in their words. The Sami raids were only the beginning of our troubles. The Southern Region was still far off, and we were already seeing the cracks in the cohesion of our men. They needed something to rally behind, but I didn’t have an easy solution to offer.

  Rodirik continued, his brow furrowed. "And the supplies, Commander. The wagons are falling behind. We can’t wait for them. We’ll be a sitting target if we don’t find a solution soon."

  I stood in silence for a moment, weighing my options. The thought of losing control of the situation gnawed at me, but there was little time for doubt. The march had to continue.

  Then, something clicked in my mind. A distant memory, a flicker of hope. "There’s a village not far from here," I said, breaking the silence. "It’s not much, but I know its chief. Lord Darin. I’ve known him since the Third Border War. He owes me a favor."

  Rodirik raised an eyebrow, his tone questioning. "A village, Commander? Are we truly in a position to stop and seek favors?"

  I looked away for a moment, my thoughts drifting. The village wasn’t just a strategic stop—it was a place I’d visited before, one that held memories of better times. The ale there, brewed in barrels that only the villagers knew how to make, had once been the center of our brief moments of peace. It had been a refuge during the war, a place where Eadric, Hector, and I had shared laughter and camaraderie, far from the bloodshed.

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  But those days were long gone. The men I had once shared that ale with—my comrades—were now dead. I had sent them to their graves.

  "That village," I continued, my voice quieter now, "It’s where we once found solace. Eadric, Hector, and I—those days were some of the best of my life. I won’t forget them. I think Darin can help us with supplies. He owes me. We’ll stop there."

  Rodirik considered this for a moment, his face unreadable. "Understood, Commander. If you believe it’s worth the risk, we will proceed."

  "Good," I said, standing straighter. "We march there. We can't afford to wait. Afterward, we push on to Mandeville, no more delays."

  Rodirik nodded and turned to leave, ready to relay the orders. I watched him go, then turned my gaze back to Varus. The air in the tent grew heavier as I gathered my thoughts.

  Varus hesitated before speaking. "Lord Commander, may I ask you something... personal?"

  I raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Speak."

  He met my gaze steadily, though there was a certain unease in his eyes. "Have you ever tried to learn more about your mother? To find her, or understand why she left?"

  The question hung in the air, thick with unspoken emotions. I wasn’t prepared for it. My mother. A subject I had long buried.

  I froze. The question hit harder than I’d expected, stirring memories I had long tried to bury.

  Why should I search for someone who had abandoned me? Someone who had left me to fend for myself in a world full of pain?

  I stiffened, the memory of her abandonment resurfacing. "What’s the point?" I asked, my voice flat. "She left. She didn’t want me. Whatever the reason, she made her choice. I don’t need to know more."

  Varus didn’t press, though his eyes lingered on me with quiet understanding. He nodded slowly. "I see, Commander. If you ever change your mind, I know people who can help. It’s just a thought."

  I shook my head, trying to brush the thoughts away. "No, Varus. I don’t need to dig up the past. There’s no point."

  For a long moment, the only sound in the tent was the wind outside, howling softly. Then Varus spoke again, his tone more serious now.

  But then, his voice lowered again, more urgent this time. "There is one more thing, though. It’s about what I told you before, back at Divina. There’s someone in our ranks who’s been having secret conversations with Duke Eadric. I’ve had spies keeping watch. Last night, one of our riders left the camp in a hurry — just as he has done before. It looks like he’s sending letters, but to whom... and why? That’s the question."

  The blood in my veins froze. My hand instinctively reached for the hilt of my sword, though I made no move to draw it. "Find out who it is, Varus. We can’t afford any more betrayals. If someone is plotting against us... I need to know."

  "I’ll get to the bottom of it, Lord Commander," Varus said. His voice was low, determined. "I won’t let this slide."

  I nodded once, my mind already spinning with the implications. As Varus left, I stood in the tent alone, my thoughts a storm. The road to Mandeville was long and fraught with dangers, both seen and unseen. I had lost too much already, and I couldn’t afford to lose more. Whatever this conspiracy was, I would put an end to it before it could do any more harm.

  The cold air bit into our faces like knives as we pressed forward through the churned, muddy road. Winter was stirring — the ground was soft and treacherous, sucking at boots and hooves alike. Horses strained, snorting heavily, some nearly pulling up lame as the thick mud dragged them down. Every mile felt like two.

  The column stretched long and weary behind me. I could see it: cloaks pulled tight, men trudging forward with heads bowed, the occasional cough splitting the silence. Supplies were running dangerously low. Bread was rationed into slivers, and some men chewed leather just to trick their stomachs.

  A shout ahead caught my ear.

  An old man, pressed into service, had collapsed face-first into the mud. His spear slipped from his grasp, and his frail body trembled from exhaustion. A young man — likely his son — knelt beside him, trying desperately to lift him.

  "Stand up, Father, please," the boy urged, voice breaking. "We must keep moving!"

  I urged my horse forward through the muck and dismounted. My boots sank halfway into the ground as I approached.

  "Here," I said, my voice low but firm. I knelt beside the old man, pulling a waterskin from my belt. "Drink this, Ser."

  The old man barely had the strength to sip. His skin was pale as snow, his hands trembling like leaves in the wind.

  Without a second thought, I lifted him gently and set him atop my horse. The boy looked at me, his eyes wide with gratitude and fear.

  "Take him," I said to the boy. "Ride until we reach the village. Stay close to the center of the column. You'll find less jostling there."

  The boy's lip quivered. "Thank you, Lord Commander."

  I simply nodded. "Go. The march must not stop."

  The boy took the reins, guiding the horse carefully as he led his father forward. I watched them for a moment before turning back to Varus, who stood silently nearby, mud splashed up to his knees.

  "He is too old to be a soldier," Varus muttered, his voice low with something between pity and disgust.

  "Indeed," I agreed grimly, brushing mud from my gloves. "But he serves House Stiedry, not me. It's his choice. Or perhaps he had no choice at all."

  Varus exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. "If this keeps up, we'll lose more to exhaustion and sickness than the enemy."

  As we continued our march, I could hear small snippets of conversation from the ranks:

  "Another day of this and my boots will rot right off me feet," one soldier grumbled to his companion.

  "You think that's bad?" another said. "I saw a lad lose his boot to the mud back there. Barefoot now. Poor bastard's toes are black."

  Further ahead, a pair of men argued about whether they'd find shelter or just more frozen hell in the next stretch.

  "I swear, if the village ain't real, I'm deserting," one man hissed. "I've had enough of this cursed march."

  "Desert and they'll hang you," his comrade replied grimly. "Better to freeze with honor than dangle without it."

  The mood was grim but familiar. I knew this well. Armies did not just die from swords and arrows — they died from cold, hunger, despair.

  A sudden gust of freezing wind whipped my cloak back. I pulled it tighter and marched onward. Ahead lay the village I remembered — a place that had once been a haven for us in the Border War. Ale, laughter, and the comfort of life before death stalked our every move.

  Now, it was survival alone that drove us.

  And the road ahead promised no mercy.

  After what felt like an endless night of marching through mud and biting cold, the faint lights of the village finally came into view, flickering like distant stars against the blackened sky. Relief rippled through the ranks — men quickened their pace, some stumbling as exhaustion fought their will to reach warmth.

  And then the memories flooded back.

  From afar, I saw him — Lord Darin. Even now, at his age, he stood tall and proud, wrapped in a thick cloak, his silver hair fluttering in the wind. A broad smile broke across his weathered face as he hobbled toward us with surprising energy.

  "Alaric!" he called out, arms wide. Before I could even dismount properly, he pulled me into a firm embrace, the kind a grandfather might give a long-lost grandson. "Gods above, you've grown!"

  I embraced him back, feeling a knot I hadn't realized I carried loosen in my chest.

  "I apologize for the sudden arrival," I said as we broke apart, my voice low, weary. "We are desperate for aid."

  "Nonsense!" Darin said, patting my shoulder. "You are family here. Come, let your men rest — we will accommodate all of you."

  As if hearing his words, the villagers began emerging from their homes — men, women, even children — carrying torches, blankets, and steaming pots. Smiles, cheers, and claps on the back greeted my soldiers. Some of the older villagers I recognized; others must have been children during the war. They welcomed us warmly, like kin returning from distant lands.

  "Commander Alaric!" a young boy shouted, waving excitedly.

  I managed a tired smile and ruffled the boy's hair as I passed. The soldiers, too, basked in the rare warmth of true hospitality. They gathered around hastily built campfires, some collapsing by the flames, others savoring the mugs of warm water and simple bread handed to them.

  I took a sip of warm water myself, feeling the life return slowly to my frozen limbs.

  "You have truly grown, Alaric," Darin said again, his eyes gleaming with pride — and something else. Sadness, perhaps.

  "The war made me a man," I replied, my voice hollow.

  "Indeed..." He hesitated, weighing his next words carefully. "It saddens me to hear that Eadric now raises his banners against the crown."

  I nodded grimly. "I have no choice but to protect it. Even though Eadric is my friend... I have a duty — to the crown, and to my father."

  Darin's expression grew heavy, but he only nodded. "A hard burden for a good man to bear."

  He chuckled after a beat, trying to lift the gloom. "Still, word travels fast even to a place like ours. I heard of your victory at Talbeck. A mighty feat!"

  I shrugged, weary. "I do not know if it was a triumph. I buried too many good men to call it that."

  "Ahh, same old Alaric," Darin laughed warmly, clapping me on the back. "Still carrying the weight of every soul."

  From behind him, another familiar figure emerged. I knew that long, auburn hair anywhere — Emma, Lord Darin's granddaughter. She had grown as well, though she carried herself with the same fierce spirit I remembered. Her brown eyes met mine, and for a moment, the years seemed to peel away.

  "Hello, Alaric," Emma said, smiling — a real, honest smile. "You've changed. Taller, broader... but still the same stubborn boy who used to lose sparring matches against me."

  "Emma," I said with genuine warmth, "it’s good to see you again. You haven't changed at all — still ready to insult me within the first breath."

  She laughed, a sound that carried a strange comfort to it. "The village is happy to see you again. No one here has forgotten the man who saved us from the Sami raiders six years ago."

  I glanced around at the smiling faces, the old and the young alike, and a small part of the hardened shell I had built over the years cracked slightly.

  "Speaking of the Sami..." I said, turning to Lord Darin, "Have there been any raids here recently?"

  Lord Darin shook his head, the firelight flickering against his face. "No. They've stayed away. I think they remember the day you humiliated them. Your name still carries weight here, my boy."

  "Perhaps," I said, shifting uncomfortably. "It was a small skirmish, nothing more."

  "Small to you," Darin said, "but not to the men and women who lived because of you."

  He placed a hand on my shoulder again. "You must be weary beyond measure. Rest now, Alaric. Tomorrow we can speak of what you need, and how we can help you."

  I bowed my head slightly. "Thank you, Lord Darin. Truly."

  "Bah! Call me Darin, as you always did!" he chuckled heartily. "It's good to see you home, my boy."

  "Indeed," Emma said, her smile softer now. "Welcome back, Alaric."

  For the first time in what felt like years, I allowed myself a small, true smile.

  Maybe, just for tonight, I could pretend the world wasn't crumbling around me.