Matthew walked the line slowly, greeting each man as he passed.
When he reached Sir Haven—who stood sulking at the rear—he grinned. "Well?"
The knight rubbed his nose awkwardly. "Who could've known they'd go hunting in the middle of the night?"
Matthew clapped his shoulder, still laughing until Haven muttered a curse and stormed off in embarrassment.
Soon the smell of roasting meat drifted again through the camp.
Euron and a few eager volunteers were busy skinning game—blood steaming against the cool morning air—while the rest waited hungrily around the fires.
Rabbits, pheasants, and even a young deer were stripped and skewered within minutes.
The men weren't picky; they jammed branches through the carcasses and roasted them right over the flames.
Before long, the scent was thick and wild, enough to make even the laziest soldier sit up and wipe drool from his chin.
On the far side, the aroma reached Haven's half‑asleep men.
Even Miro, who'd been dozing, blinked awake and lumbered toward the smell.
He crouched by Matthew, forcing a smile. "My lord, where'd you get all that meat?"
Matthew shot him a side glance, said nothing, and simply took a piece of venison from near the fire.
Then he held it out. "Here. Eat. And next time, speak plainly instead of circling like a rat."
Miro's grin faltered. He mumbled something, nodded, and slunk away with the meat—still unwilling to let go of food freely given.
Watching him go, Matthew called toward Haven's tent. "Sir Haven! Want some?"
The knight immediately flopped sideways, pretending to snore.
Matthew burst out laughing. Then, still smiling, he nudged Euron. "Later, take him a share yourself. He's the backbone of our field line—you'd better keep him sweet."
Euron understood instantly. He carved a generous chunk of meat and brought it over personally.
"Sir," he said lightly, dangling the venison in front of the knight's half‑open eyes, "have a bite."
Haven peeked through one eyelid. The meat was thick and juicy.
He snatched it with a grunt. "Heh. You insisted I take it, remember." But when he lifted it to his mouth, he turned and bellowed, "Boys! Come, thank Deputy Euron for dinner!"
The shout sounded more like a farmer calling pigs to feed.
In seconds, half a dozen of his men shuffled over, mumbling their thanks as they crowded around.
Matthew shook his head, hiding his smirk behind a hand. Unbelievable.
But for an army built from mercenaries and peasants, this was inevitable.
To forge them into something useful, he'd have to sand away every bad habit himself. It would take time.
If loyalty was thin, he'd use patience. If discipline was absent, he'd teach it—slowly, persistently.
"Boil the frog in warm water," he murmured to himself, watching the fat drip into the fire. "And the frog will never notice."
The flames hissed in approval. He bit into a strip of smoked deer, charred on the outside and tender within.
Rough cooking—but the taste was good enough, and full of promise.
The sweetness of success.
By dawn, the forest quieted.
Most of the men had eaten until sleep overtook them, lying scattered around the fires.
Moonlight faded into a thin white mist, dew beading on grass, dripping down leaves.
When the first rays slipped through the canopy, droplets clung to armor and faces before drying in the rising heat.
Haven, yawning, stumbled to Matthew's side. "My lord," he said wearily, "maybe we should trade shifts. I've been standing watch all night—I'm half dead."
Matthew raised an eyebrow, stretching lazily. "Hold out a bit longer. If you train up someone capable, they'll relieve you soon enough."
Haven snorted. "Yeah, and when I do, you'll just take him into your own unit."
Crude but true.
Matthew chuckled. "If you think I'm stealing talent, feel free to ask him yourself. If he prefers you, keep him. Otherwise…" He let the sentence hang. "I'm not changing orders just to look like a fool."
The knight grimaced. "You're telling me to walk into my own humiliation."
Matthew shrugged. "You were grinning the day I gave you that post. Don't complain now."
Playing the good commander suited him lately. No sense giving the sly old knight any more leeway.
Haven's face flushed dark red. Muttering something impolite, he stalked off.
---
Later that morning, they broke camp.
As the wagons rolled out of the woods, Matthew positioned himself between them and the marching column.
Miro and his four men sat up front, guiding the horses cautiously along the rutted path. They were clumsy, but carts moved faster than footsoldiers—exactly how Matthew wanted it.
He turned and shouted down the line, "Keep up!"
Haven and Euron took the cue, spurring the sixty‑odd men into motion until they were jogging behind.
No one dared cling to the wagons now; Matthew blocked the gap like a moving wall.
From above, they must have looked ridiculous—a train of dusty, flailing men chasing after two slow wagons, like sheep after their shepherd.
But discipline had to start somewhere.
Then, just as they passed the last line of oaks, Matthew suddenly stopped.
He turned sharply, eyes narrowing toward the trees.
That familiar prickle of instinct—danger, unseen but real—crept up his spine.
"Someone," he murmured, "was out there last night."
His lips twisted into a dry smile. "Let's see who likes playing spy in my woods."
He hurried to Euron's side, voice low but firm. "You and the northerners—go back. Quietly. Check the forest. Anyone hiding in there, flush them out and bring them to me alive if possible."
Euron blinked in surprise, but the command was clear.
Matthew waved once and continued forward with the main force.
The small team peeled off, vanishing into the shade behind them.
Whispers rippled through the line, but Matthew ignored them. He just kept the rest moving, step by step.
After two miles, he called a halt on a low ridge.
The men collapsed almost instantly, panting and drenched.
He frowned slightly—pathetic. Six miles of jogging had shredded half his force.
Standing atop a mound, he surveyed the scene: sprawled bodies, blistered feet, bent knees.
"Pulling tall grass from a field of weeds," he muttered.
Still, it was progress.
He sat cross‑legged, letting the breeze cool him. Success couldn't be rushed. It came from survival—his veterans respected him because he'd earned it in blood.
He'd give these new ones the same lesson.
His smile returned. They'll understand soon enough.
For now, he waited.
Waited for Euron.
The sun rose higher.
Sweat shimmered on armor; insects droned. Minutes stretched into hours.
Finally, on the shimmering horizon, shapes appeared—six at first, then more.
Matthew stood, hand shading his eyes.
A grin tugged at his mouth.
Euron was back—and not alone.
Heat warped the view, but the truth was clear: they'd caught something.
As the figures came into focus, Matthew stepped down the slope to greet them.
When the light hit their faces, his grin widened.
They had captured what he'd hoped for.
Not animals.
Little Birds.
The first real proof that someone was watching them—and now, thanks to Euron, those "birds" were in his cage.
---