Alric brushed the canvas and entered.

  All was quiet inside, save for the crackling firepots.

  The same copper-gold light now traced shadows across the girl’s back.

  She was resting on the cot covered by fur sheets, her breathing slow and measured.

  Vargo was sitting beside her on a chair he had moved.

  His posture was alert, ready to act if needed, be it against her or some intrusion from without.

  Upon seeing Alric, he stood and dipped his head, though his gaze never strayed from the entrance.

  “My Lord,” he said, voice low, “the girl is likely feigning sleep.”

  Alric turned to her.

  “Let her.” Alric replied.

  “As you wish. How did it go?”

  Alric moved behind the partition. The silk rustled faintly over his skin.

  “The same veiled threats wrapped in mock civility.”

  After a pause, he continued.

  “They will most likely depart by the end of tomorrow morning with no prior notice. They aim to reach the capital ahead of us to weave their tapestry of half-truths.”

  Vargo’s eyes darkened for a moment.

  “Will you let them?”

  “Yes,” the answer came even. “The Emperor is no fool. He knows better than to heed the whispering of brocaded vermin.”

  He emerged from the partition.

  Gone was his ceremonial garb.

  In its place was a simple linen tunic with plain trousers and boots. Everything bore the same colour: tempest grey.

  He crossed to the armor stands where a bedroll was placed and retrieved it.

  “We’ll speak of it again after they’ve gone. For now, inform thirty-eight Hekatons that the men are to be ready to depart by eighteen-hundred tomorrow evening. Two of them will remain behind to oversee the final clean-up and administrative affairs.”

  He turned and laid the bedroll beside the war table, unfurling it in one smooth motion.

  “Khal-Drathir’s spoils are to be transported via reinforced wagons that will be positioned at the centre of the column.”

  Tracing a finger on the map, he added.

  “We will pass through the Hollow Crag.”

  Vargo, still standing, bowed his head slightly.

  “As you command, my Lord. But if I may ask, why that route specifically?”

  “Because it’s the only viable one this time of year.” Alric replied, eyes still on the map.

  “Mountain passes have either collapsed or frozen over. River banks overflowed flooding the whole of the lowland roads. And all the westward bridges were sabotaged in this campaign.”

  Turning his gaze to Priscilla, he said.

  “We have nowhere else to go but through there.”

  “I understand, my King.”

  Alric’s eyes snapped to him.

  “I told you to never address me as such Vargo. I thought I had made myself clear enough.”

  “Yes, my Lord. Apologies.” Vargo’s words did not match his reverent attitude.

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  Ignoring his subordinate’s expectation, Alric continued.

  “I’m going to deal with Maerenth. I will interrogate him on my own tomorrow while you prepare for the journey ahead.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Vargo’s eyes lingered on Priscilla for a moment.

  “And the girl?”

  Alric didn’t answer immediately. Firelit shadows moved across her body.

  “We keep her safe,” he said at last. “She’s mine to answer for.”

  “Understood. Is there anything else my Lord, or shall I return to my quarters?”

  “You can go.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander.”

  With that, Vargo drew back the canvas flap and stepped out into the cold.

  The tent fell silent once more.

  Only the crackle of braziers remained, echoing as Alric crossed to the partition.

  There, he took up his short blade and unsheathed it with a quiet hiss.

  He returned to the bedroll, casting one final glance toward the cot.

  She hadn’t moved once.

  He lay down blade in hand, one eye open, lulled by the darkness and measured breath crawling across the walls.

  The braziers had long since died down, leaving only the cold scent of ash and burnt wood.

  Alric opened his eye. What he found was her form, sat beneath the cot’s covers, watching him.

  Her gaze brimmed with contemplation. As if resentment had been laced with something more inquisitive.

  With a dull sound, he released his grip on the blade’s hilt and rose to his feet.

  Going to a wash basin near the war table, he rinsed his hands and face.

  Turning to her, he asked.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fuck you.” she retorted immediately.

  He reached for a towel and dried his face.

  Then crossed to the cot and stopped a few steps shy of it.

  He held her eyes and spoke.

  “Let me dress your wounds lest you rot.”

  She remained motionless for a minute. Then another. Still watching him from below.

  “Do you think yourself a noble soldier, commander?” Her voice came quiet, measured.

  No answer.

  “You do know I’ll never forgive you, don’t you? That I will kill you the first chance I get?” She continued, her voice colder than ice.

  Silence again. Only the cold gleam of his eyes reflected in her irises.

  Then, without warning or protest, he knelt beside her retrieving the medicinal pouch.

  He opened it and took bandages, tinctures, poultices and shears.

  “As you wish, commander.” She exhaled. “I’m your burden now.”

  With that, she let him check her.

  Alric began with by changing the old wrappings.

  The wounds were cleaned.

  Salves were reapplied.

  Flesh rebandaged with brutal efficiency.

  When it was done, he stood.

  His gaze lingered on her for a moment.

  “If you ever manage to slaughter me… fine.”

  “But be honest about it and come at me from the front.”

  A pause.

  “Like I did your city.”

  Her countenance faltered.

  She leaned forward, lip curled as if to spit.

  But when her eyes met his, the silvery-grey stillness made her breath hitch.

  The contempt still burned, but her jaw clenched tight.

  Leaning back into the cot, she said.

  “Fuck you,” she muttered.

  He didn’t answer.

  The canvas flap stirred.

  Vargo stepped in with a wooden tray in hand.

  The scent of smoked meat, warm grain, and steeped herbs followed after him.

  He set it down on the war table with quiet precision.

  “Rations, my Lord,” he said, sparing a brief glance at Priscilla. ”Enough for two.”

  Alric nodded once.

  “Good. Before you summon the Hekatons, send for Klethiar. He is to report here immediately.”

  With a parting bow, he withdrew back outside.

  Alric moved to the table and sat.

  The tray bore two bowls of milk-boiled porridge laced with herbs, a platter of sliced smoked meat, and two clay cups of steaming spiced tea.

  He took his share and started eating.

  The soft scrape of wood and tin filled the tent.

  Opposite him, Priscilla remained still, not reaching for the food.

  “Eat.” His voice came soft but resolute.

  He chewed slowly, swallowed, then looked at her.

  Silence greeted him back.

  “You’ll need the strength for the march ahead.”

  Still, she sat unmoved.

  Having finished his meal, he pushed the remaining bowl a little closer to the edge toward her, and stood up.

  She turned her face away, jaw set in stone.

  He picked up his short blade and moved behind the partition to change.

  When he returned, he wore a close-fitting, dark dyed tunic, and standard-officer trousers tucked into leather boots.

  A plain belt circled his waist; his short blade hung sheathed at his side.

  He looked at her from where he stood.

  “One of my officers will protect you until Vargo comes back. When he does, he will prepare everything for the march to Valekyr. You’ll ride with me this evening.”

  He was about to sit when the entrance flap stirred.

  Klethiar.

  His demeanor had changed since the day before.

  There was a hint of unsureness.

  Still, he held Alric’s gaze and saluted.

  “Reporting for duty, Lord Commander.”

  “At ease, Klethiar.” His reply came even.

  “You are to protect this tent and all within it with your life. Do not approach her unless she asks for you. Speak only if spoken to. Should anyone other than myself or Vargo enter, you are to give them three warnings. If they persist, you are to dispatch them immediately.”

  “Yes, Lord Commander.” The answer came crisp as the air which had fluttered from outside.

  Alric turned his head to her.

  “If you need anything, ask him. He’ll see to it.”

  She turned to face Klethiar with a joyless smile.

  “A nanny then? How precious must I be to you, commander.”

  The words carried only scorn.

  He said nothing, letting them pass over him like ash on wind.

  Klethiar remained silent, fists faintly clenched at his sides.

  Alric looked at him one final time.

  “If she provokes you, ignore her. If she attempts to attack you, subdue her as gently as possible. She is still healing. I want no harm to befall her.”

  Klethiar saluted firmly.

  “Yes, Lord Commander.”

  With a nod, Alric turned and stepped out into the cold morning sun, where brittle shafts of light mingled with sweat and dirt.