The road stretched beneath leaves-choked skies, the pond's visions hours behind them.

  The woman sat before him, swaying with the horse, her silence heavy upon his mind.

  That smile lingered still: fractured, intimate, wrong in ways he could not name. It had lasted only a breath by the treeline, but it gnawed at him like a splinter beneath skin.

  The column moved with uncertain rhythm, boots striking the damp ground in measured order. His officers flanked the ranks, voices carrying orders through the host.

  Yet his thoughts still circled that moment. Why smile? Why then?

  “Lord Commander,” Regulus said, drawing near him, head inclined.

  “Speak.”

  “Though the march stirs on, the men falter. They whisper of omens and dark sayings, as though demons walked in shadow. Permit me the prayer. It would cast fear from their souls, and bind their voices as one, as it did when we first entered this place. Furthermore, its length is known. It gives us the measure of our steps, so that time is not wholly stolen from us. And the men would profit to remember their homes, not this cursed land.”

  Alric’s eyes shifted to him, cold and silver.

  “Time marked by prayers is still time lost.”

  Regulus did not waver, gaze locked with his.

  Alric drew a breath.

  “But if it steadies them, do it. Keep it low.”

  Regulus bowed his head and answered.

  “By your word, Lord Commander.”

  He rode to his post, and drew forth a horn from his saddlebag.

  Not the crude warhorn of battle, but something older. Slender and broad-mouthed, made of blackened bronze. The twin-headed falcon etched upon its surface had been worn smooth by generations of noble hands.

  The horn spoke not of war, but of remembrance.

  He raised it to the grey sky and blew.

  The note that poured forth was deep and longing, passing through the ranks like distant thunder; not summoning men to death, but calling them home.

  The army quieted at once. All hands stilled, all heads turned, eyes locked onto the wielder.

  When the echo died, his voice rose in ancient cadence.

  “By His Throne we stand and fight…”

  “Twin-headed, twin-blessed, twin-crowned,” the legion answered, ragged at first, as though memory was catching up to their throats.

  “Power and Might by talon’s strike…”

  "Storm and lightning guide our way."

  “By the crown of spears we pierce the skies...”

  "We are bound, we are bound."

  The chant rolled through the lines like a tide returning to shore, their voices growing stronger with each verse.

  “By sacred seal and strength of steel…”

  “We are bound, we are bound.”

  “To the Eternal City…”

  “We are bound, we are bound.”

  The final verse rose as one voice, thirty-eight thousand men forged by war and faith.

  “Crown and throne, crown and throne,

  Steel and stone, steel and stone,

  By His will, By His will,

  We are Home, we are Home.”

  As the chant continued, armour shook, boots struck soil firmly, and the very earth seemed to carry them onward.

  Alric did not sing.

  His lips stayed shut, gaze fixed ahead, yet he marked their steadier step, their regained breath, and the silence broken by order.

  But the words themselves did not reach him. They belonged to another Empire, one he only knew in memories of the past.

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  The words faded into the natural rhythm of marching feet, and in it, he found another melody.

  She was singing the same Drathiri lullaby from the Crag’s entrance, slow and methodical, quiet and melancholic.

  “What’s its name?”

  She turned her head toward him slightly, eyes narrowing.

  “What’s it to you, butcher?”

  “Curiosity. Nothing more.” he said plainly.

  She scoffed.

  “Curious about what, exactly? Which song to sing while you burn more lullabies?”

  “The name,” he said, voice cut from cooled iron.

  She stiffened, then turned to face him fully, eyes blazing with murder, voice barely above a whisper.

  “I owe you nothing, Lord Commander.”

  He held her gaze a moment longer before turning to the road again.

  But she kept hers on him, studying his every blink.

  “What’re you playing at, Commander? What are you asking about really? The song? Or something else entire?”

  He looked at her briefly.

  “What’s it to you?”

  She stared at him, something vulnerable flickering behind her anger. Then her jaw clenched tight, and she turned away without another word.

  The army continued its steady march unperturbed, the exchange passing unnoticed save for the occasional glances from nearby officers who marked the apparent tension, but said nothing.

  Hours passed in silence between them, broken only by the Hekatons’ distant calls.

  Leagues lay behind them, dusk couloring the ancient canopy red.

  Alric had sent scouts to find suitable ground for the night’s camp. One returned and drew near to report.

  “A meadow, Lord Commander, just ahead. Streams run through it with good defensive positions. It is a quarter of an hour’s march from here.”

  Alric nodded.

  “Send word to all Hekatons and the four main officers. We camp.”

  “As you command.” The scout saluted crisply and rode off to his companions, which then scattered to relay the news in haste.

  Word of camp spread through the lines quickly, and its effect was immediate. Backs straightened, voices lifted in relief, and for the first time since the Crag’s entrance, eyes found their purpose again.

  As the quarter hour passed, the column turned toward the meadow, following the scouts' path through a gap in the treeline.

  Green grass stretched before them, bordered by a clear stream, ancient trees standing sentinel at the edges, their oppressive glare now completely gone.

  The forest had grown docile. Natural sounds had been returned, branches swayed in normal breezes, and even the crows, though still hanging inverted, no longer felt like dark omens.

  The army began its practiced dispersal across the meadow. Tents rose, cook fires sparked to life, and the efficient routine of veteran legions took hold.

  Alric swung down from his horse and gestured to Klethiar.

  He came near.

  “Yes, Lord Commander?”

  “Take her to my tent. Do not let anyone in aside you or Vargo. Post guards outside.”

  “As you command, Lord Commander.”

  “Good.”

  He lifted her from the saddle. She stiffened at his touch, body more carved wood than flesh.

  Klethiar stepped forward and gestured toward the command area. She walked beside him without a word.

  As the young officer led her away, Alric turned his attention to the camp's positioning. The meadow offered good defensive ground as the scout had said, but the supply wagons needed proper placement.

  As he was mulling over these thoughts, a voice broke through.

  “Lord Commander.”

  He turned and saw Regulus just a few paces from him.

  “Speak.”

  “A word, if I may.” His voice pitched low enough for only him to hear.

  Alric nodded toward the timberline, where forest met meadow, away from the bustle of soldiers setting camp.

  They moved from the center, boots crunching softly on damp grass.

  When Alric judged the distance sufficient, he turned around and spoke.

  “Speak.”

  Regulus straightened his back, and clasped his hands behind it.

  "Lord Commander, I do not speak out of presumption, but respect. Of you, and the Empire we all serve.”

  He held a pause, choosing his words with the precision of a man who understood power.

  "I have stood with the Sixth and Third for thirty-five years, since before you could hold a blade. I served with your father through seven campaigns, watched him forge these legions into weapons of war."

  His tone carried the weight of long-fought experience.

  “Today, during the march, I saw how you spoke with the prisoner. The men saw it too, and this might affect how they view you, as shadows and whispers grow easy in the midst of worn-down souls."

  He paused, his gaze steady.

  "The exchanges between yourself and the prisoner suggest a familiarity that breeds questions among the ranks. Questions that travel swiftly and grow in the telling, especially in a place such as this, where rumors fester freely."

  Regulus gestured toward the camp.

  "The men look to their commanders as embodiments of imperial discipline. When that authority appears entangled with personal considerations, be they lust, pity or anything inbetween, it weakens the foundation upon which order rests."

  His eyes held Alric's with quiet intensity.

  "You bear two legions on your shoulders, and the weight of their expectations. Every action, every word, every gesture is measured against the standard they’ve seen you embody thus far."

  A faint trace of concern crept into his formal bearing.

  "I do not question your judgment in sparing the woman. The field commander's prerogative remains yours alone. But the manner of your interactions invites speculation that serves neither your position nor hers."

  He took a step forward, back still rigid.

  "Distance preserves authority, Lord Commander. The prisoner should be handled through proper channels. Guards, subordinate officers, rank and file. It protects both your reputation and her safety."

  His formal mask slipped just enough for the man behind it to be viewed.

  "You carry enough, Alric. I have seen great lords brought low, not by enemy action, but by the mere perception of impropriety. I would not see that fate touch you."

  Regulus stepped back, voice softening slightly.

  "That is all, Lord Commander. The choice remains yours."

  Alric was quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the campfires beginning to dot the meadow.

  “I hear you, Regulus,” he began. “I always have.”

  His gaze shifted to the older man.

  “You served my father, but never contended, never grasped at what was not yours. For that, I respect you.”

  A pause.

  “But the woman stays under my watch. Not for weakness or sentimentality, but because I judge it necessary.”

  He drew breath, his voice final.

  “The men who followed me through three years of ruin will follow me through this also. They trust my judgement because it has held thus far.”

  He inclined, a soldier’s acknowledgment.

  “Still, your counsel is noted and valued, Regulus. You’ve earned that right through years of blood.”

  “Is there anything else?”