Norvin found himself standing inside the Chief's command tent, it was less of a tent than a portable fortress. The vast canvas expanse was partitioned not by simple cloth, but by a strategic maze of heavy, dark wood furniture. The intricate carvings on towering bookcases and mahogany chests created an air of unexpected elegance amidst the grit of war. These pieces successfully divided the huge space into smaller, functional alcoves.
To his left, one such space served as a personal armoury. Racks of gleaming weaponry stood ready, but Norvin's eyes were drawn to a suit of magnificent armour mounted on a stand. It was a stunning combination of deep purple and polished silver, and etched onto its breastplate was a striking symbol: a huge serpent, its scales meticulously detailed, coiling itself around a tall tower while baring a set of terrifying fangs. Norvin recognized it instantly; he had seen the very same emblem embroidered on the old man Remus's robes. To his right, precarious stacks of parchments and maps teetered on a large desk, alongside strange brass contraptions that Norvin couldn't begin to comprehend. The flickering light from lanterns in these adjacent rooms cast a restless dance of shadow and light against the canvas walls.
And in the center of it all, Norvin stood before the Chief.
To Norvin, who was just a child and quite short for his age, the man seemed like a giant. He was built on a lean, wiry frame that spoke of relentless campaigning, and his face was a leathery tapestry of old scars—a faint white line cutting through his left eyebrow, a puckered patch of skin high on his cheek. But it was his deep-set, weary eyes that held the true weight of his station. They were the eyes of a man burdened by too many impossible decisions, a man who carried the lives of all his soldiers on his stooped shoulders. That heavy, calculating gaze was now fixed directly on him.
But the Chief's formidable presence was severely underestimated, for it was completely eclipsed by the two far more ominous figures who now commanded the space.
The Captain had taken the Chief's own chair, his massive, broad shoulders easily covering half the desk's width as he stared intently at the files spread before him. Etched onto the breastplate of his unadorned, brutally functional armour was the now-familiar symbol of the serpent coiling a tower. He wore no cape. Mat, the tactician, was perched casually on the corner of the table itself, his posture relaxed as if he owned the very room. He too bore the serpent emblem on his gleaming armour. Draped over his shoulders was a heavy cape, embroidered with the crest of the Roric Kingdom—a broken crown. Norvin noticed this same crest was patched onto the capes worn by the Chief and every other knight he had seen, a shared mark of their allegiance. The Captain, it seemed, was the sole exception.
The Chief could only offer a dry, internal sigh, his shoulders slumping just enough to betray his resignation. 'My own tent,' he thought bitterly, 'and they've left me to stand.'
Standing in the presence of the Serpent's Maw's strongest warriors, Norvin felt his heart hammer against his ribs. The air was thick with their power, making him feel impossibly small and frail. It was Mat who finally broke the suffocating silence, turning his gaze toward the boy. His voice, when it came, was not the sharp tone of a commander, but a low, gentle sound that seemed startlingly kind.
"Do you still want to risk your life for us, Norvin?"
Norvin's small chin lifted. Without a flicker of doubt, he met the tactician's gaze and answered with a firm, clear voice, "Yes, sir."
A wry, almost sad smile touched one corner of Mat's lips. "Very well," he said softly. "But you must understand what you are agreeing to. You will be utterly alone. No one can accompany you, and no one can protect you. I cannot even promise that the plan will hold."
He closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself for the inevitable disappointment. This was the brutal truth, a complete reversal of the promise he had made to Remus the night before. He had seen grown men break under less pressure; surely a child, no matter how determined, would finally back down when faced with such a stark, hopeless reality.
But the reaction he expected never came. Instead, Norvin replied with a question so unexpected it seemed to rearrange the air in the room.
"If I manage to do my part," he asked, his voice steady and devoid of fear, "can you win for sure?"
The question struck Mat with the force of a physical blow. His eyes snapped open, the faint smile vanishing from his face as he stared at the boy in utter shock. The full weight of the words crashed into him. This wasn't a scared child asking for reassurance about his own survival. Norvin was demanding to know if the generals were competent enough to capitalize on his sacrifice. Norvin wasn't questioning the mission; he was questioning them. He had already accepted his part, no matter the cost, and was now weighing if their strength was worth his life.
Mat was completely astonished. Even the Chief, who had remained a silent observer, straightened from his slight slouch. A flicker of genuine disbelief crossed his scarred face as he looked from the small boy to his seasoned tactician, a silent understanding passing between them. This was not the kind of courage one could teach or command; it was something forged in fires they could scarcely imagine.
The only sound in the stunned silence was the soft rustle of parchment as the Captain methodically turned another page, his focus absolute. His head never lifted, his gaze never wavered from the reports. It was impossible to tell if he was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't heard, or if the monumental exchange between a boy and his commanders was simply beneath his notice.
The Chief, seemingly unable to process the boy's audacity, slowly turned his back on them. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, his weathered face hardening into an unreadable, stony mask as he stared at the tent's canvas wall.
The heavy silence was broken by a low chuckle. Mat slid smoothly off the corner of the desk, landing on his feet with a soft thud of his boots. The look of pure, unadulterated astonishment on his face had been replaced by one of profound, almost reverent respect. He met Norvin's unwavering gaze.
"Yes," he said, his voice ringing with a newfound conviction that hadn't been there moments before. "That is certain."
His expression then softened, a small, reassuring smile gracing his lips as he took a step closer to the boy. "Don't worry," he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your job isn't what you might be imagining. It isn't a suicidal charge. You simply have to deliver a small present for us."
Norvin was confused. 'A ….present?'