The rain turned the world into a swamp.
It was not clean spring rain. It was thick, cold, endless, as if the sky had decided to rot along with the men below. Every drop carried weight. Every puddle was too deep. Every step was an effort.
The camp was no longer a camp.
It was an open wound in the valley.
Leaning tents, crooked stakes, fires struggling not to die beneath the downpour. Men wrapped in soaked leather and wool moved like exhausted shadows, their eyes far too empty for the age they carried.
The war had not truly begun yet.
But it was already devouring everyone.
Rowan sat inside his squad's tent, hood drawn low, his sword resting across his knees.
The steel was clean.
It was the only clean thing left.
Around him, six men shared the cramped space: common soldiers, sons of no one, faces marked by life long before battle ever came.
The air smelled of thin soup, wet boots, fear disguised as routine.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Berric, stirred a bowl as if searching for courage at the bottom.
"Four thousand," he muttered. "They say Marrick comes with four thousand."
Another spat onto the dirt floor.
"Four thousand and paid dogs."
"Mercenaries," someone corrected, as though the word were cleaner.
"Dogs," Berric repeated. "A mercenary is just a dog with coins in his pocket."
A short laugh rose, then died quickly.
The tent fell silent again, filled only with the sound of rain striking leather.
Rowan did not speak.
He listened.
He always had.
A man born without a name learns early that words are dangerous. One wrong remark can become a rope around your throat. One opinion can cost you teeth.
And still…
Their silence was too heavy.
The youngest, Thom, could not have been more than seventeen. He looked at Rowan the way a man looks at fire in the night.
"Do you think we'll win?"
Rowan took his time answering.
"I think we'll fight."
Thom swallowed hard.
"That's not an answer."
Berric let out a bitter laugh.
"It's the only answer there is."
Another man, older, with thin beard and a scar across his nose, spoke quietly:
"There shouldn't be a war at all."
Everyone turned.
He continued, as though he were already tired of holding it inside.
"A daughter refused a marriage. That's all. Just that. And now we're here… waiting to die in the mud."
Thom clenched his fists.
"They say she's proud."
"They say the father is worse," the older man replied.
A murmur spread.
Rowan felt their eyes drift toward him.
Because he was different.
Not noble—not truly—but…
He was sponsored.
The word was an invisible chain.
Lord Edric Varyn had noticed Rowan years ago, when he brought down a knight of ancient blood in a minor tourney. Since then, Rowan was no longer just another soldier.
He was a kept tool.
A useful bastard.
Berric leaned forward.
"And you, Rowan? Will you say it's worth it?"
Rowan breathed in slowly.
He knew what they thought.
That he was closer to the throne than they would ever be.
That perhaps he believed the lords' lies.
Rowan opened his mouth—
But before he could speak, a voice cut through the air like steel.
"He can't have an opinion."
Everyone turned.
It was Joryn, one of the oldest men in the squad, and the bitterest. His eyes were small and hard.
"What was that?" Berric growled.
Joryn pointed at Rowan.
"He belongs to the lord now."
Silence.
Rowan felt blood rise in his throat.
Joryn continued, cruelly:
"Lord Edric put his hand on him. Sponsored. A chosen dog. He can't sit here and say the war is useless, because war is what gives him value."
Thom frowned.
"That isn't fair—"
"Fair?" Joryn laughed. "Fair doesn't live in a war camp."
Rowan finally spoke, his voice low.
"I'm no one's dog."
Joryn leaned closer.
"Then prove it. Go to the throne and say you don't want to fight."
Rowan remained still.
The rain sounded louder.
Because they knew.
All of them knew.
There was no choice.
The scarred man murmured:
"Whether we die or not… it doesn't matter. We're only numbers."
Rowan tightened his grip around the sword hilt.
"We matter to each other."
It was all he could manage to say.
Berric exhaled, as though that were almost comfort.
But comfort never lasted.
Outside, a horn sounded.
Short.
Urgent.
All of them rose at once.
Another sound followed immediately: hooves.
Many hooves.
Rowan pulled his hood up and stepped out of the tent.
The mud swallowed his boots instantly.
The entire camp seemed to jolt awake.
Men poured from their tents, staring toward the improvised gate of sharpened stakes.
And then they saw.
Banners.
Black and red.
The falcon of Varyn.
Horses advanced slowly through the mire, splattered with filth and exhaustion. Armed men, faces closed tight, carrying with them the smell of road and dried blood.
Reinforcements.
Garron had sent for them last night.
And they had arrived.
A mounted captain at the front raised his voice:
"By order of Ser Garron Thorne! Reinforcements to the forward line!"
A murmur rippled through the camp.
It was not joy.
It was relief mixed with dread.
Because reinforcements meant one thing:
The battle was no longer rumor.
It was inevitable.
Rowan watched the men pass.
Some were too young.
Others too old.
All soaked.
All doomed.
Joryn appeared beside him, watching the newcomers.
"More meat," he muttered.
Rowan turned his head slowly.
"More men."
Joryn smiled without humor.
"Men become meat quickly."
Before Rowan could answer, an order rang out:
"SQUAD LEADERS TO COMMAND! NOW!"
Rowan froze.
The call was for him.
He was only Rowan.
The knight of nothing.
But nothing, in this world, bled too.
He drew in a breath and began to walk.
Toward the command tent.
Toward fate.
And behind him, the entire camp trembled, pretending at courage while war finally opened its mouth.