Now dims beneath the ash of night.”
Benni followed my gaze, wandering to the fires at the camp and the soldiers revelling in their victory.
“You could join for a while.” He said, gently. “The troops would like it if you did.” Then he paused, with that wicked, crooked smile on his lips again. “I would like it, too. Be like old times.”
I tilted my head, considering it for a while. I probably could down a tankard or two, hear some stories from the front lines, and actually enjoy myself for a moment before I would have to take my leave to Irongate. But I knew I needed a clear head and a rested mind to begin the long journey back.
“And I would, if I could.” I said instead. Disappointment shadowed Benni’s face for but a moment before he ran his hand through his dark hair and shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well.” He said. “Let me at least take care of the arrangementsfor you. I’ll get you the best horses and the best company to ride with.”
“You know you have to stay here to see to it that we are ready to move for the Twin Cities when I return.”
“Well, the second-best company, then. But I mean what I said about the horses.”
“I know you do.” I smiled, tired, clapped Benni’s shoulder once more, gentler this time, and headed to my tent to rest.
But there was not to be any rest for me in those few hours before dawn. The ache in my shoulder kept my eyes wide open and staring at the insides of my makeshift quarters. The campaign table took up most of the space, its surface cluttered with parchment and maps, edges curled from too many nights spent poring over them. Brass markers – tokens shaped like soldiers, siege engines, and banners – held them in place, their positions shifting with each new strategy. A candle had burned low beside them, the hardened rivulets of wax creeping over the wood like veins.
Near the entrance, my weapons rack stood at attention, blades lined up like sentries. Some were old, edges dulled by time and battle, their hilts wrapped in worn leather. Others were newer, still sharp enough to bite. My sword leaned against the rack, always within reach. You only had to be caught off guard once to learnthatlesson.
Against the far wall, my cot sat unmade, the rough wool blanket kicked to the side. Beneath it, a spare set of boots waited, half-packed supplies shoved next to them. I’d learned long ago to keep a pack ready. When orders came, when plans changed, when everything turned to chaos… you didn’t waste time.
A wooden chest rested beside the cot, plain and unmarked. I hadn’t locked it. There was nothing inside worth stealing – just a whetstone, a few coins and a dagger I had carried since I was a child. Its hilt was made of an odd, discoloured pearl. It was impractical and unattractive, but it was also the only thing that was mine when I was thrust intothe barracks to learn how to be a soldier. It was of no value to anyone but me, and even I never used it. I just carried it around to remind me of… what? Of times in the barracks, earning my place in the army? Of the very few moments in my life when I had felt almost free? Perhaps all of them, perhaps none of them. Who knew, and what difference did it make anyway?
The brazier in the corner still smouldered, the embers casting a faint orange glow against the tent walls. The air smelt of charred wood and iron, a scent I scarcely noticed anymore. The warmth barely reached me, but it was enough to keep the cold at bay – for now.
In the back, my armour stand held my breastplate and gauntlets, the darkened metal worn with age, the leather straps supple from use. A deep scratch ran down the left pauldron – a mark from a battle that should have killed me. It didn’t.
It wasn’t much. Just a tent, just a place to rest my head between fights, between the endless march forward. But here, I had always felt more at home than I ever had at Irongate, as the heir without her birthright of magic. A disappointment and a shame to my great house.
I rolled my aching shoulder again. The pain had started dull, just a whisper beneath my skin, but now it throbbed – hot and insistent. I reached back, fingers fumbling for the spot just around my shoulder blade, where the ache was worst. My fingertips traced the familiar ridges of skin, the mark I’d carried since birth.
Benni used to joke about it.“Looks like a handprint. Did your mother give it to you when she pushed you into the barracks?” I’d laughed then. Now, with the pain gnawing beneath it, the joke didn’t seem so funny. The ache was not just discomfort but a pull – like something beneath my skin had begun to stir. Or to rouse me in turn.
It had been this way before, though the pain always faded in time. When I was younger, my Mother had tried to rid me of it, as if the mark itself offended her. She brewed her broths, groundroots into paste, and whispered charms meant to bend even my skin to her will. Some scalded instead, turning the mark raw beneath her hands. I’d cried once – only once – and she’d smiled through my tears, calling the pain ‘a lesson in endurance’. Her cruelty always came dressed as care; her affection bound to the lesson it carried. The mark had never changed, but I had. I learned to flinch quietly and swallow resentment even when it hurt to breathe.
I sat up and twisted my torso, craning my neck toward the tarnished metal mirror propped on the campaign table. The flickering brazier cast uneven light, making it difficult to see, so I yanked the mirror closer, tilting it to catch the right angle. Still, all I could make out was a shadowy smudge on my skin.
Frustrated, I shrugged off my tunic and turned my back to the glass, twisting my arm awkwardly over my shoulder, trying to angle my hand to feel what my eyes couldn’t quite reach. My fingers skimmed the raised edges of the mark – five distinct shapes, like fingers splayed across my skin, and an imprint of what looked like a palm.
I lay back down, staring at the canvas ceiling, listening to the distant crackling of dying fires and the occasional murmur of soldiers shifting in their sleep. Outside, the world had gone quiet – the kind of hush that comes just before dawn.
I turned my head. The brazier had burned low, the embers barely clinging to their last breath of heat. In the dim glow, I caught the first sliver of pale light creeping beneath the tent’s edge.
I reached for my tunic and pulled it on, wincing as the fabric scraped over the sore spot. My fingers hesitated for just a breath over the mark before I grabbed my belt and fastened it tight.
Outside, I could hear movement – hooves stamping, voices murmuring, and the tell-tale clang of armour being fastened. Benni would have made good on his word; the horses would be ready, the road waiting.
I stood, rolling my shoulder once more before reaching for my sword. It was dawn, and I had to go.
Chapter Five: Frejara
Dawn had barely crested the horizon when I stepped from my tent, the morning air biting against my skin like a blade. The scent of ash and iron still clung to everything, even though the fires had died down to smouldering whispers in the earth. The camp stirred in subdued rhythm – soldiers rustling in tents, the clank of armour, the occasional whinny of restless horses. War never slept, not really – it only shifted its weight.
Benni had been true to his word. The horses were ready, and so was the escort. And as promised, it indeed was of the finest quality.
Astrid was the first to spot me. She grinned from beneath her helm, eyes bright, a lock of copper-red hair escaping at her temple, fiery against her amber skin. There was a grace to her bone structure that spoke of old blood, but her expression was all mischief and fight – a face that wore bruises better than jewels and looked most at ease mid-laugh, reckless and bright. She waited by her mount with that restless swash of hers – one boot balanced on a stone, sword already belted, fingers tapping the hilt like they were tired of standing still.
