Despite the battle raging to the south, the camp had to remain guarded. Therefore a select few had been stationed at key strategic points across the hill. Two guards stood watch outside a tent, spears in hand, drowsing in the heat.

  One of them suddenly poked the other in his side.

  "Hey, Henry."

  Henry cracked an eye open and shot his companion a revolted look. "Edgar, if this is another of your bug questions, Anyanwu help me, I’ll shove my spear up your bloated arse."

  Edgar looked wounded. "You don’t have to be rude. If you don’t enjoy my company, say so."

  Henry exhaled through his nose, straightening. "What do you want?"

  Edgar frowned, then pointed. “Over there.”

  Henry followed his finger to an unremarkable tent. He turned back with a look of mild annoyance. “It’s a tent. What about it?”

  Edgar shook his head. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  Henry rolled his eyes and leaned against his spear. "Why are we even here?" he muttered. "It’s not like there's anything valuable stored here."

  Edgar shrugged. "Don't think too much about it. We common folk can't possibly comprehend the wisdom behind guard placements." He crouched down, eyes fixed on a bend in the row of tents.

  Moments later, a thin, ratty-looking man emerged from around the corner.

  Henry raised an eyebrow. The quartermaster? What’s that pompous fool doing here? He never strays this far from the inner camp.

  The quartermaster moved quickly, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, his eyes darting about as if expecting an ambush.

  Henry smirked, finding amusement in the man’s unease. He expected him to pass by—but instead, the quartermaster stopped abruptly, turned on his heel, and fixed his gaze on the unremarkable tent.

  He took a step forward, then hesitated. His gaze flicked left and right before settling back on the tent. Then, without warning, he pivoted on his heel and strode briskly back the way he had come.

  "He's done that three times now," Edgar said, tapping his spear against his boot as he watched the quartermaster disappear.

  Henry's gaze drifted to the tent. "Any idea what's inside?"

  Edgar shrugged. "No one's gone in or out since I’ve been stationed here, so it probably belongs to one of the poor bastards fighting right now."

  Henry turned northward, shaking his head as the distant sounds of battle carried on the wind. "Anyanwu, have mercy on their souls."

  Edgar elbowed him, nodding to the left. "He's coming back around."

  Henry turned just as the quartermaster once again approached the tent. "What do you think he wants?" he mused.

  "I think the owner probably owed him," Edgar said. "Bet he’s struggling to decide if the man’s dead. Can't go rifling through his things and risk him coming back to raise hell later."

  "Spineless," Henry scoffed, shaking his fist. "If it were me, I’d take everything—tent and all. Speaking of which, that wench Hymn still owes me."

  "So, why don’t you raid her tent?" Edgar teased, grinning. "You ain't scared, are you?"

  Henry snorted and shoved him. "Her tent’s at the forward camp. And besides—are you daft? How many brothers do you think that wench has?" He spat on the ground, grinding it under his boot. "I value my life too much to mess with that foolhardy lot—"

  "If you can chatter, I take it you don’t have enough to do."

  Both men stiffened as the quartermaster loomed before them, scowling. "Report to the guard commander."

  The two exchanged sour looks before stalking off, their tempers as foul as the muck beneath their boots.

  "And if I catch you lazing about again, you’ll be cleaning latrines," he called after them.

  Clicking his tongue, the quartermaster turned back to the tent. He hesitated, exhaling sharply, then steeled himself. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped forward.

  "Esteemed Knight, are you awake?"

  A man groaned, rolling onto his side atop a worn rug. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes, and the voice outside rang painfully in his ears.

  "Sir Knight, are you up?"

  He let out another groan, blindly swiping an empty bottle aside as his arms flailed.

  CAW!

  A sharp cry cut through the haze, followed by a persistent tug at his tunic. Blinking against the dim light, he opened his eyes to find a night-black bird perched beside him, its golden eyes glittering as it yanked at his clothing.

  He swatted at it, forcing the bird to release its grip and flap back. "Stop that, Tentsui. I'm awake," he muttered, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet.

  The tent barely allowed him to stand upright, and apart from the rug, which covered nearly half the space, the only other furnishings were a few stacked crates off to the side.

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  Yawning, he pulled open the flap.

  The quartermaster stood outside, staring up at him with trembling eyes. He swallowed heavily before speaking nervously. "Sir, you're awake."

  The man inside scratched his head, his fingers raking through his hair. "What do you want?" he asked, lowering his hand.

  "Yes!" the quartermaster intoned, exhaling sharply. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. When he reopened them, he seemed calmer, more composed and collected. "Knight Benedict and Fitzgerald are holding a war council. They request your presence at the command tent."

  "Really? Then I can't keep those Sirs waiting, can I?" The man turned as if to leave, then glanced back at the quartermaster. "Come inside."

  The quartermaster stiffened, raising his hands as he instinctively stepped back. "Huh?"

  "Come," the man repeated, beckoning him forward. "I won't bite."

  The quartermaster swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, I'd rather not—"

  The man clicked his tongue, then suddenly reached out, grabbing the quartermaster by the arm and yanking him inside. The tent flap fell shut behind them, plunging the space into dimness.

  A strangled squeak escaped the quartermaster as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. The man smirked down at him.

  "Help me with my armor."

  He reached into a crate and pulled out a leather sack. Opening it, he retrieved a hose and a quilted jacket before digging deeper and retrieving a set of scaly-looking armor.

  "Hold this," he said, tossing the jacket to the quartermaster.

  Without hesitation, he stepped into the hose, tugging it up one leg, then the other. Seeing him beckon for the jacket, the quartermaster hurried to hand it over before helping him pull it over his head.

  The man donned his armor piece by piece, adjusting the straps and testing their fit with a few firm tugs. Once satisfied, he moved to the other side of the crates.

  When he reappeared, a sword was in his hand, and he was fastening a belt around his waist.

  He placed a hand against his chest and briefly closed his eyes before sighing and reopening them. "Okay, let's go."

  The quartermaster sighed, pressing himself against the tent wall to make room as the armored man strode past.

  Pulling back the flap, the knight stepped into the light, scanning his surroundings before turning to the quartermaster. "Guards were supposed to be posted outside my tent, yet there's no one around."

  The quartermaster, narrowly avoiding a muddy patch, gave a quick nod. "Yes, they were here, but I just sent them away—can't risk word getting out that you're here." He glanced back at the tent. "Will the bird be alright on its own?"

  "Oh, yes. No need to worry about that," the knight replied, stretching his arms. "Lead the way."

  The quartermaster nodded quickly, stepping forward. "Yes, Knight! This way!" He hesitated, then glanced back, nervously twiddling his thumbs. "By the way… what should I call you? I can’t just say ‘Knight’ or ‘Sir’ in front of the peasant soldiers, can I?"

  The man scratched his chin. "Well then, just call me Müller."

  "Müller?" the quartermaster echoed, his gaze darting around as if merely speaking the name might draw attention. "The Müller?"

  Müller smirked, clearly amused by his unease. He pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head.

  "No, no, of course not!" the quartermaster said quickly, shaking his head so fast it nearly rattled. He hurried forward, leading Müller through the outer camp. "It’s just—"

  "Don’t worry about it," Müller laughed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "If anyone asks, just say I’m a mercenary from a little-known, nearly collapsed clan."

  The quartermaster barely kept his footing, offering a pained smile despite the throbbing ache where Müller had struck.

  As they neared the inner camp, the bustle grew—more movement, more voices shouting as word of the forward camp’s fall spread from one soldier to the next.

  A bloodcurdling scream tore through the air. The quartermaster flinched, shying to the side, while Müller paused, sniffing the air. A look of understanding crossed his face.

  Suddenly, a tent flap burst open, and a woman rushed out. In that brief glimpse inside, Müller saw several white-robed men and women struggling to pin down a large man. He thrashed violently, blood oozing from a wound at his side and pooling at the corner of his mouth.

  "HOLD HIM DOWN, OR I WON’T BE ABLE TO APPLY THE SALVE!"

  The woman rushed back inside with a pail of water, the flap falling shut behind her.

  Müller sighed. The quartermaster, looking pale, said nothing. Without a word, they pressed on, passing through the gates of the inner camp and into its heart.

  At last, they reached the command tent. The quartermaster turned to Müller with a slight bow. “This is as far as I go.” With a nod to the guards, he signaled for them to let Müller through.

  Then, without another glance, the quartermaster turned and hurried away.

  Müller rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "Alright," he muttered, stepping forward.

  The guards held open the flap, allowing him to enter unhindered.

  Inside, Knights Fitzgerald and Benedict stood over a war table, their gazes lifting as he entered.

  "Knight Müller, come," Benedict said, barely sparing him a glance before turning back to the table. "We don’t have a moment to waste."

  Müller strolled over, eyeing the men. "Honestly, I didn’t expect you to call for me."

  "Desperate situations," Fitzgerald said briskly. "Desperate measures."

  "Our terms remain the same?" Müller asked, resting a hand on the table.

  "Yes," Benedict replied, absentmindedly stroking his bird’s crown. "Ten gold Pharos' for every task we assign. I’m a man of my word."

  Müller folded his arms on the table, leveling a stare at Benedict. "I want it upfront."

  Their gazes locked, tension crackling in the air. Then Benedict exhaled sharply and sank into a chair, waving a hand in defeat. "Fine."

  He turned to Fitzgerald and gave a nod.

  Fitzgerald clicked his tongue but reached down, untying a pouch from his waist before grudgingly handing it over.

  Müller smirked, tossing the pouch from hand to hand. "Pleasure doing business with you."

  Then, without warning, he straightened. The playfulness vanished, his face going blank. "What would you have me do?"

  Noting the shift, Benedict nodded in satisfaction and gestured to the map at the center of the table.

  "You’ve probably heard the murmurs between the peasants—news like this tends to spread fast among the common folk. The forward camp has fallen." He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The enemy overran it, cutting us off from the main army."

  "You’ve probably heard the murmurs among the peasants. The forward camp has fallen." He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The enemy overran it, cutting us off from the main army."

  "And?" Müller's voice was flat. "Am I to recapture it?"

  "No! That is out of the question," Fitzgerald snapped, slamming a hand on the table. His bird let out a sharp squawk from the side table, ruffled by the sudden noise.

  Benedict raised a hand, silencing him. "We can't have you do something so visible. It wouldn’t reflect well on the Lord—especially with the Lord’s Council coming up."

  Müller tilted his head. "So, what’s my mission?"

  "Your mission is simple—distract the enemy on the bluff, particularly any archery squads you see. I trust my Squires to seize the opening and retreat."

  Knight Müller nodded in understanding. "Got it. Anything I should watch out for?"

  Benedict hesitated briefly before speaking. "Don’t use any techniques that might mark you as a Knight. As I said, we don’t want you drawing attention." He leaned back slightly. "Fortunately, there aren’t many portraits of you, so your face isn’t well-known."

  Light suddenly spilled into the tent.

  All eyes turned to the open flap, where a guard stood.

  "Sirs, a rider just arrived. Should I let her in?"

  Fitzgerald inclined his head, then looked at Müller. "Get to work."

  Müller wordlessly pivoted on his heel, ready to leave.

  Benedict glanced up, reaching into a sack beneath the table. "Hey, take this."

  Müller turned and caught the object tossed his way. He turned it over in his hand. "A horn?"

  Benedict nodded. "The signal for retreat. Blow it when you've done all you can. My Squires will handle the rest."

  As Müller strode out, his fingers traced the horn’s carved surface.

  He glanced up at the sky and sighed. Hold back, huh? A smirk tugged at his lips. "Been a while since anyone asked that of me."

  Without another thought, Müller turned from the command tent, his gaze focused as he made his way to the camp’s rear—toward the picket lines.