The fire crackled soft, barely keeping the cold at bay.
Outside the tent, snow drifted slow through the air, turning the whole damn war camp into a graveyard waiting to happen. The stink of wet fur, steel, and too many unwashed bodies filled the air. Men huddled near braziers, clutching weapons like they expected something to come crawling out of the dark before dawn.
I pulled my cloak tighter and kept my eyes on the fire. The map between us was stained with ash and blood, red markers scattered across it like spilled wine. Behind me, the canvas flapped, letting a gust of cold stab through the seams.
"Thinking again, are we?"
Alaric's voice was rough. Worn thin from too many sleepless nights. He dropped a heavy, gauntleted hand on my shoulder and forced a grin.
"That's a bad habit."
I snorted.
"Maybe someone has to."
"Not you," he said, already reaching for the flask on his belt. "Leave the thinking to the nobles. We're just here to bleed."
I took the flask and drank. Burned all the way down. For about two seconds it helped, then the cold came back and bit even harder.
"Can't argue with that."
He moved to the map, dragging a scarred finger along a line of markers. His brow furrowed.
"Sorcerers," he muttered. "Hate dealing with 'em."
"You're not the only one," I said. "None of the men like it either."
"Course they don't. Most haven't even seen one up close. Let alone survived it."
Magic was dangerous. Wild. Most who tried to control it ended up dead or something worse. The only stories soldiers had about it ended in screams and corpses. It was a shadow that clung to every campfire, every battlefield.
Alaric was the exception. Knew a few tricks. Just enough to be dangerous. Enough for the men to talk about him like he was a walking legend.
"You're one to talk," I said. "If it weren't for your 'parlor tricks,' we'd all be rotting already."
He grinned.
"Don't go making me a hero. I'm running dry, and I'm not wasting what's left of it keeping camp warm."
"Since when are you modest?" I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched.
The firelight flickered across the faces of the fresh recruits. Wide eyes, pale knuckles gripping weapons too tight. They looked young. Too young.
That redheaded kid—the one with the oversized sword—kept glancing at the trees like he expected something to jump out.
"It's just wind," I said, planting myself by the fire. "You ever camped in woods before?"
The redhead jumped.
"S-Sir?"
"I'm not a knight," I muttered. "Elias is fine."
He nodded quick. His hands were still clenched around the hilt like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"You're scared," I said.
A few of them stiffened. Some tried to hide it. Some didn't bother.
I snorted.
"Good. Fear keeps you breathing. You see a sorcerer, don't fight. Move. Duck, run, hide—just don't freeze up. Letting them get the first word is how you die."
The redhead swallowed hard.
"B-But what if we can't run?"
"Then kill him before he can say a word," I said. "Go for the throat. Hands. Anything not covered in glowing shit. Don't hesitate."
One of the older recruits spoke up. Scar down his cheek, voice low.
"You ever killed one?"
"Three," I lied. "They bleed like anyone else if you hit 'em hard enough."
That got a few nervous chuckles. Not much, but enough to loosen their shoulders a little. Across the fire, Alaric raised a brow at me.
"Get some rest," I said. "You'll need it."
Back in the command tent, Alaric was still chuckling.
"Three sorcerers, huh?"
"It was that or tell them they're already dead," I muttered. "Would you rather they piss themselves?"
He snorted.
"Not really. But hey, good speech. Almost sounded like you gave a damn."
"Shut up," I said, but I was smirking now.
The fire between us hissed as the wind found a gap in the canvas. Alaric pulled off a gauntlet and rubbed his eyes.
"You ever wonder how the hell we ended up here?"
"You hired me," I said dryly. "So if you're looking to blame someone…"
"Bastard."
"Not the first time I've heard it."
He leaned over the map again, eyes scanning it like it held answers.
"You think we'll win?"
I didn't answer right away.
"I think we'll fight," I said. "Win or lose, we'll make them bleed."
He chuckled dark.
"Spoken like a true sellsword."
"Old habits," I muttered.
I didn't make it back to my tent until late. The camp was quiet now. Most of the soldiers curled in their cloaks. Some prayed. Some just stared into the fire like it owed them something.
I pushed open the flap and dropped my blade beside the cot. The chill cut right through the canvas. My shoulders ached. Wounds still fresh, still pulling tight every time I moved.
I looked at the blade. Old steel. Chipped at the edges. The runes still glowed faint in the firelight. Not bright. Just enough to remind me what I'd survived.
I laid back, eyes half-closed. Sleep dragged at me, but I kept them open just long enough to look through the flap. Stars above. Cold wind slipping through.
"Tomorrow," I muttered.
"We'll see."