He heaved a deep sigh, letting the evening breeze sweep away its bitterness - a weight finally lifted from his shoulders. "I can't even fathom why I'm telling you all this... I'd convinced myself I'd buried her memory long ago."

"Because my damned words dredged up your buried memories," Tyler Wynlers said, disgusted with himself.

Carl pulled on his gloves and clapped both Tyler and Devalosfang on their shoulders. "That's all in the past now. Let time do its work. 'Those who soar above cannot stumble on stones below.' It's growing late - we should check on our dear Fat Simon. Care to join us, my lord?"

"Not this time," the squad leader waved them off. "I visited him before your report to Lord Eoch. The medic says it's mostly surface wounds, nothing serious. 'Simon's face is thicker than Nira's armor' - isn't that what you always say?" He chuckled - his first genuine laugh of the evening. "I have to check on the armory. Give Simon my best - and tell him I hope his gut doesn't grow as thick as his hide!"

Their shared laughter melted into the night. "The armory, you say? Then we'll walk together for a while." Carl set off without waiting for a response, still grinning. Devalosfang moved to leave but noticed Tyler hadn't stirred. "I know there's something on your mind." The faint smile on the squad leader's face began to fade. "But now isn't the time."

"I... I'm not sure," Tyler faltered, unable to grasp his own thoughts or find the words.

"I understand. We'll have our moment to discuss this." Devalosfang left Tyler standing alone. "But right now, your duty is to visit Big-Mouth Simon with Carl, Tyler Wynlers."

Perhaps you're right. Tyler followed after them. We'll have our chance. A chance to let our swords do the talking.

Carl still led the way, chuckling, pretending not to notice the battlefield behind them.

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He walked through the woods. Thick oak branches blocked out the sky, while the fires behind him gradually dimmed. Though darkness surrounded him, his bright orange eyes cut through the gloom with ease. This is like wading through shit. The recent downpour had saturated Wymar Forest's soil, and with every step, Lannord felt mud seeping into his boots. Revolting.

After hurling the legless duck into the officer's face, he'd stormed into the forest without a backward glance. The insult rankled, but worry for his friend drove him forward. Where has that fool gone? He knew Stellan's temperament well enough to fear what such humiliation might drive him to do. He wanted to call out, but knew better. Shouting would only draw soldiers, and besides, he could track Stellan's scent from afar - though Stellan could do the same. Goria, watch over him. Keep him from bloodshed.

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A horse materialized through the gloom. That scent... yes, Stellan's black stallion. The beast seemed to sense his presence, pawing the ground nervously. "Hey there, friend," Lannord offered a brief greeting. "Seen where that hotheaded master of yours has run off to?"

The black horse blinked rapidly, nostrils flaring. "Oh really... he abandoned you and fled?" Lannord stroked its mane while gently caressing its face. "Yes... I know how hot-headed he is... indeed, this is how he gets when anger takes him. You say he ran? I see... then he'll leave no tracks... troublesome."

An owl gripped a branch overhead, its massive eyes studying them as it tilted its head. Lannord caught its stare. "No spying, little troublemaker." He turned to face it. "Go hunt your field mice. Unless you want me to lure them out for you?"

The owl hooted twice softly before taking wing. "Rejected again," he muttered, patting the black horse's flank. "These little ones never warm up to me."

A blood-curdling howl tore through the forest. Stellan's horse startled, ready to bolt. "Easy now, steady. Little Black? May I call you that?" His soothing voice worked its magic, and the horse calmed under his spell. That fool... surely causing more trouble. He mounted Little Black. "Come, let's find that mad master of yours."

Under Lannord's guidance, Little Black trotted forward but soon lost direction. Focus... Lannord closed his eyes, sharpening his sense of smell. "Blood... yes, blood-scent, Little Black. What kind... I can only tell it isn't human..." The black horse tossed its head, mane dancing in the moonlight. "It's coming from there, isn't it?" He pointed northwest, and the horse seemed to agree. "Let's hurry then," he urged. "With luck, he's satisfied himself with whatever poor beast he's found."

As Little Black cantered on, Lannord weighed his options. Their fathers had opposed them becoming apprentice knights, wearing green cloaks to join the border guard. Despite his promises that elven cloaks would protect them and that he'd watch over Stellan, both dukes remained unconvinced. "It's not your safety that concerns me, Lannord," his father had said, his tone gentle but absolute. "I fear you - or Stellan - might lose control and do something irreparable." Stellan's father had sat silent nearby, his stern expression deepening his furrowed brow. "Son, understand this. Once exposed, you either flee or die." "What if we fight back?" He'd longed to ask this, but never found the moment. Why run? Why bow to humans? He couldn't grasp it, but Stellan's father's words crushed his defiance. "You speak of resistance, Lannord?" His first words since arriving. "You wouldn't need thousands of human soldiers. Five well-armed knights and two pikemen could finish you, child." Lannord tried to object, but the duke pressed on. "Critical injuries are hard to heal, even for someone like your father. And you, barely balanced on two feet..." He's right, Lannord thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. I wouldn't last a minute against Devalosfang, let alone five knights. The memory of the Captain's effortless skill with a blade stung.