Ronan’s head throbbed, each pulse sharp enough to jolt him toward full consciousness. He was lying down, though the surface beneath him was surprisingly soft, warmer than the cold, hard ground he remembered. Faint whispers of canvas and the murmur of distant voices brushed his ears, coaxing him back into the waking world. He had yet to open his eyes, he was still feeling groggy, though the headache was slowly receding to manageable levels.

Somehow, Ronan could sense two people nearby. It felt almost like it had during the battle, though with less clarity. The feeling brought back scattered and disjointed images of Ronan slaughtering his way through the Varn levies and of his fight with the knight. Where the knight had come from Ronan could not figure out, as they had been told that the Varn had not sent them with their army. A chill crept over him as fragmented memories of the battle returned—the shocked faces of men he’d cut down, the spray of blood against his skin. His stomach twisted with a pang of disbelief and shame, but there was something else too—a dark thrill coiled deep within him, a fierce, primal satisfaction at the power he’d wielded, however fleeting.

Something in his bearing or breathing must have changed, because one of those near him began talking.

"Awake at last I see." The voice was cheerful, but sounded almost forced. It carried the pronunciations that he had often heard in his fathers smithy, when the nobles came to them for weaponry. Ronan briefly wondered if the knight he had fought had had friends and someone had sneaked up on him during their battle. But quickly realized that the accent sounded like it was from northern Sardia, and not Varn.

Ronan tried to push himself up, but his wrists jerked to a halt, held fast by something rough and unyielding. Blinking through the haze, he realized his hands were bound to the cot.

"Easy there. Please remain still. You took a solid hit to your head." The cheerful voice sounded once again.

Ronan began to speak, but as he opened his mouth he realized his throat was as dry as he had ever felt it. Instead of his intended question, he croaked out a request for water instead.

His eyes were slowly adjusting to the light, and he could see the shape of his captor, and what looked like a large tent around them. Something was moving towards his head, and he felt the sweet taste of water shortly after. He immediately felt relief in his throat.

"Where am I? Who are you?" Ronan asked as the cup was moved away again. As his vision cleared, he took in the muted glow of lantern light filtering through canvas walls, casting everything in warm, flickering shades of red and gold. The faint scent of leather and cold steel lingered in the air—a camp, not the battlefield.

"You are back in camp. We dragged you back here after Edric here had to knock you out." as he spoke Ronan turned to the second person in the tent, who is presumably Edric. He stands behind the speaker, dressed in good quality clothes. He stands with arms crossed with an amused look directed towards Ronan. With his close cropped dark hair and short beard, and wide shoulders, made Ronan think of a soldier. The scar across the mans cheek only confirms this. Though judging by his fine clothes, he is no ordinary soldier.

"I am afraid we had to stop you somehow, and a quick knock seemed the best in the moment." You hear Edric say with no hint of regret in his voice, though no joy either. He too speaks like a noble, though with a dialect closer resembling that of the Sardian heartlands.

"You are Aetherian Knights." Ronan says as realization dawns.

"That we are. I am Knight-Sergeant Sir Leoric Ashford, and my big friend behind me is Sir Edric Vance. Now that we have sated your curiosity, and you seem less likely to attack us than when we met earlier, I am hoping you can answer some of our questions." The cheerful voice responded.

"Why? Why would you need to question me?" Ronan asked again, partly in defiance for being knocked unconscious and restrained here, and partly in fear. He again tried to sit up, so he would at least not have to lie down, and to regain a modicum of control back. Again the restraints resisted the attempt. "Can you please allow me to at least sit up?".

Sir Leoric nodded, and with a quick motion of his hands, Ronan felt the rope loosen. He sat up, and got a better sense of the tent he was in. It was larger than the small one he had had to share with Daire on the march here. It even had a field cot, the one he was currently in. He took a look at Leoric again. The man who’d spoken had a disarming kind of handsomeness, his features almost too refined to belong to a soldier. Blonde hair, cut close, framed his face, and a pair of unsettlingly bright blue eyes regarded Ronan with polite curiosity. It was the kind of face that might have drawn admiration in the villages, but here, surrounded by scars and soldiers, it only added to his aura of authority. Both Leoric and Edric wore tunics the color of their order, a deep rich burgundy.

"Comfortable now? Very well. Now tell me—how did a peasant with no formal training and that…improvised gear of yours, manage to best a knight in single combat? Either you have talents you’ve hidden well, or you’re the luckiest fighter I’ve ever seen." Leoric asked, no hints to his thoughts showing on his face.

"Knight? You mean the Varnman i fought before you two ambushed me?" Ronan shot back, unable to keep the bite out of his tone. The phrase ‘simple peasant’ still stung, a harsh reminder of the gap between him and these men.

"Aye, the Varn Knight that you managed to defeat in single combat. According to your comrades, you had slaughtered more than thirty Varn levies before your battle with him. I almost believe them based on the scene when we interrupted you. But yet here you lie, with nothing but a few scratches, and what appears to be a bruised arm." Leoric looks intently at Ronan. It is clear that this is why he is here.

"I… think so, yes," Ronan replied, his voice edged with frustration. "It’s all a bit hazy—maybe thanks to the blow to my head."

"It’s all a blur. One second, there was nothing but chaos, and then…" He paused, instinctively touching his bruised arm, wincing as he remembered dropping his shield. "…and then I felt invincible. The knight turned up, just as I had a chance to regain my breath. I cant remember much about the battle with him, only that at the end, I had my sword moving towards his neck."

Leoric studied him for a moment, his gaze was unblinking, his head tilted slightly as if he were studying a puzzle. "And this invincibility… it just came to you?"

"Yes, as I said. One moment everything was chaos, and then..." Ronan says, the moments before the strange feeling becoming clearer. "I was fighting someone, and then as I saw them die, and felt my sword cut through them, everything sort of made sense."

"This happened after you killed someone? Was this your first time taking another mans life?" Leoric was becoming more intense in his questioning.

"I think so yes, and no this was my first battle." he again felt dismay at the thought of the lives he had taken. "Why, what is so important about this?"

"It is most likely nothing, we just find it strange that you were able to defeat a trained knight, the first time you experience combat. As I said, you are probably the luckiest man in the army," Leoric said, a wry smile playing on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Ronan still felt that there was something more to this conversation. "Oh, I completely forgot to ask what is your name? Where are you from?"

"Ronan, sir. My name is Ronan, from Kestrel."

Leoric’s eyes flickered briefly with recognition, a look that seemed both thoughtful and guarded before he settled back into his polite, curious demeanor. He gazed towards the end of the cot, and Ronan following his gaze, saw his sword sheathed and leaning against the end of the cot.

"Ronan," the Leoric repeated to himself. "You are Gideon Blackbridge’s boy, are you not? I see you carry one of his swords. Yes, now I recognize you. You used to watch us train back in Kestrel."

"Yes, I did," Ronan replied, his voice softening as he recalled the days spent watching the knights train. "Back then, I thought I’d never hold a blade like yours."

"I'll say you did more than hold it like us today. Hell you probably saved the lives of a lot of your friends today with the fear you struck into them. The Varn are soundly beaten and there are already talks of peace again." Leoric said still with that wry smile, though with more warmth know that he recognized Ronan. "Go rest, and tell your friend you are okay. He was quite persistent and annoying when we first dragged you here."

"Daire was here?" Ronan asked, feeling better now that he knew the questioning was over. "Is he okay?"

"Yes, your friend is fine, though he and everyone else seems to have more scratches than you. We had to order him back to the Reach camp before he would leave us alone. You'll find you doublet at the end of the cot near your sword, along with your shield."

Ronan got up, feeling a bit unsteady. He made his way over to his gear where he buckled his sword at his waist and slung the small shield over his back. The familiar weight of the blade at his side offered a flicker of reassurance. He ran his fingers briefly over the leather-wrapped hilt, still smeared with grime. Though worn now, it felt like a lifeline—a connection to his old life.

"Can I ask one more thing? What happened to the knight, why did you stop me?"

Leoric's gaze settled on him. "I would advice you refrain from sticking you nose where it does not belong." he said, voice cool. Then, after a pause, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I do suppose we can humor you this once, you were the one to best him, after all."

As Leoric said this Edric grunted—a sound somewhere between amusement and derision—but kept his expression neutral.

Leoric continued, clearly ignoring Edric’s reaction. "The Varn knight was taken prisoner and delivered to the Kingsguard. They will probably question him, and then use him as a bargaining chip when the Varn sue for peace." His words were as casual as if he were discussing the weather, but the cold practicality of it twisted in Ronan’s gut.

"Now hurry on." Leoric waved a dismissive hand, as if shooing a child. "Depending on how things go in the coming days, we might seek you out again for further questions, so please stay near your unit. We would hate to have to seek you out at your father's smithy, once we are back in Kestrel."

Ronan’s jaw tightened, the words landing harder than he wanted to admit. He gave a curt nod and finished securing his gear, turning sharply on his heel. As he stepped toward the tent’s exit, a lingering thought gnawed at him: in the eyes of these knights, his worth would always be measured by the blade his father had forged and the blood he had spilled—not by who he was or what he might yet become.

As he stepped out of the tent, he felt the cool evening air hit him. It helped clear his head, and he felt invigorated. He looked around and saw the sky still faintly lit, glowing orange from the sun setting behind the mountains. Looking up at the mountains either side of the valley, he could see the peaks glowing orange, from the sun hitting the snow. He stood for second, taking stock of himself, and admiring the view. There was something otherworldly about it that captured Ronan's attention fully.

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He was brought back by the sound of cursing and laughter. Evidently someone had tripped and fallen, much to the joy of his comrades it seemed.

Ronan began the walk towards the section of the camp where the levies of the Reach had settled. The valley the army had camped in was fully dark, the steep mountain sides blocking whatever sunlight still remained in the day. The sound of running water could be heard echoing through the valley. They had camped next to a small stream which - according to some of the older levies - eventually joined the great Ironflow River, one of the two great rivers they had crossed on the march from Kestrel to here.

While the levies—and surprisingly, the Aetherian Knights—slept in tents or under the open sky, the Kingsguard had taken command of the fort that marked the border crossing into Sardia. He had to ask for directions two times, before he got his bearings and found the standard of the Reach marking his camp.

He found Daire sitting with a few others, staring into the campfire. The smell of food had lingered throughout the camp, but it was especially strong here. Men slowly rotated one of the mountain goats he had admired earlier over the fire. The group laughed loudly at a joke he couldn’t hear, passing beer around in mismatched containers. Judging by the grimaces on a few faces, stronger spirits seemed to be in the mix as well.

Ronan walked towards the fire, so he was stood behind Daire. The laughter around the fire dwindled as heads turned, one by one, toward him. Ronan shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their stares, unable to discern the look in their eyes.

To break the awkwardness he placed a hand on Daire's shoulder, and took a seat beside him. "Pass me a drink please, I think I could drink the whole of Lake Stonemist." Daire jumped slightly, his face flickering from shock to relief in an instant.

"By the Lightbringer am I glad to see you awake again!" the joy and relief was clear in Daire's face, as he passed his tankard of beer over to Ronan. "Now what in Oblivion did the Knights want of you. I was afraid they wouldn't let you go."

As Ronan took a deep drink of the beer, he could feel the eyes of everyone around the fire on him. He took his time to gather his thoughts before he handed the tankard back to Daire. "To be honest, I am not fully sure. They wanted me to tell them about the battle, and my fight with the knight. I'll tell you the same I told them." he took a deep breath and looked at his hands, still stained with the grime of battle. "I don't remember much of it. After the shield walls both broke down everything becomes a blur to me. The only things I know for certain was you standing in a ring around me at some point, and then that I was about to kill that knight."

He reached for the tankard again and took another drink of it. Daire and the rest were still staring at him. "Come now, why are you all staring at me like that?" He felt embarrassed, he did not like being at the center of their attention like this.

"You really don't remember?" Daire shook his head, disbelief etched into his face. Around the fire, others exchanged uneasy glances, as though trying to reconcile the man before them with the stories they'd already started whispering. "You slaughtered your way through the Varn. It was like you were a force of nature. All the rest of us could do was follow in your wake."

Ronan sighed heavily. "That’s also what the two Knights told me, though they found it hard to believe—as do I. Come on now, Daire, you know me." His voice carried a pleading note. "You know I’ve never used a sword before. How in Oblivion could I have done what you say?"

A voice from across the fire spoke up. "We saw what we saw, lad. All of us saw you fighting your way through the Varn. You might say you’ve never used a sword before, but that don’t mean we all imagined the same thing."

Ronan stared at the man in silence, his disbelief and defeat plain on his face. He took another drink, unsure how to respond. The man spoke again before he could answer. "Now, there’s no use arguing over this. The battle’s over, the Varn are soundly beaten by all accounts. We’ve got plenty of beer, good food roasting over the fire, and I’ve heard the generals will allow the camp followers to join us tonight."

At this, the men around the fire turned to merrier topics, some already joking about bedding one of the camp women they’d seen following the army. But Ronan couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had changed between him and the others. Even the way Daire looked at him was subtly different.

Soon, the goat finished roasting, and the mood lightened further. Even Ronan found himself distracted from the strangeness of the day. The beer and warm meat worked wonders for his spirits. He realized he was starving, nearly choking on the first piece he bit into, much to the laughter and amusement of the others.

The conversation drifted to what awaited them back home: professions, families, and everyday life. A farmer’s son grumbled about the upcoming harvest and long days in the fields. A carpenter enthusiastically recounted working with a rare type of wood Ronan didn’t recognize. Another man from Kestrel spoke excitedly about courting the tailor’s daughter. Everything but the battle—their one shared experience—was discussed.

As the meal ended and drinking began in earnest, the camp followers arrived. Traders moved between fires, selling shoes, coats, trousers, and even alcohol in exchange for coin or loot scavenged from the battlefield. One trader offered eight silver crowns for Ronan’s sword—a fraction of its true value, closer to three gold crowns back in Kestrel. The lowball offer felt like an insult. Ronan didn’t bother to answer, turning back to the fire. The trader muttered something about arrogance as he moved on to another group.

Around the fire, many men eagerly bartered. Some displayed scavenged steel blades or bits of armor, while others sold off small treasures—trinkets taken from bodies, broken jewelry, or even gold teeth, pried free in the aftermath. Ronan shivered as he noticed one soldier examining a bloody ring before selling it. He couldn’t decide if he felt disgusted or indifferent. It all felt like another world.

The prices struck him as absurd. He watched a soldier sell a fine dagger for just one silver Crown—a blade worth four times that in Kestrel. Yet the man looked pleased enough, and almost immediately spent his coin on a bottle of alcohol and a new shirt. Ronan found himself both appalled and strangely envious. For a brief moment, the man’s carefree attitude seemed preferable to the heavy questions weighing on his own mind.

Among the traders came the women. Though prostitution wasn’t illegal in Sardia, it was often frowned upon. Ronan had always been cautioned against it by his father. Once, during a festive night with Daire, he’d ignored that advice. The memory was hazy, clouded by drink, but he remembered finding it pleasant—though not nearly as satisfying as being with a girl who wanted to be there, unpaid. Now, watching the women move effortlessly through the camp, their practiced smiles and confident steps drawing the soldiers in, he felt a mix of unease and curiosity.

The women moved with practiced ease, skillfully finding their targets among the men, their laughter and soft words weaving through the campfire's glow. They settled close, sharing drinks and drawing their chosen partners into conversation with casual intimacy. One woman sat beside Daire, her presence immediately commanding his attention. She was pretty, older than both he and Ronan, but not by much. Her long, shiny hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her chestnut-colored eyes sparkled in the firelight. Ronan saw the way Daire's gaze lingered on her, a telltale sign of interest. Not wanting to intrude, he shifted his attention back to the fire.

Then, he felt it again—a faint sensation, like the muted pressure of someone watching him or moving toward him. His body tensed instinctively, his pulse quickening, though he couldn’t say why. The faint, floral scent of lavender reached his nose, and the rustle of a skirt followed as someone settled beside him. Slowly, the tension eased from his shoulders, though the strange feeling lingered at the edge of his awareness, unbidden and unsettling.

Before Ronan could react, the young woman beside him reached for the tankard in his hand. She moved with such nonchalance that he didn’t resist, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his surroundings.

"By the Lightbringer, I needed that," she said with a sigh, her voice light but edged with weariness. She took a deep drink before handing the tankard back, leaning closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ronan glanced at her, noticing the way her golden hair shimmered in the firelight and the confident ease in her movements. He remained silent, unsure of what to say, as the woman smiled faintly, her gaze flickering toward the fire before settling on him.

"I'm Lyra. Pleased to meet you." The golden-haired woman, Lyra, spoke with a hint of playfulness in her voice. It took a moment for Ronan to realize he needed to respond, still caught up in his own thoughts. "I'm Ronan," he said, the words awkward after too long a pause.

"So, Ronan, what brings you to this corner of Sardia?" she asked, her tone playful, putting emphasis on his name.

Ronan blinked, staring at her with a questioning expression. Was this a joke? Did she not realize that they had all just fought for their lives mere hours ago? He glanced toward the fire, searching for the right words, but none came. Instead he took another drink of his beer.

"Sorry, I did not mean to offend. I was trying to make light of the situation. You look so serious compared to your comrades." Lyra's tone was still friendly, though more subdued this time.

Ronan sighed, releasing some of the tension in his chest. "It's fine. I just have a lot on my mind tonight." He turned his head to meet Lyra's gaze. She was undeniably pretty. Her golden hair framed blue eyes that caught the small flames of the campfire, their light flickering within. A small nose and lightly painted lips of a soft red hue completed her attractive face. His gaze involuntarily dipped lower, to where her dress displayed more cleavage than was proper. He didn’t mind at all, but as his cheeks warmed, he quickly shifted his focus back to her eyes, slightly embarrassed by his wandering attention.

Lyra’s lips curved into a knowing smile. "It's fine for you to look; we both know why I’m here." Her tone was playful, tinged with amusement and a hint of satisfaction. "If it’s alright with you, we can just talk for now." she added, her voice softer, inviting.

"Where are you from, Ronan?" she asked as she handed the tankard back to him, her eyes lingering on his face as he took a drink.

"I'm from Kestrel. My da and have a blacksmith there."

"A blacksmith, now I know how you got these broad shoulders." She grinned, her voice carrying a teasing lilt as she reached out, slipping her arm around his shoulders and running her hand along them. She squeezed lightly, her fingers tracing the muscles of his upper arm. "All that hammering really gives you smiths some big arms, doesn’t it?"

"I guess," Ronan replied, his voice tinged with discomfort. "Though it’s hard work." He quickly shifted the focus. "And you, where are you from?" he asked, eager to steer the conversation away from himself.

"Hard indeed. Me? I'm from some little village up in Greenwood. A sleepy place where nothing happens." As she talked, her gaze grew distant, lost in memories of her childhood. "When I was old enough, I packed my things and went to Sardiskeep."

She paused, her expression softening with nostalgia before she continued. "I know what you might think, but I don't regret my choice one bit. I’ve got a room at a good tavern back in the capital, and now I get to travel Sardia while making money." Her voice carried a hint of pride, and she smiled as though anticipating his judgment.

She sounded happy, so Ronan decided not to argue, it also helped with any guilt he might have felt that she seemed to enjoy the work.

Ronan decided not to argue. She seemed happy, and that eased any guilt he might have felt. Her apparent contentment silenced the voice in his head that had been questioning her circumstances.

Their conversation carried on as the fire burned lower, with more and more of the men retreating to bed—some with women, some alone. Lyra shared stories of her life in Sardiskeep, recounting outrageous tales of the capital that made Ronan chuckle despite himself.

In turn, he shared snippets from his own life in Kestrel—tales of his father’s forge, the people in town, and the simple, predictable life he had once taken for granted.

For the first time in what felt like days, Ronan allowed himself to be in the moment. As Lyra spoke, her animated storytelling filled the silence, and he found his thoughts drifting further from the chaos of the battle. The warmth of the fire and the easy rhythm of their conversation offered him a fleeting sense of peace.

As their talk began to slow, Lyra fixed him with an intense, knowing look. "So, my big, strong smith," she said, her tone playfully seductive, "will you take me to bed now?"

It only took Ronan a moment to decide. Her closeness and lingering touches throughout the night had had a very clear—and visible—effect on him. "Alright then," he said with a slight nod, his voice low, "let’s do it."

He pushed himself to his feet, slightly unsteady from the beer he had been drinking all evening. Lyra, however, moved with a dancer’s grace, her steps fluid and unaffected, as though she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. She stepped close to him, her golden hair catching the glow of the fading firelight. Her voice softened, but it carried an edge of businesslike finality. "Not to kill the mood, but there’s the small matter of my payment. Five silver Crowns, and I promise you—I’m worth every coin."

Ronan hesitated, not at the idea of paying, but at the price. A gold Crown could buy many nights of entertainment back in Kestrel. He glanced at her again—her confident smile, the glint in her blue eyes, and the alluring curve of her lips—and felt his hesitation crumble. In his current state, and faced with the captivating sight of Lyra, the decision was easy.

Instead of answering, he closed the gap between them and kissed her hungrily. Her lips were soft and warm, and as she leaned into him, all thoughts of silver Crowns and the day’s horrors faded from his mind.