“And we are still confident crossing the Bloodspires remains our best option?”

“Well, we could retrace all the leagues we have crossed during the last week, put some serious resources into reconstructing the bridge that collapsed when we crossed it – I do not know about you, but I am uncertain we have that sort of engineering competence available to us right now, but I admire your optimism – and then hope that the bandits that we left behind are not still in pursuit. Of course, I may suggest that such a move is unlikely to do much for the precarious state of our people’s morale, but if you feel that would be the better choice, I am sure we will all give it a good old-fashioned go.”

Souit blinked back at Donal. Even after nearly a month in the man’s presence, he still had not adjusted to his conversational style. Not to mention the changes caused by a switch of Class that transformed him from a Dark Warlord – all shadowy darknesss – to a Frontiersman who, for inexplicable reasons, appeared to be wearing clothes made entirely of bear furs.

“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 before Donal continued, certain that further contributions from that direction were unlikely to improve matters. Instead, sighing, he stood and moved to the exit of his tent, motioning for the others within to do the same.

Stepping outside, the biting cold took away his breath, and he paused to take in the depressing sight of what remained of those to have escaped Swinford. The current iteration of the refugee’s camp bore all the marks of hastily assembled survival. They had managed to cover only half the distance today as they had the day before, largely due to the worsening of the weather. However, Taelsin was sensitive that a certain malaise was falling over the column: the sinking realisation that anyone with a choice had already slipped away, and what was left were the pitiable fragments.

Tents of mismatched fabric—tattered tarps, patched canvas, and even a few weather-beaten quilts—created a motley panorama of shelters. Several smokey fires, all struggling against the buffeting wind, flickered and shivered in the centre of small groups. The odds and ends of wood that had been gathered on the march provided meagre warmth in such circumstances. Most of the peasantry whose common Classes, under Donal’s direction and aura, had been such a boon to Swinford’s defences, had long since found themselves new homes. Of those that did remain, it had been agreed to try to husband Mana resources. No one knew what challenges still remained. Taelsin guessed that helped to explain the occasional pots of thin stew he could smell simmering over the flames.

Rations were getting scarce.

Right in the centre of the formation, if it could be called such, lay the stores of water, collected from a stream they had passed a few days before. These stores were carefully rationed and stored in an assortment of containers—glass jars, metal cans, and old porcelain jugs. Each citizen carried both their share of water, and also some of the central store. Blood had been spilt at the suggestion of taking, unbidden, from that group resource.

“We’re a sorry sight,” Degralk spoke softly at Taelsin’s shoulder.

Mayor Elm could not help but agree. Although the rump of the soldiery that had stayed with them maintained a professional air, the people of Swinford were in a parlous state. Children, their faces smudged with dirt, played half-heartedly amongst the tents, their laughter subdued by the oppressive chill that became worse the higher they climbed. All around them, moved figures with the weariness of those burdened by an uncertain future, their clothes layered and threadbare, patched in too many places to count.

Taelsin wondered how many of them cursed his name in their prayers at night. To have left the safety of a City’s walls – albeit one under siege – for this uncertain, pitful existence? It was increasingly looking like an act of colossal self-harm.

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 relatively modest in its reach and power, had the effect of radiating a gentle warmth and a sense of comfort to those nearby. It was not a flashy or overly powerful Skill, but he had such little left to offer his people, what else could he do? If there was one thing that everyone knew about the Elms, it was that they kept a warm fire.

As he activated , a subtle, green glow emanated from his hands, spreading outwards to form an invisible, comforting canopy above his people. As it grew, a chill in the air seemed to recede slightly, replaced by a soothing warmth. Conversations became a bit lighter, the laughter a bit more genuine. The tense lines on the adults' faces softened, and for a moment, the oppressive weight of their journey lifted. It was as if they were basking in the warmth of a long-lost fire at home.

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Taelsin felt his legs begin to give under the effort of maintaining the Skill, but then a strong arm threaded through his and held him in place. He glanced into the weary eyes of the Lady Darkhelm and nodded his appreciation for the – quite literal – support.

But then Donal appeared at his other side, a frown on his face. “You’re a good man, Taelsin. But the last thing these people need now is a good man. What will they think if they see you collapse with exhaustion? You reckon they’ll remember feeling a bit warmer for a few moments when they see their leader scrabbling in the dirt? You need to be smarter with your reserves of energy.”

“Is there not some local wildlife you need to go and bother, sir?”

“Likely so, my lady. I was merely tarrying on the off chance my advice would be useful. If you’re quite sure there are enough working minds here,” he ostentatiously peered at Degralk, Kettle and Souit – dramatically wincing as he did so – “then I will make my leave.”

“Stay, Donal.” Taelsin let drop and tried to ignore the glumness that instantly fell back over the camp. The air immediately felt thick with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingling with the occasional tang of unwashed bodies. 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.

He returned to the initial question about their direction of travel. “General Souit, do you have any other suggestions for where we could seek to go other than press onwards?”

All eyes turned to regard the dour Great General, who, in response, stared out into the distance. Assuming there would, once again, be no response forthcoming, Taelsin was about to move on, when Souit spoke, almost too quietly for the little group to hear. “I do not know, sir.”

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 how much the Great General had changed during the march. With every desertion, every post abandoned, every tent absent from the camp when the morning came, he had somehow reduced down into himself. With a start, Taelsin recognised that, just as he was feeling the weight of failure, so too was this man. “I think, Mayor Elm, that we are reaching the stage where considering other options becomes meaningless.”

“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 wry murmur 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 foreign 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, vibrated, emitting a low, resonant hum that travelled through the rocky hills like an invisible ripple. It was a sound only those of his kin could perceive, which – with the enhancement of the amulet – was now a call that would reach them wherever they roamed.

As the hum faded, the man remained motionless, knowing his people would feel the summons in their bones. One by one, they would converge on his position, drawn by the unerring pull of the combination of his Skill and the amulet’s power.

As if affected by the approaching men and women, the sky above the camp darkened further, and the screaming of the wind increased.