The land grew meaner as the company pressed north. The hills rose steep and sharp, trees clustering thick in the valleys, shadows stretching long even at midday. The air tasted of iron and ash, and more than once the horses balked at moving forward.
Edwen felt it first — the heaviness between his shoulders, the way silence seemed to stalk them. He said nothing, but he rode with rifle across his lap and saber within easy reach.
By the third day, the scouts did not return.
"They're late," Torwald growled, scar tight with worry.
"They're gone," Harthor muttered around his pipe, tamping the bowl with a thumb that trembled more than he liked. "Scouts don't keep the enemy waiting."
Brandt tried for a laugh, but his voice cracked. "Maybe they… lost the trail?"
"Scouts don't lose trails," Torwald snapped. His voice was sharp, but the unease in it was worse than anger.
The company grew quieter after that. Even the firelight at night felt thin, shadows crowding too close. Only Roderic kept to his habit — sharpening his sword, humming softly under his breath. A sound that had once been background now carried like a lifeline in the silence.
That night, the attack came.
It began with a hiss. An arrow punched through the dark and buried itself in Roderic's chest before the men even realized the trees had eyes.
The hum died with him.
Then the forest exploded.
Orcs poured from the treeline, black shapes with burning eyes, blades flashing.
"Form up! Rifles!" Edwen's voice cracked like a whip.
The Riders moved as one, drilled reflexes snapping into place. Muskets roared, smoke blinded, powder burned. Orcs fell screaming — but more kept coming, snarling and crashing into the line. Steel met steel. Horses screamed. Men shouted prayers drowned by the clash of iron.
Edwen fought like a storm, saber flashing in the firelight, rifle blasting point-blank before it was thrown aside. Torwald carved a path with grim precision, scarred face set like stone. Harthor bellowed like a bull, swinging his blade in great sweeps, pipe still clenched absurdly between his teeth.
Beside Edwen, Brandt fired and reloaded, hands shaking but never faltering. "Another one, captain! I—" His words choked as blood sprayed across his sleeve. Not his own — but Roderic's.
The man still knelt where the arrow had struck, sword half-drawn, lips parted as though to hum again. But no sound came.
The fight burned itself out as suddenly as it began. The last orc fled limping into the night, leaving the Riders bloodied and gasping in the ruin of their camp.
And three of their own lay dead.
Dunwald, the loud one, whose laughter could shake the tents.
Young Cael, barely grown, eyes wide and glassy at the stars.
And Roderic, blade across his chest, lips frozen in silence.
The men gathered around him.
Harthor's pipe slipped from his teeth and shattered on the ground. His voice was raw. "The fire'll be too quiet now."
Brandt dropped to his knees, pressing a bloodied hand to Roderic's still chest. "He—he was just humming yesterday. Said it steadied his hands. He can't just—" His voice broke, swallowed by the weight of it.
Even Torwald bowed his head, the scar pulling as though it hurt to speak. "He was the calm in the storm. We needed him."
Edwen said nothing. He knelt, laid Roderic's sword across his chest, and closed his eyes with two fingers. His voice came low, steady, iron-bound:
"He rides no more. But we'll carry his song."
The Riders bowed their heads. Some wept openly, others clenched fists until knuckles bled.
When dawn came, they rode on. Forty-four left. The hooves beat the earth, rifles rattled at their sides.
But the road was silent. No humming.
And the silence was heavier than armor.
The road stretched on, bleak and endless. Trees thinned into rocky hills, wind sweeping cold across the riders' cloaks. The company moved with steady pace, but there was no rhythm in it. The hoofbeats felt hollow.
At night, the campfires burned low. Once, laughter would have rolled, songs would have sparked. Now, the flames crackled against a silence that gnawed at the edges of every man.
It was the absence they noticed most.
Roderic had always hummed. Soft, steady, barely more than a whisper under his breath — sharpening steel, tending gear, even drifting off to sleep. It had been the background of their lives, the quiet thread that tied them together. Without it, the air felt raw.
Harthor tried to fill the void with his booming voice, telling stories louder than ever, pipe clamped between his teeth. But even his laughter sounded forced.
Torwald barked drills more fiercely, driving the men to practice until their hands bled. "Keep moving," he snarled. "If you sit too long, you rot." But Edwen saw the tightness in his scar, the way his eyes lingered on the empty places at the fire.
Brandt was the worst of them all.
He sat apart some nights, staring into the flames with his rifle across his knees. Once, Edwen heard him humming, soft and broken — the tune stumbling, cracking like his voice. When he caught the others looking, he stopped, cheeks burning.
"I was only…" His words trailed. His hands tightened on the rifle. "I thought maybe—maybe if I kept it going, it wouldn't feel so quiet."
No one laughed at him. No one teased. The Riders only lowered their eyes, shame and sorrow knotting in their throats.
Later, when the camp had grown still, Brandt drifted to Edwen's side. His face was pale, boyish in the firelight, and his voice barely carried.
"He believed in you, captain," he said. "That train you spoke of — he said it was mad, but he wanted to ride it. He wanted to see it before any of us."
Edwen said nothing at first. He stared into the flames, golden eyes hard as the steel at his hip. At last, he spoke.
"Then I'll build it." His voice was steady, carved from stone. "For him. For all of them. No matter how many fall."
Brandt swallowed, blinking hard, and nodded. He said no more, but he stayed close, as though the promise steadied him.
The Riders lay down one by one. The fire burned low, shadows stretching long.
And still — no humming. Only the silence between songs.