After supper, the party set a rota for night watch, then bedded down.
Kael chose a patch of earth, closed his eyes, and lay there wide-awake. As a Dread Sentinel, he needed neither food nor sleep, yet he forced himself to eat and rest, small rituals that reminded him he was still human.
Sleep never came. Instead, old scenes replayed behind shuttered lids—usually starring the grandfather who had raised him back in Dunhollow.
"Every heart shelters two wolves, boy," the old man would say, ruffling Kael's hair."One kind, one cruel. They brawl without end. Which wins?""The one you feed…"
Grandfather had always spoiled the punch line by blurting it out first, proud of the proverb he'd found—common words, yet precious once delivered in that warm, cracking voice.
Some nights, the memory felt so vivid that one half-expected to smell pipe smoke. Tonight was such a night—until an alien sound snapped him back: pages turning.
That noise had no business on a dark forest road. Kael opened his eyes. A short figure sat beside the coals, reading by firelight. A dwarf—he remembered the silent porter who wore a helmet all day.
Rising, Kael strode over. The dwarf flinched as a tall shadow fell across the flames.
"F-forgive me! I didn't mean to wake anyone!"
"I wasn't sleeping," Kael said. "Your book won't bother me."
The dwarf blinked. "Then why were you lying down?"
"Habit."
Realising no scolding was coming, the dwarf relaxed. The codex in his lap looked heavy enough to stun an ox.
"You read Imperial script?" Kael asked.
"Aye, sir. I had the chance to learn letters."
"Useful skill." Kael meant it. In this world, the literate folk were scarcer than mithril. He had clawed through months of study after arriving, enduring endless misunderstandings and near-lynchings before mastering the tongue.
The dwarf's eyes suddenly brimmed. "No one's ever praised that before. People say dwarves should swing hammers, not study lines."
"I'm Kael."
"Leon, son of Ayla. Copper plate—well, soon, I hope."
"Keep reading, Leon. I'll take this watch."
"R-really? I don't wish to be dead weight."
"I wouldn't be watching if I could sleep."
Leon thanked him with an earnest bow and dove back into his chapter. Something in the dwarf's eagerness reminded Kael of a kid brother he'd left behind in another reality. The chill in his armoured chest eased, just a fraction.
Page-flips and crackling logs carried the camp to dawn.
Travel resumed without incident until late afternoon, when Miles called a halt on a game trail.
"We're close to the Mawbear's den," the bronze-plate leader announced. "We'll eat, gear up, and finish the trek."
Acolyte Lira glanced around the thick trees. "Isn't stopping here risky?"
Miles laughed. "Nothing prowls where a mutated Mawbear nests. Trust me, sister; you'd smell a sign if anything worse lingered."
He unpacked a kettle. "Allow me to display my legendary cuisine!"
The bowman snorted. "Miles can cook?"
"Years on the road teach a soldier plenty."
Miles stewed dried meat and veg into a simple broth, bragging. Once it was ready, he ladled portions. Strangely, Kael's bowl brimmed twice as high as the others'.
"You're a big fellow—need more fuel," Miles joked.
Kael lifted the spoon and felt a prickling at the base of his skull. Murderous intent, faint yet definite, leaked from the brush behind the wagons.
He dipped a finger in the soup, tasted… paralysis herb. His helm snapped toward Miles, whose grin faltered.
Kael kicked the cauldron. Scalding broth drenched the cook."Aaaargh!"
"Spit that soup out!" Kael barked.
The mercenaries stared, confused—until a razor-tipped arrow slammed into Lira's shoulder.
"Damn," Miles growled, wiping stew from his eyes. "Would've fetched good coin for the priestess."
Steel hissed. Five brigands exploded from the foliage—Miles's hidden allies. Half-drugged mercs fumbled for weapons; limbs moved like wet clay. One fell before he could lift a sword, his throat was laid open.
Kael alone was unaffected—the Dread Sentinel's body scoffed at most venoms. He side-stepped a war-hammer, cleaved its wielder's neck with a hand-axe, then pivoted on the second thug. The man's slash rang off Kael's plate; Kael answered with a mailed fist that shattered jaw and skull alike.
He drove his gauntlet into the corpse's chest. Skill: Umbral Draw flared, siphoning life and soulstuff. Human essence tasted richer, denser than any beast's. Memories flickered across Kael's mind: Miles's crew celebrating a Mawbear kill, Miles assaulting the village elder's daughter, a mob uprising, a massacre to hush it. Desperation, greed, flight… and the scheme to seize fresh enslaved people on one last "job."
So that was the truth.
Four foes remained—three Iron, Miles the Bronze. Kael fixed on the ringleader.
"One question," he said, voice a low echo behind the visor. "Why murder the entire village? There were other paths."
Miles sneered through blistered skin. "Need a reason to kill? They were weak, but the payout was strong. That's all."
"I see." Kael raised his sword. The inner wolf that craved redress growled for feeding time.