The days after the gorge were long and gray. The Riders moved slower, horses limping, faces pale beneath the grime. Every night the firelight seemed dimmer, every silence heavier.
The graves in the gorge haunted them. Brandt still carried one of Eofric's apples in his pouch, unbitten, like a relic. Harthor smoked without speaking, his laughter gone. Even Torwald barked drills with less fury, his scar drawn tight as though the weight of command pressed on him as well.
Edwen felt it most of all. His Riders looked to him, golden eyes sharp and steady, but he could see the cracks in their spirits. They needed something — anything — to remind them why they fought, why they bled.
The chance came at dusk, two days' ride east.
Smoke rose from a farmhouse on the plain, dark against the fading sky. Edwen reined in, signaling the Riders to halt. The wind carried screams. Orcs — a band of perhaps twenty — were tearing through the homestead, fire licking the thatch, children dragged into the dirt.
Brandt's knuckles whitened on his rifle. "We can't—" His voice broke. "Captain, we can't ride past this."
Edwen's saber slid free in a whisper. "Form ranks," he said.
The Riders surged forward, hooves pounding, rifles cracking. This time, it was the orcs caught unready — bellies full of stolen food, blades dripping from slaughter. They roared and scrambled, but the Riders hit them like a storm.
Harthor bellowed, swinging wide, his pipe clenched between his teeth once more as though daring fate to knock it loose. Torwald cut down two in quick succession, his scarred face unreadable. Brandt fired, reloaded, fired again, each shot clean, sharp, deadly.
Edwen was a golden flame at the center, saber carving through black flesh, voice carrying steady and hard: "No mercy. Not for them."
It was over in minutes. The ground was slick, but it was orc blood this time, not their own. The farmhouse smoldered, but the family was alive — shaken, sobbing, but alive.
The Riders gathered them, put the fire out, pressed food and water into trembling hands. For the first time in weeks, the company saw more than death. They saw lives saved.
That night, by the fire, Brandt took the apple from his pouch. He stared at it for a long time before cutting it in half and passing it to the rider beside him. The man blinked, then smiled faintly, chewing slow, savoring it. The others leaned in, sharing small bites until nothing was left but the core.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
The silence lifted, just a little.
And when Harthor finally let out a booming laugh, rough and cracked though it was, the Riders answered with weary grins.
Edwen sat apart, golden eyes on the stars, saber across his knees. His men were still bleeding, still breaking — but not yet broken.
And as long as they still had fight, he would lead them through fire and blood.