They made camp before dusk, not because it was safe, but because exhaustion demanded it.
The clearing sat just off the road, ringed by thorn and low brush that forced any approach into noise. It wasn't ideal. It would do. The men worked without being told—habit more than discipline—stacking packs, tethering horses, stamping out a fire pit shallow enough to hide its glow.
Eight had ridden out from Riverrun.
All eight still breathed.
That alone was a victory.
The injuries told the rest of the story.
Hugh, broad-shouldered and prematurely gray, sat on a log with his boot off, swearing softly as he bound a gash across the top of his foot where a blade had slipped past his guard. "Should've worn the taller boots," he muttered for the third time.
Orren, lean as a fence post and twice as crooked, nursed a bruised rib and insisted it was nothing while wincing every time he laughed—which was often, because Orren laughed when he was nervous and didn't know how else to be.
Merrick, the serjeant, had a shallow cut along his forearm already stitched tight with steady hands. He pretended not to notice the blood seeping through the linen. He noticed everything.
Pate, youngest after Tom, had taken a spear haft to the shoulder and moved like it might fall off if he wasn't careful. He kept watch anyway, posture stiff with determination.
Calder limped, ankle swelling beneath his boot, jaw clenched so hard his teeth creaked. He hadn't complained once.
Jory had a split lip and a cracked tooth, courtesy of a bandit's pommel. He spat blood into the dirt and grinned through it. "Still prettier than them," he said.
And then there was Lewin—quiet, older than the rest, with a scarred face that suggested a lifetime of bad choices and one good reason to stop making them. He cleaned his blade meticulously, hands steady, eyes distant.
Most of the dead bandits lay farther back on the road, where the ambush had collapsed.
Most of them had fallen to me.
The men didn't say it outright, but I could feel it in the way they watched my movements, the way conversations paused when I stood too close. Respect, yes—but also relief. Knowing where the killing power sat in a group did that. It simplified fear.
Tom sat apart from them, sharpening his sword with too much focus.
He looked up when he felt me near.
"Captain," he said, standing too quickly and nearly tipping over.
"Sit," I said.
He sat.
The fire crackled softly, smoke drifting low and thin. The forest pressed close, listening.
"About earlier," Tom began. "When I broke formation."
"Yes," I said.
"I won't do it again."
"I know," I replied.
That caught him off guard. He frowned. "You do?"
"You're not reckless," I said. "You're impatient."
He nodded slowly, accepting that. "I don't want to die," he added after a moment. "Not stupidly."
"Good," I said. "That's the first lesson."
He hesitated, then leaned forward, voice low. "Captain… if I wanted to live longer than a season doing this—what should I do? Before training. Before anything formal."
That question mattered.
Not the bravado kind. The survival kind.
I thought of drills in dust and stone. Of instructors who didn't smile. Of lessons learned by watching men bleed because they hadn't listened.
"Three things," I said.
Tom straightened.
"First," I continued, "stop trying to win fights. Survive them. Winning comes later."
He nodded, brow furrowed.
"Second," I said, "distance is life. If you don't control it, someone else will. Longer weapon, shorter step, better footing—pick two every time."
"Distance," he repeated.
"Third," I finished, "never commit your whole body unless you know where you'll land when it's over. Strikes don't end when the blade stops moving."
He swallowed. "That's… different from how they teach it."
"They teach you how to fight men," I said. "I'm teaching you how to live."
He considered that in silence, eyes burning with that same fire—but steadier now.
"Captain," he said quietly, "will you train me?"
I looked at him for a long moment.
Not at the courage.
At the restraint he'd shown after.
"Yes," I said. "If you listen. And if you accept that sometimes survival looks like retreat."
He nodded without hesitation. "I can do that."
"Good."
A shout came softly from the treeline.
"Captain," Pate called. "Scouts."
I stood and moved to him, Tom on my heels.
Two figures approached from the dark—Tully riders, mud-spattered and breathing hard. One had an arrow nick across his helm. The other limped worse than Calder.
"Village ahead," the first said. "Millford. They refused to pay tolls. Bandits marked doors with ash."
"And?" I asked.
"They didn't burn it," the second added. "Not yet."
That was the message.
Compliance delayed violence.
Defiance invited it.
I looked back at my men—at their bruises, their exhaustion, the thin line they represented between order and chaos.
Then at Tom, who watched me with grim understanding.
"Pack up," I said. "We move before full dark."
As the men stirred, the system stirred too—quiet, insistent.
This wasn't a war of armies.
It was a war of endurance.
And endurance could be taught.