The cabin was warmer than Cadarn had dared hope, crowded with six people and a mule who refused to stay outside.
The deserters—Garrett, Thomas, Willem, and Young Petyr—had made space around the fire, sharing their stew without complaint. It was thin, mostly onions and questionable meat, but it was hot and Cadarn's body desperately needed the calories.
Kael had introduced him as Marcus, her younger brother, wounded in a skirmish and fleeing conscription. The deserters had accepted the story without much questioning—probably because they were too busy telling their own.
"—complete madness," Garrett was saying. He was older than the others, maybe fifty, with the weathered look of a career soldier. "Commander orders a charge across an open field. No cover. No support. Just 'run at the enemy and hope for the best.' Lost thirty men in five minutes."
"Bridge wasn't even strategic," Thomas added. He was younger, maybe twenty-five, with nervous hands that never stopped moving. "Crossed it two days later and there was nothing on the other side. Nothing. We died for empty ground."
Willem—thick-built and quiet—just nodded into his stew.
Young Petyr, who couldn't be more than seventeen, said: "My brother died in that charge. Took an arrow in the throat. Didn't even make it halfway across the field."
Silence settled over the cabin.
"I'm sorry," Cadarn said quietly.
"Yeah. Well." Petyr stared at the fire. "Sorry doesn't bring him back. Doesn't make the war make sense. Doesn't do shit, really."
"No," Cadarn agreed. "It doesn't."
"What about you, Marcus?" Garrett asked. "What made you run?"
Cadarn hesitated. Kael jumped in smoothly: "Arrow wound got infected. Field medic said he'd lose the arm if it didn't get proper treatment. Command said they didn't have resources for one soldier. Told him to suck it up or die trying."
"Sounds about right," Willem muttered. His first words since they'd arrived.
"So we left," Kael continued. "Figured living as deserters was better than dying for commanders who see us as numbers on a ledger."
Garrett nodded slowly. "Can't argue with that logic. We're all numbers to them. Numbers and meat to throw at enemy lines."
"Where are you headed?" Thomas asked. "After here, I mean."
"North," Kael said vaguely. "Maybe across the border into the Free Territories. Somewhere conscription officers don't reach."
"Good luck with that. Heard they're watching the borders now. Both sides. Don't want their soldiers getting ideas about freedom."
"We'll manage."
The conversation drifted. The deserters shared stories of battles and commanders, of friends lost and close calls survived. The kind of talk that soldiers did around fires, processing trauma through dark humor and shared misery.
Cadarn mostly listened.
These men—these deserters—had made the same choice he had in a way. They'd seen something wrong and refused to participate. The difference was they'd done it with courage. He'd done it with cowardice, hiding in bottles for twenty years.
Outside, the first snow began to fall.
They could hear it—the soft whisper of flakes against the cabin roof. Through the gaps in the walls, Cadarn saw white drifting down in the firelight.
"Told you," Kael said quietly.
"Early snow's bad luck," Young Petyr said. "My grandmother always said so."
"Your grandmother probably said lots of things," Garrett replied. "Doesn't make them true."
"Still. Bad luck."
As if summoned by the words, they heard it.
Hoofbeats. Outside. Multiple horses.
Everyone in the cabin froze.
Garrett moved to the wall, peering through a gap in the logs. His face went pale.
"Soldiers. Eight of them. Duke Theodric's colors."
"Shit," Willem whispered.
"They saw the smoke," Thomas said. "They're coming to investigate."
Kael was already moving, hand on her bow. "How many exits?"
"One. The door. And it opens inward—can't barricade it effectively."
"Windows?"
"Too small for a man to fit through. We're trapped."
The hoofbeats stopped outside. A voice called out—authoritative, cold:
"You in the cabin! Come out! This is Lieutenant Varys, Second Legion! We're searching for a fugitive! Cooperate and no one needs to die!"
"They're lying," Garrett said flatly. "They find deserters in a cabin, we're all getting hung."
"Or recruited at sword-point," Thomas added. "Either way, we're not walking away free."
Kael looked at Cadarn. In her eyes, he saw the calculation happening. The math of survival.
Six people in a cabin. Eight soldiers outside. One door. No escape.
The odds were bad.
"Maybe we can negotiate," Young Petyr suggested desperately. "Tell them we're just hunters. Trappers."
"With military boots and army-issue packs?" Willem shook his head. "They'll know what we are the moment they see us."
"You have one minute to comply!" the voice outside shouted. "Then we come in!"
Garrett checked his sword. Thomas and Willem moved to flank the door. Young Petyr looked like he might throw up.
Kael notched an arrow.
Cadarn realized with sickening certainty that people were about to die.
Maybe him. Maybe the deserters. Maybe both.
And for what? A secret. A lie. A truth that might not even matter in the end.
"Wait," he said.
Everyone looked at him.
"Don't fight. Let me talk to them."
"Are you insane?" Kael hissed. "The moment they see you—"
"They'll know I'm the fugitive they're looking for. Yes." Cadarn stood, every joint protesting. "Which means they'll focus on me. Not you. Not these men. Give you all a chance to escape or survive."
"That's suicide."
"That's the only play we have." He moved toward the door. "The rest of you—when this goes bad, run. Scatter. Don't try to be heroes."
"Marcus—" Kael grabbed his arm.
He looked at her. Really looked at her. This woman who'd jumped into a quarry to save him. Who'd decided to help him despite the cost. Who deserved better than dying in a cabin full of deserters.
"My name's not Marcus," he said quietly. "It's Cadarn. Cadarn Vex. I'm not a deserter. I'm a doctor. And I'm carrying information worth kingdoms." He smiled—sad, tired, done with running. "Thank you for trying. It meant more than you know."
Then he pulled away from her and opened the door.