Morning broke with a pale, brittle light that bled slowly across the horizon. The camp stirred reluctantly, grumbles, coughs, the thump of boots on frozen earth. Smoke drifted from the rekindled fire as strips of salted meat hissed over the flames.
Kaelen was already awake, rolling his bedroll tight, his movements spare and efficient. He’d slept little, as always. Dreams left his body restless, and he’d given up chasing deep rest long ago.
Around him, the mercenary company came alive in their uneven, ragged way. They were not soldiers bound by banners or honor. They were strays, men and women who had drifted into Captain Blackwood’s shadow because they had nowhere else to stand.
There was Garen, a broad-shouldered ex-smith whose arms looked built for anvils more than swords. He sang baw
