Clyde glanced down at him. “Granted.”
“I’ve never ridden under a Commander who looks at the map like it might bite,” Renn said, then flushed. “I mean no disrespect, sir. Just—most men your rank don’t seem tofeelit.”
Clyde studied him a moment. “And what do you think that makes me?”
Renn swallowed. “Human, sir.”
Marreck chuckled under his breath. “Careful, boy. You’ll make him sentimental.”
Clyde shook his head but didn’t answer. He watched as Renn rode off to relay orders, the boy’s shoulders squared, proud.
He turned back to the horizon. The sky was dimming, the air growing colder, the scent of snow heavy on the wind. For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Clyde exhaled slowly, watching his breath vanish into the air.
“Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s make camp before the light goes.”
Marreck nodded. “Aye, Commander.”
The word lingered this time and Clyde didn’t correct him.
He just rode on, the valley swallowing their shadows as night began to fall.
***
By nightfall, the valley camp had settled into its rhythm—the hiss of stew pots, the crackle of wet firewood, the low hum of men’s voices trying not to sound afraid. The sky was a velvet gray, the moon nothing more than a coin lost behind cloud.
Clyde sat near one of the central fires, his cloak drawn close, the heat licking faintly at his boots. The stew in his bowl was little more than broth and root vegetables, but it was hot, and that was enough. Marreck joined him with a wineskin and a grin that had thawed back into place over the course of the evening.
“Saints, I swear the cook hates us,” Marreck muttered, dropping onto the overturned crate beside him. “You could shoe a horse with this bread.”
Clyde tore a piece in half. “Maybe that’s the plan. Save on supplies.”
“Don’t give them ideas.” Marreck took a long drink and passed the wineskin over. “You ever notice how it’s always the same—first night in a new camp, the men try to pretend they’re home. Then by the third night, they remember they aren’t.”
Clyde took a drink before answering. The wine was sharp, sour, but it warmed him as it went down. “That’s when the singing starts.”
Marreck snorted. “Gods help us.”
For a time they ate in silence. The firelight cast long shadows across the mud, turning every movement golden at the edges. Somewhere down the row of tents, a lute began to play—soft, uncertain notes that faltered before finding their rhythm. Laughter followed.
Then voices. Familiar ones.
“Renn,” Marreck murmured, nodding toward the next fire where a cluster of younger knights sat huddled together, bowls in hand.
Clyde didn’t mean to listen. But sound carried easily in the cold, and the boy’s voice was unmistakable; bright with youth, threaded with earnestness.
“…you didn’t see him in the ring,” Renn was saying. “He barely even tried. It’s like he knew what I’d do before I did it. Like he’d already fought me a hundred times in his head.”
A ripple of laughter.
“So he beat you bloody, then?” someone teased.
Renn’s tone was quick in reply, almost defensive. “He could have, but he didn’t. He doesn’t waste effort. Even when he wins, he looks… calm. Like nothing touches him.”
Clyde’s hand stilled on his bowl.
“Calm?” another knight said. “That’s one word for it. I’ve seen him split a man from shoulder to hip and not blink.”
“That’s not it,” Renn insisted. “It’s not coldness. It’s… it’s control. Like he’s holding the whole field in his head at once. Like he could stop any of it if he wanted to.”
