Marcel didn’t waste time.

  He led me into a low tent that smelled of oil and worked leather, racks lining the walls with armor in various states of repair. He sized me up with a practiced eye, then started pulling pieces down without asking.

  A new tunic first—dark, reinforced at the seams. Then a fitted chestplate, lighter than my father’s old armor but stronger, the weight settling cleanly against my ribs. New boots replaced the cracked soles I’d been wearing, snug and steady. Light pauldrons followed, just enough to guard the shoulders without slowing me down.

  He pressed a sword into my hands.

  Balanced. Honest steel.

  “Don’t lose this one,” he said. “Smith’ll be offended.”

  A round wooden shield came next, smooth and solid, with straps already fitted. He showed me how to sling it across my back so it wouldn’t get in the way.

  I looked down at myself—new gear, new colors, no trace left of the boy who’d walked out of Old Tumbledown a year ago.

  Marcel stepped back, appraising his work.

  “Handsome,” he chuckled, giving me a solid pat on the back.

  I exhaled, adjusting the strap of the shield as we stepped back into the open air.

  “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the far side of the camp. “Medical tents are this way. Don’t want Sophie thinking we lost you already.”

  As we walked, the camp seemed different.

  Not hostile.

  Not welcoming.

  Tense.

  I was one of them.

  Marcel led me toward the medical tents, the smell changing as we crossed the camp, from smoke and sweat to sharp spirits and crushed herbs. The sounds softened too: less shouting, more groans, murmured voices, the clink of bottles and metal trays.

  Sophie spotted me the moment we came into view.

  She looked me up and down—new armor, red bandana, the way I was holding my shoulder and raised an eyebrow slowly.

  “It hasn’t even been a day,” she said flatly. “And you’re already hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, too quickly.

  She stepped closer anyway, fingers gentle but firm as she tilted my chin to the side. Her thumb brushed the cut on my cheek, and I flinched before I could stop myself.

  “Liar,” she muttered.

  She pulled a rag from her satchel, dipped it into a basin, and dabbed at the wound. The liquid stung, sharp and clean, and I hissed through my teeth.

  She didn’t apologize.

  Instead, she scowled at me and smacked my arm, harder than necessary.

  “That,” she said, “was for getting thrown off a training yard like a sack of grain.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

  From the tent behind her, a woman stepped out laughing.

  “She’s a natural already,” the woman said, wiping her hands on her trousers.

  I looked up.

  Alyana was taller than Sophie, with long black hair pulled back in a loose tie that still managed to frame her face. She wore a simple tunic stained at the sleeves, a Red Devils armband with a white band through it snug around her upper arm. Her eyes were sharp but kind, the sort that missed nothing and judged slowly.

  “She didn’t even flinch when the first one screamed,” Alyana went on. “That’s usually when they faint.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t scream.”

  “You cursed,” Alyana corrected cheerfully. “Creative ones, too.”

  Before Sophie could retort, I noticed someone sitting just inside the tent, leaned back against a post, one boot hooked over the other knee.

  Ashe.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He had a cup in his hand, sipping something strong by the smell of it. A strip of cloth was wrapped around his knuckles, already darkening where blood seeped through. He didn’t look injured enough to be there.

  He was watching.

  Not the camp.

  Not Alyana.

  Us.

  His eyes flicked from Sophie to me, lingered for half a heartbeat too long, then slid away. He rose smoothly to his feet, drained the cup, and set it aside without a word. As he passed us, his shoulder brushed the tent flap and he disappeared into the camp beyond.

  I frowned after him.

  “What’s his deal?” I asked.

  Alyana followed my gaze, her smile fading just a little.

  “Hates newcomers,” she said lightly. Then, after a pause: “They tend to die first.”

  Sophie and I exchanged a look.

  I felt something cold settle in my chest—not fear exactly, but awareness. This wasn’t Deermarch. There were no gentleness here. No second chances given out of kindness.

  Sophie finished tying the bandage on my cheek and met my eyes.

  “Well,” she said quietly, “guess we’ll have to prove him wrong.”

  I nodded, glancing once more toward where Ashe had vanished, the image of his searching stare refusing to leave me.

  Something told me this camp wasn’t done testing us yet.

  And something else—deeper, quieter—warned me that Ashe’s interest wasn’t about whether I would survive.

  It was about why.

  ***

  At dinner we found a quiet corner near the edge of the camp, close enough to the fires to feel their warmth but far enough to avoid the worst of the noise. The ground was packed dirt, trampled smooth by countless boots. I sat with my back against a crate, Sophie beside me, knees drawn up as she balanced a rough wooden plate in her lap.

  Dinner was simple but filling—thick slices of rye bread, still warm, roasted mutton torn apart by hand, and a wedge of sharp cheese that smelled stronger than it looked. I tore into it like I hadn’t eaten in days.

  Which, to be fair, I almost hadn’t.

  I huffed between bites, barely chewing before reaching for more.

  Sophie watched me with narrowed eyes. “Slow down.”

  “I’m starving,” I muttered, mouth full.

  She shook her head and smacked my arm. “You’re such a pig, Thomas.”

  I shot her an offended look, then winced as I swallowed too fast. She rolled her eyes and handed me her waterskin.

  “Drink,” she said. “Before you choke and embarrass me.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a long pull. The water was cool and tasted faintly of leather and herbs.

  Around us, the camp buzzed with low conversation—mercenaries trading stories, sharpening blades, laughing too loudly. Somewhere nearby, someone strummed a lute badly. The air smelled of smoke, meat, sweat, and oil.

  Then a familiar voice cut through it all.

  “Oi! Attention!”

  Lucius climbed onto a crate near the largest fire, arms spread wide like he owned the night—which, in a way, he did.

  “All you Red Devils,” he shouted, grinning, “my brothers in arms, you beautiful and ugly bastards!”

  Cheers erupted instantly. Cups were raised. Someone whistled.

  Lucius waited it out, soaking it in.

  “We’ve been hired,” he continued, voice carrying easily, “to assist in a siege. King Clemont of Darwick himself.”

  That got their attention.

  “We’ll be the vanguard.”

  A murmur rippled through the camp—approval, excitement, the promise of blood and coin.

  Lucius’s grin widened. “And the payout?” He paused deliberately. “A fine one. How does one million crowns sound to you lot?”

  For half a heartbeat, the camp went silent.

  Then it exploded.

  Gasps. Shouts. Cheers so loud they nearly drowned out the crackling fire. Men leapt to their feet, slapping each other on the back. Someone laughed like they’d just won the world.

  Sophie stared, eyes wide. “A million…?”

  I swallowed, suddenly less hungry.

  Lucius raised his hands again. “Tomorrow at first light, we march for Darwick. We help break the siege against the Marantell Empire.”

  A few people laughed darkly at that.

  “And the Church,” Lucius added.

  That changed the tone.

  Some grins sharpened. A few mercenaries leaned forward, eyes bright with anticipation. Old grudges, old scars.

  Across the firelight, I saw Ashe.

  He stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight, eyes burning as Lucius spoke the word Church. Whatever mask he wore slipped just enough to show raw anger underneath.

  I felt Sophie tense beside me.

  Lucius hopped down from the crate, satisfied. “Eat well,” he called. “Sleep while you can. Tomorrow, we make history.”

  The camp slowly settled back into itself, louder now, restless with anticipation.

  Sophie looked at me, her voice low. “You okay?”

  I nodded, though my chest felt tight.

  “Looks like we won’t be easing into this,” I said.

  She glanced toward Ashe again, then back to me. “No,” she said quietly. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  I took another bite of bread, chewing more slowly this time.

  Soon, we'll marched—not just into battle, but straight into the shadow of the Church.

  And judging by the fire in some of the eyes around us, that shadow was exactly where many of them wanted to be.