They buried Brandt at dawn.
The ground was hard, frozen in places, but the Riders dug anyway. Torwald's hands bled on the spade, Harthor's pipe went out and stayed cold. When at last the boy was laid beneath the earth, they heaped stones high, rifles cracking in salute.
No one spoke for a long time.
Edwen stood apart, the apple heavy in his pocket. He had not let it go since Brandt pressed it into his hand. Its skin was bruised, blood-stained, but he could not bring himself to eat it or cast it away.
Harthor broke first, his voice raw. "He was just a lad. Too young for this road."
Torwald spat into the dirt, jaw tight. "Too young or not, he stood his ground. Died with steel in his hand. That's more than many can say."
The words did nothing to ease the weight pressing on them.
That night, the Riders sat in silence around the fire. Where once Brandt's laughter had filled the air, there was only the crackle of flame. The men looked to Edwen, waiting, needing him to speak.
He rose slowly, golden eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, it seemed as though the weight of every grave was on his shoulders.
"He believed in me," Edwen said, voice low, steady. "More than that — he believed in us. In something beyond this march. Beyond this blood."
He drew the apple from his coat, holding it up so all could see.
"This was his dream. A train across the plains. Iron wheels, smoke on the wind. He carried it like a torch in the dark. And he gave it to me." His hand tightened, knuckles white around the bruised fruit. "I swear to you now — I'll see it built. Not for me. Not even for him. For all of us. For every name we've left in the dirt."
The Riders bowed their heads. Some wept openly.
Edwen slipped the apple back into his coat, close to his heart. Then he sat, saber across his knees, staring into the flames.
Grief gnawed at him. The boy's face, his voice, his damn stubborn hope — all burned into Edwen's memory. But he did not let it drown him.
Brandt had carried the dream. Now it was his burden to bear.
When the dawn came, the Riders mounted again. Their number was smaller, their hearts heavy — but the line held.
And at the head rode Edwen, golden eyes forward, grief in his chest but fire in his stride.
The boy was gone. But the march went on.
They reached the valley at dusk.
Ravendale spread before them, a hollow of rolling hills and broken ruins, its grass burned black, its streams choked with ash. The wind carried the reek of orc camps — thousands of them, fires burning like stars across the hills.
Edwen's Riders numbered forty.
The enemy outnumbered them ten to one.
Harthor spat, pipe clenched in his teeth. "Well, captain. Looks like we've found the storm."
Edwen's golden eyes swept the valley. He saw not numbers, not hopeless odds — but the field itself. The narrow ridges, the choke points, the high ground. He felt the weight of every life behind him. And he knew they would not leave this place without blood.
"We ride," he said.
The Riders thundered down the slope, rifles cracking, sabers flashing. The first ranks of orcs fell in heaps, their screams drowned beneath the roar of hooves and gunfire. Smoke rolled thick, iron thunder echoing in the valley.
They hit like a hammer, breaking through the first line, carving a path of blood. But the enemy closed fast, a tide of black flesh and iron.
Edwen cut down one, two, three, his saber slick, his arms burning. Torwald fought at his side like a wall of steel, every stroke precise, every motion deadly. Harthor bellowed with laughter, blood and smoke staining his beard, pipe still clamped between his teeth.
The Riders wheeled, fired, charged again. The new rifles barked sharp, dropping orcs in waves. Horses reared, steel clashed, men roared.
But for every orc that fell, three more surged forward.
One rider was dragged from his saddle, torn apart before their eyes. Another's horse was gutted beneath him, the man trampled in the dirt. A third took an axe to the skull, his helmet splitting like tin.
The line thinned.
Still they fought.
Edwen's voice carried above the chaos, sharp as steel: "Hold! Hold the line!"
They formed into a wedge, driving deep, rifles blazing, sabers hacking. The valley floor became a slaughterhouse, the ground slick with blood. The Riders bled, but they did not break.
By midnight, the orc warband lay broken. Fires guttered in the ruins, bodies piled high. The Riders stood among them, ragged, burned, their faces hollow with exhaustion.
They counted.
Thirty.
Only thirty left.
The silence that followed was heavier than the battle itself. Horses stamped wearily, men sat where they stood, too tired to weep.
Edwen stood at the center, saber dripping, golden eyes blazing in the dark. He looked at the faces that remained — scarred, bloodied, broken — and saw the ghosts of the ones who were gone.
They had not won. Not truly.
But they had survived.
And survival, in this place, was victory enough.