“Well,” Donal began, “we could always retrace all the leagues we’ve covered this past week, put considerable resources into rebuilding that lovely bridge that collapsed just as we crossed it—I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m unsure we have the sort of engineering expertise required on hand, though I admire your optimism—and then hope those bandits we narrowly escaped aren’t still sniffing along our trail."
He paused, as if genuinely contemplating the suggestion, then added dryly, "Naturally, a retreat of that nature would not do wonders for our people’s morale, which is already dangling by a thread, but if you truly feel this would be the better course, I’m sure we’ll all give it a good old-fashioned go.”
Souit blinked at Donal, momentarily at a loss. After nearly a month in the man’s company, he still hadn’t quite adjusted to Donal’s particular brand of conversational flair. And, as if that weren’t enough, there was also the jarring transformation brought about by Donal’s latest Class change—from a Dark Warlord cloaked in shadows and gloom to a Frontiersman inexplicably decked out head-to-toe in bear furs.
The sight of Donal, once so menacing in darkness, now resembling a walking taxidermy project, was almost as disconcerting as the man’s relentlessly irritating tone.
“I was not suggesting that was my preference, sir. I am merely asking if trying to push through in these conditions was a sensible course of action.”
Taelsin raised a hand, cutting Donal off before he could elaborate further, convinced that any additional contributions from that direction would only complicate matters. With a weary sigh, he rose to his feet and moved toward the exit of his tent, gesturing for the others inside to follow. His expression was one of resigned determination, as though he were bracing himself for yet another inevitable setback.
Stepping outside, the biting cold struck Taelsin’s lungs, stealing his breath as he took in the dismal sight of what remained of those who had escaped Swinford.
The camp sprawled before him, a patchwork of makeshift shelters and haphazard fires—its every detail bearing the unmistakable mark of desperation and barely held-together survival. They’d managed to cover only half the distance today that they had the day before, hindered not only by the worsening weather but by something heavier.
A creeping malaise had begun to seep through their ranks, each face reflecting the bitter truth dawning upon them: anyone with a choice, anyone with connections or strength to spare, had already slipped away.
What remained were the fractured remnants, the ones too old, too wounded, or too bound by loyalty to leave. These were the pitiable fragments of a once-hopeful exodus, gathered around sputtering fires, huddling closer to the dim warmth and to one another, each aware of just how little was left.
Tents of mismatched fabric—tattered tarps, patched canvas, and even a few weather-beaten quilts—formed a ragged panorama of makeshift shelters. In the centre of small clusters, smoky fires fought against the biting wind, flickering fitfully as if uncertain of their own survival. Scraps of wood, scavenged on the march, provided little more than a token warmth, barely enough to keep the chill at bay.
Most of the peasantry, whose humble Classes had proved so invaluable under Donal’s direction in the defences of Swinford, had long since found new homes, slipping away into safer lands. Those who remained had come to an unspoken agreement to conserve what Mana they had left, carefully hoarding their resources for the unknown trials ahead.
That resolve, Taelsin suspected, explained the thin, watery stews simmering over the fires—a “practical” meal, stretched to feed as many mouths as possible. The faint scent was a quiet reminder of how far they’d fallen from the defiant strength they’d shown at Swinford’s walls.
Rations, predictably, were getting scarce.
At the centre of the so-called formation lay their precious water stores, collected from a stream they'd passed days ago. Each drop was rationed with care, distributed into an odd assortment of containers—glass jars, metal cans, old porcelain jugs—whatever could be salvaged to hold it.
Each person carried both their individual share and, if they were strong enough, part of the collective reserve. And blood had already been spilt over that shared resource; even the suggestion of taking from it unbidden was enough to spark fury.
“We’re a sorry sight,” Degralk murmured at Taelsin’s shoulder.
Mayor Elm could not help but agree.
Although the rump of the soldiery that remained with them maintained a professional air, the people of Swinford were in a parlous state. Children, their faces smudged with dirt, played listlessly among the tents, their laughter muted by the oppressive chill that worsened with each upward step along the mountain path.
Around them moved the adults, their expressions hollow with weariness, the haunted look of those burdened by an uncertain future. Their clothes were layered in mismatched, threadbare patches, repaired too many times to retain warmth, each garment a testament to the lives they’d left behind.
Taelsin couldn’t help but wonder how many of them cursed his name in whispered prayers at night. To have left the relative safety of a city’s walls—even one under siege—for this bleak, pitiful existence? Increasingly, it seemed a decision that bordered on self-inflicted ruin.
He could not just stand and witness this slow descent into despair.
Closing his eyes and giving little mind to his own exhaustion, Taelsin activated the Skill that had been passed down through generations of his family:
This ability, though modest in both reach and strength, emanated a gentle warmth and a quiet sense of comfort to those nearby. It wasn’t flashy, nor could it boast any great power, but he had little else left to give his people—what more could he offer? If there was one thing known about the Elms, it was that they kept a warm fire, even in the bleakest of times.
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And so he stood there, letting the warmth radiate, a small kindness in a world grown cold.
As he activated
Taelsin felt his legs begin to buckle under the strain of maintaining the Skill, his energy waning with each passing moment. Just as his strength faltered, a firm arm slipped through his, steadying him.
He glanced sideways, meeting the weary yet resolute eyes of Lady Darkhelm, who held him upright without a word. He nodded his appreciation, a silent acknowledgment of her—quite literal—support, grateful for the strength she lent him in that moment.
But then Donal appeared at Taelsin’s other side, frowning thoughtfully. “You’re a good man, Taelsin. But the last thing these people need right now is a good man who collapses mid-camp. Do you think they’ll remember feeling a bit warmer if they see their leader face-down in the dirt? You need to be smarter with your reserves of energy.”
Taelsin shot him a withering look. “Isn’t there some unfortunate local wildlife you ought to be bothering, sir?”
“Likely so, my lady,” Donal replied with a mock bow to Lady Darkhelm. “I was merely lingering on the off chance my wisdom would prove useful. But if you’re quite sure there are enough working minds here…” He glanced ostentatiously at Degralk, Kettle, and Souit in turn, each appraisal accompanied by a theatrical wince. “Then I shall make my leave.”
“Stay, Donal.” Taelsin let
Yet, even in the dark kant of Taelsin’s mind, he felt that there were more small gestures of kindness than there had been before—a shared blanket here, a piece of bread given to a hungry child there—there was now more of a flicker of humanity that defied the grim surroundings.
His people were not yet broken, though the edge of desperation was creeping closer with each passing day.
Returning to the initial question of their direction, Taelsin sighed. “General Souit, do you have any other suggestions for where we might go, other than pressing onwards?”
All eyes turned to the dour Great General, who stared fixedly into the distance as though considering the vast expanse might yield a miraculous answer. Taelsin was just about to move on, assuming the usual silence would be Souit’s only response, when the man finally spoke, his voice so low it was nearly lost in the wind.
“I do not know, sir.”
The statement hung awkwardly in the air, a simple, almost pitiful confession from a man accustomed to always knowing the next step, leaving Taelsin and the others with little more than the reality they’d already guessed: even the Great General had run out of options.
Taelsin sensed Donal was about to speak but stilled him with a gesture. “But you do have something to say, my lord?"
Souit turned to face Taelsin, and the younger man was struck by just how much the Great General had changed over the course of their march. Every desertion, every post abandoned, every empty tent they found at dawn had seemed to carve something away from him, hollowing him out bit by bit, as though he were gradually folding in on himself.
With a jolt, Taelsin realised that the weight of failure he felt was mirrored in this man—a once-imposing figure now worn thin by the burden of watching his forces crumble.
“I think, Mayor Elm,” Souit said, his voice tired and stripped of its former edge, “that we’re reaching the point where considering other options is an exercise in futility.”
“That’s the spirit! Never let it be said that the Great General was not a ball of boundless optimism. Thanks for that. Perhaps you should be addressing your men in the lost art of will writing!”
“That’s enough!” Degralk hissed at Donal. “You will show proper respect to the General.”
“I will? I can’t say that’s ever been a problem for me before. What has brought about this sad state of affairs?”
Degralk stepped forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with the Frontiersman.
Taelsin glanced over to Daine, hoping she was planning to step in and cool tempers, but she was showing no such inclination to do so. “You speak to all of us in the King’s Army as if we are witless fools. You disparage us. You sneer at us. And worst of all, you disrespect the sacrifices we have made in your name. The people of Swinford may have suffered, but we died at your walls to keep you safe. And what will be our reward? There is not one of us with you now that can ever go home, under pain of being outlawed as traitors. None of us will ever see their families again. That is a choice we have each made -” he paused for a moment to collect himself. His voice had risen, and those around the nearest cooking fire glanced over uneasily – “That is a choice we have made. And no more so than our General. I think we all deserve more from you than your derision.”
Donal nodded thoughtfully, then immediately turned to Souit. “Your man is right, my lord. And I apologise. I have ever been of an irreverent mind, and it appears this new Class does little to encourage me to hold my tongue. I am truly sorry if I have not properly shown thanks for the sacrifices you and your people have made on behalf of Swinford. We would not still be alive without you, and I will ever be in your and your men’s debt.”
“By the Goddess, Donal Assay being sincere. Now I know we truly are doomed.”
The laughter that followed Daine’s words did much to relax the atmosphere in the group and – seeing their leaders sharing a moment of good humour - spread a touch more good cheer around the camp.
*
In the hills overlooking the camp, a man crouched, his form blending seamlessly with the rugged terrain. He would not have known what to answer should he have been asked his name.
He simply was.
Clad in tattered hides and adorned with trophies of past hunts, he bore the marks of countless battles etched into his weathered skin. His eyes scanned the scene below with careful deliberation.
Despite a momentary lifting of spirits – he had sensed the use of Mana by their leader – he knew these people were vulnerable, their makeshift camp weak. His lip curled in a silent snarl, the prospect of a successful hunt stirring within him.
The mountain wind whispered to his ears, and he knew what he must do next. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the bone amulet hanging around his neck, a gift from the Shadow Mage that had come to his people the night before, speaking of rich pickings to the south. With a touch, he connected it to his Skill
The amulet, as the Mage had promised, began to vibrate, emitting a low, resonant hum that coursed through the rocky hills like a ripple. It was a sound only those of his kin could perceive, a primal summons that—amplified by the amulet—would reach them wherever they roamed.
As the hum faded into silence, the man remained perfectly still, knowing that his people would feel the call deep in their bones. One by one, they would begin to converge, each compelled by the irresistible pull of his Skill woven with the amulet’s ancient power. Soon, they would gather around him, drawn from all directions like shadows converging at dusk.
As if affected by the approaching men and women, the sky above the camp darkened further, and the screaming of the wind increased.