The first snow of the season dusted the dead.
It fell softly over Fort Drenhall, covering the blackened ground where the wounded from Green Hollow had been carried. The smell of smoke still lingered in the stone corridors, mixing with the scent of wet iron and burning salves.
Auren Varik sat on the edge of the infirmary bed, the sleeve of his tunic sliced open to reveal the stitched wound running from shoulder to bicep. He didn't flinch as the medic finished binding it—he was used to pain by now. It was the quiet he couldn't stand.
"You got lucky," said the medic, an older woman with silver-threaded hair and fingers as steady as steel.
Auren looked up. "I let him stab me."
The medic paused, blinking. "On purpose?"
"He came to kill me. And I couldn't make myself stop him."
She resumed wrapping the bandage. "You're either brave or foolish."
Auren gave a faint smile. "It changes by the hour."
Later that day, the soldiers gathered in the courtyard for a public address. The banners of Volgrin hung from the battlements, crimson stitched with the black flame, fluttering in the wind. A hush fell over the crowd as General Nyreth Vellan strode forward. Tall, lean, every line on her face carved by war, Vellan was as much a legend as she was a ghost.
Auren stood near the rear, his arm aching, his eyes heavy from another sleepless night.
Vellan began without preamble.
"Green Hollow was a success. Dareth's supply lines are crippled. Their movement southward will stall, and with winter at our backs, they will bleed in their snow-covered fields."
The soldiers cheered, fists raised. Auren didn't.
"But," Vellan continued, "victory has cost us. Volgrin does not rejoice at the suffering of the innocent. We did not start this war. But we will end it — decisively, honorably, and with the memory of every Volgrin child burned in a Dareth raid carved into our blades."
Auren turned slightly, watching the faces around him.
Some were moved. Others were hollow. Some looked angry. And a few — just a few — looked scared.
Vellan raised her voice.
"The next phase begins in five days. Dareth holds the city of Elthemar — a stronghold of trade and culture, and a nest for their cowardly command. We will take it. And we will bring their banners to the dust."
More cheers.
Auren said nothing.
That night, Tessan sat beside Auren in the barracks, sharpening his sword with rhythmic, careful strokes. The boy had lost his humor.
"I heard they're conscripting more farmers from the eastern counties," Tessan said.
"They'll die fast," Auren replied.
"Yeah. Maybe faster than we will."
A pause.
"Why did you really spare that man in the village?" Tessan asked. "Thom?"
Auren stared at the ceiling. "He looked like he didn't want to kill me."
"None of us want to kill each other," Tessan muttered.
"You're wrong," Auren said. "Some do. Some like it. I've seen it in their eyes. But not him. Not Calen. Not Thom. They killed because they were told to. Like us."
Tessan looked up. "So what are we doing?"
Auren didn't answer.
Tessan walked away.
"We follow the shepherd's orders," quietly said Auren.
Two days before the march to Elthemar, a messenger from the capital arrived. He carried with him a satchel of letters — real parchment, not field orders — and a sealed scroll bearing the royal crest.
Auren opened his letter in private.
It was from his wife, Mara.
He hadn't heard from her in nearly a year.
Auren,
They came again. Dareth scouts. Burned the east barn, stole the goats. I moved the boys into town, but there's sickness spreading. The little one — Terin — coughs blood now.
I heard your name in the village. They say you're leading units now. They say you're killing Dareth soldiers without mercy.
If that's what keeps you alive, then keep killing. But if there's still anything of the man who made horseshoes for children… come back to us. Don't be the man the war makes you.
Please.
Mara.
Auren read it twice.
Then he folded it carefully and slid it into his breastplate, over his heart.
The march began under a pale gray sky. Rows of soldiers filed out of Drenhall, their armor polished, their expressions numb. Elthemar lay two weeks to the east, behind hills and frozen rivers and patrols.
Auren rode beside Captain Rhoen near the front of the column.
"Ever seen Elthemar?" Rhoen asked.
"Once. When I was sixteen."
"It's still beautiful, I'm told. Shame we'll have to shatter it."
Auren looked ahead, the wind tugging at his cloak.
"Do we really have to?"
Rhoen arched a brow. "If we don't, they'll use it to restock and flank us in spring."
"Then we starve them out."
"You think they'll surrender?" Rhoen said. "No one's surrendered since the siege of Harthen. That was fifteen years ago."
Auren was quiet for a long time.
"I just wonder," he finally said, "how much of the world has to burn before someone puts the torch down."
On the seventh night of the march, they came across a Dareth scouting party — six riders, lightly armored, unaware of the advancing column.
Auren led a detachment of ten into the hills to cut them off.
He recognized one of them — Thom.
The man who'd stabbed him. The one he'd spared.
They saw each other from across a field of frost-covered grass.
Neither moved.
Thom lifted his hand.
He didn't reach for his sword. He just raised his hand — not in surrender. In recognition.
Auren lowered his axe.
Behind him, Tessan said, "They're not drawing weapons."
"They won't," Auren said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I wouldn't."
They let the riders pass.
No one would ever know. It wouldn't make a difference in the war.
But that night, Auren slept without dreams.