The fire crackled softly, its warmth barely keeping the cold at bay. Outside the tent, snowfkes drifted zily, turning the war camp into a bleak, white graveyard. The air was heavy with the scent of wet fur, unwashed bodies, and steel. Men huddled close to braziers, eyes hollow and weapons clutched tight, waiting for dawn.

  I pulled my cloak tighter, watching the fmes dance. The map on the table between us was stained with blood and ash, red markers scattered across it like drops of spilled wine. Behind me, the canvas fluttered, letting in a gust of icy wind.

  "Thinking again, are we?" Aric’s voice was rough, tired, but the grin he managed was almost genuine. He cpped me on the shoulder, fingers gauntleted and heavy. “That’s a bad habit.”

  I snorted. "Maybe someone has to."

  "Not you," he retorted, reaching for a fsk at his belt. "Leave that to the nobles and their tactics. We’re just here to bleed.”

  I chuckled, accepting the fsk. The liquor burned, warming my insides for all of two seconds before the cold bit back. I grimaced, wiping my mouth. “Can’t argue with that.”

  Aric moved to the map, tracing a line with one scarred finger. His eyes darkened, gncing at the red markers surrounding us. “Sorcerers,” he muttered, the word carrying a mix of disdain and unease. “Always hated dealing with them.”

  “You’re not alone,” I replied dryly. “Not many in the ranks are thrilled about it either.”

  “Can't bme them,” Aric grunted. “Most of these boys haven’t seen magic up close. Most haven’t even seen a mage, let alone survived a fight with one.”

  Magic was a dangerous thing—unpredictable, rare, and usually fatal for those foolish enough to try and master it. For most, the only experience they had with magic was watching friends get reduced to ashes or twisted into something unrecognizable. Fear of it ran deep, a shadow that lingered behind every campfire story and haunted every battlefield.

  Which was one of the reasons Aric was so valuable. His command of even minor spells made him a living legend among the troops—proof that not all magic was evil, just most of it.

  I snorted. “You’re one to talk. If it wasn’t for your parlor tricks, we’d all be corpses by now.”

  He grinned. “Don’t go singing my praises just yet. I’ve only got so much left in me, and the way things are looking, I’d rather not waste it lighting campfires.”

  “Not like you to be modest,” I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched.

  The fire’s glow cast flickering shadows over the recruits’ faces, eyes wide and wary as they gnced out into the darkness. A few huddled closer, hands gripping their swords until knuckles turned white.

  The redhead among them, the one with freckles and a sword far too big for his scrawny frame, licked his lips nervously. His gaze darted to the treeline every few seconds, searching for shapes that weren’t there.

  “It’s just wind,” I grunted, pnting myself by the fire. “Or have you never camped in the woods before?”

  The redhead started, looking up with wide green eyes. “S-Sir?”

  “I’m not a knight,” I muttered. “Elias will do.”

  He swallowed, nodding quickly. His knuckles were still white around his sword hilt.

  “You’re scared,” I said bluntly.

  They stiffened, shoulders locking. A few tried to hide it, tightening grips or looking away. I snorted. “Good. Fear keeps you alive. Embrace it. You see a sorcerer, you don’t fight—you move. Duck, dodge, find cover. Don’t stand there pissing yourself while he turns you inside out.”

  The redhead’s throat bobbed. “B-But what if we can’t run?”

  I sighed. “Then you make sure he’s dead before he can say a word. Aim for the throat, the hands, or whatever’s not covered in glowing crap. Simple.”

  One of the older recruits—a man with a jagged scar down his cheek—grunted. “Ever killed a sorcerer, sir?”

  “Three,” I lied smoothly. “They die like anyone else if you stick them hard enough.”

  That got a nervous chuckle out of them. The tension in their shoulders eased, if only a little. I caught Aric’s eyes across the campfire, and he raised a brow, amused.

  “Get some rest,” I ordered, turning away. “You’ll need it.”

  Back at the command tent, Aric was chuckling to himself. “Three sorcerers, huh?”

  “It was that or tell them they’re already dead,” I snorted. “Would you rather they wet themselves?”

  “Not particurly,” he admitted, still grinning. “Good speech, though. Almost sounded like you meant it.”

  “Shut up,” I muttered, but the corner of my mouth twitched.

  The humor faded quickly, silence settling between us once more. Aric pulled off one gauntlet, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

  “You ever wonder,” he began slowly, “how we ended up here?”

  “You hired me,” I pointed out dryly. “So if you’re looking to bme someone—”

  He snorted. “Bastard.”

  I smirked, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

  Aric leaned back, eyes fixed on the map. “Do you think we’ll win?”

  I hesitated. The question lingered, heavy and cold.

  “I think we’ll fight,” I said finally. “Win or lose, we’ll make them bleed.”

  He chuckled darkly. “Spoken like a true sell sword.”

  “Old habits,” I muttered.

  I didn’t make it back to my tent until te, boots crunching in the snow. The camp was quieter now—soldiers curled in their cloaks, some whispering prayers, others staring into the fire as if it held all the answers.

  I slid the tent fp open, setting my bde down beside the cot. The canvas walls fpped softly in the wind, letting in a chill that bit to the bone. I rolled my shoulders, wincing as the tension pulled at half-healed wounds.

  I gnced at my bde, fingers brushing the hilt. The steel was old, chipped in pces, but the runes along its length glinted softly in the firelight. A reminder of old battles and older scars.

  My eyes drifted shut. Sleep pulled at me, heavy and bitter, but I held on a moment longer, gaze fixed on the cold stars beyond the tent fp.

  “Tomorrow,” I muttered to no one in particur. “We will see.”