The victory in the pass was short-lived.

  While Macus tended to the wounded, a sound like a falling boulder shook the trees.

  THUD.

  The ground shuddered. Macus spun around. From the ridge above, something had been dropped into the clearing. It wasn't a man. It wasn't a soldier.

  It was a mound of meat and iron, standing eight feet tall. Armor plates were bolted directly into its gray, dead skin, and metal wires stitched its massive limbs together.

  "Flesh Golem!" Torg barked, his voice tight. "Siege-Breaker class! Scatter! Do not engage directly!"

  Macus froze. This was a relic from the Soulfather’s prime—rare and terrifying.

  "Gas!" Macus shouted, grabbing a clay pot.

  He hurled it. The pot shattered against the Golem’s chest, enveloping it in the white paralytic cloud. The Golem didn't cough. It just walked through the mist, immune.

  "Ineffective!" Torg signaled. "Hamstrings! Strike and fade!"

  Soldiers lunged, spears stabbing at the Golem's legs. The iron plates fused to the creature's skin turned the blades aside. The Golem ignored them. It turned its empty gaze toward Macus and raised a massive iron club.

  Macus scrambled back, drawing his short sword. Analyze, his mind raced.

  The creature took a step. Thump. Then another. Thump. It was agonizingly slow. It moved like a puppet in molasses.

  It’s slow, Macus realized. It relies on mass. I can dodge this.

  The Golem raised its club. The wind-up took a full two seconds. Macus prepared to roll. But he miscalculated the reach.

  The club came down. It didn't hit him, but it hit the mud three feet away. The shockwave lifted Macus off his feet and slammed him backward against the wagon wheel. He gasped, pinned between the wood and the mud.

  He looked up. The Golem loomed over him. Up close, Macus saw the rusty iron fused to the pale, dead skin. He smelled the thick, cloying stench of rot.

  The Golem slowly raised the club again for the killing blow. Macus closed his eyes. I miscalculated. I missed one.

  CRUNCH.

  The sound was sickening—wet, loud, and final. Macus opened his eyes.

  The Golem was gone. Or rather, it had been obliterated—launched sideways with the force of a meteor, crumbling into the tree line. Standing where the monster had been was Caelthon.

  He wore full plate armor that shone even in the gloom, and his face was completely hidden behind a heavy, golden helm with a sunburst visor. He hadn't even drawn his sword. He had simply shoulder-checked the monster with the force of a runaway siege engine.

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  Caelthon skidded to a halt in the mud. He hissed in pain, grabbing his own shoulder. The pauldron was dented deep.

  "Gods," Caelthon wheezed, rotating his arm until a loud pop echoed. "That was... solid."

  He flipped his visor open, his face slick with sweat, wincing as the bruise set in.

  "Cutting it a bit close, aren't you, Quartermaster?" Caelthon managed a pained grin, offering his good hand.

  Macus took it. He felt the heat radiating through Caelthon's gauntlet. He saw the sweat pouring down Caelthon's face, the slight tremor in his friend's grip.

  Macus glanced at Caelthon’s belt. One Red Vial was empty.

  "You drank the whole thing," Macus whispered, checking Caelthon’s pupils.

  "It was heavy," Caelthon shrugged, his breath hitching slightly as he rubbed his dented shoulder. "Needed the mass. Like hitting a mountain."

  "It was a risk," Macus chided, though he was relieved. "Drink water. Flush the toxins."

  Macus nodded, marking the data in his mind. Golems are slow. They smell of rot.

  That night, the tavern in Oakhaven was roaring.

  "To Caelthon!" a soldier bellowed, raising a frothing mug. "For driving off the ambush!"

  Caelthon sat at the center table, basking in the glow of the hearth and the adoration of the men.

  "It was a team effort!" Caelthon laughed, his arm around a barmaid, genuinely believing it. "Macus softened them up. I just finished the job!"

  "Softened them up?" A soldier laughed. "You crushed a Golem with your shoulder, sir! That's the power of the Alliance!"

  "Aye!" a drunk merchant slammed his mug down, sloshing ale onto the table. "A Champion we can actually see! Not like the First One."

  "Watch your mouth," Torg warned.

  "I'm just saying," the merchant slurred, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper that carried across the room. "'Vanished in light,' my arse. No body, no grave."

  He pointed a jagged finger toward the dark window.

  "You know what they say in the gutters? The Champion died defeating the Soulfather, but the daughter still walks. They say she kept him. Dragged his body back to that Spire."

  The table went quiet.

  "What does a Witch do to dead bodies?" the drunk sneered. "Does she turn them into pets? Maybe that's why he never came back. He's standing guard at the foot of her bed."

  In the corner, sitting on a wobbly stool near the kitchen door, Macus nursed a cup of water. He was calculating the cost of the Alchemical Cement and Paralytic Gas he had used. It was coming out of his stipend. The army didn't reimburse "experimental" supplies.

  He didn't correct the drunk. In his experience, the drunk was usually closer to the truth than the bard.

  "Another round for the Champion!" Torg shouted, breaking the tension.

  Torg’s eyes scanned the room, landing on the dark corner where Macus sat. He raised his mug in a sharp, soldier’s salute—a silent thank-you for the mud and the gas.

  "Quartermaster! Get over here and let the men buy you a real drink!"

  Macus didn’t look up from his ledger. He simply lifted his cup of water an inch in a quiet refusal. "I have the accounts to finish, Captain. Don't let me spoil the sun."

  Torg gave a frustrated huff—half-pity, half-respect—and turned back to the cheering crowd. To the men, the exchange was invisible. To Macus, it was a choice.

  A young soldier bumped into Macus's table, spilling ale on his ledger. "Watch it, scribe," the soldier grunted, not recognizing the man who had actually stopped the charge.

  Macus dabbed at the wet paper. He looked at Caelthon, shining in the center of the room. The sun around which they all orbit.

  This is how it works, Macus told himself, forcing down the bitterness. The Sword gets the glory. The Shield gets the dents. Just like the Sun gets the glory. The Moon gets the craters. I am just the support.

  He closed his ledger. He paid his tab and slipped out the back door, unseen and unthanked. The alley was cold and empty. There was no one watching him. No one cared enough to watch the Quartermaster.

  He walked home alone in the dark, unaware that he was the only one truly fighting the war.