Chapter 2 — What Survives the Fire
The caravan did not move for the rest of the day.
They couldn't—not with blood still drying on the road and fear lodged too deeply in their throats. The wagons were drawn into a rough circle, the horses tethered close, guards posted on the slopes with orders not to chase shadows.
Mikkel sat on a low stone near the infirmary fire, flexing his fingers slowly as Freja finished securing the bandage on his forearm.
"Keep it dry," she said. "And don't pretend it doesn't hurt."
He allowed a thin breath of amusement. "I wasn't planning to."
She looked at him for a moment longer than necessary, then nodded once and moved on without ceremony. Another wounded man needed her hands more than he did.
That was how she worked—without drama, without praise. As if tending broken bodies was simply another task to be done correctly.
Mikkel watched her go.
Around them, the aftermath of survival unfolded in fragments. Guards counted arrows and cursed softly at how close it had been. Civilians sat huddled together, whispering prayers or staring blankly at nothing. Two bodies lay covered near the edge of the camp, boots protruding beneath bloodstained cloaks.
Dead men. Given names by people who loved them. Forgotten already by the war.
Signe Rasmussen paced nearby, helm tucked under one arm, blade resting loosely against her shoulder. She moved with restless energy, boots crunching against gravel as she barked orders at the guards on watch.
"Eyes open," she snapped. "Graymarch likes second bites. Anyone who falls asleep earns my boot in their teeth."
A few nervous laughs answered her.
She stopped pacing when she noticed Mikkel still seated.
"You," she said, pointing with the hilt of her sword. "Come here."
He rose without comment and approached, posture relaxed but alert.
Signe studied him openly now, green eyes sharp, assessing. Up close, the wear on her armor was clearer—patched leather, dents hammered half-straight, dried blood ground into seams that would never quite clean. She smelled faintly of iron and sweat and smoke.
"You shouted orders like you'd done it before," she said. "But I didn't recognize your face."
"I've never led soldiers," Mikkel replied.
She raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't the question."
He met her gaze steadily. "I've watched people die because no one spoke fast enough."
That earned him a crooked grin.
"Good enough," Signe said. "We're short three guards. You're short a future if this caravan fails. Stick close tomorrow."
"I'm not enlisted."
"You bled," she said bluntly. "That counts."
Before he could respond, a horn sounded faintly in the distance—one long note, then silence.
Every head turned.
Signe cursed under her breath. "Scouts?"
Mikkel felt it then—a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable. Not immediate danger, but attention. The sense of being measured from afar.
The sound did not repeat.
After a tense quarter hour, the guards on the ridge signaled all clear. No movement. No pursuit.
Graymarch had taken their measure and withdrawn.
For now.
That night, fires burned low and conversation stayed muted. Mikkel lay on a bedroll near the wagons, staring at the dark sky overhead. Stars flickered faintly through drifting smoke. His body ached in places he hadn't yet identified.
Sleep came in fragments.
He dreamed of roads without end, of wagons stripped bare, of hands reaching out and vanishing into ash.
When he woke, the world was quiet.
Dawn crept over the hills in pale bands of grey and gold. Birds returned cautiously to the air. Smoke thinned.
Mikkel rose before most others, rolling his shoulders and testing the stiffness in his arm. The cut throbbed, but it held.
He walked the perimeter without thinking, habit pulling his feet along the edge of the camp. He checked traces and wagon wheels, counted sacks by sight, noted which guards leaned too heavily on their spears.
Halfway through his circuit, he noticed someone already awake near the far ridge.
Liv Nørgaard stood where the ridge still held shadow, half-hidden by stone and scrub as if the land itself had decided to keep her.
She was slight, built more for endurance than strength, wrapped in a dark travel cloak worn soft at the edges. Dark brown hair was tucked beneath her hood, a few loose strands brushing against a face that looked younger than it should have—until you met her eyes. Grey and sharp, they reflected the light without warmth, always moving, always measuring distance and escape. There was a faint scar near her jaw, pale and thin, easy to miss unless you knew to look for it.
She leaned against a rock with casual precision, one knee bent, posture loose but balanced. A bow rested against her shoulder as naturally as an extra limb, fingers absently running along the fletching of an arrow in a slow, repetitive motion—an unconscious habit that never seemed to stop.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet and even, carrying no emotion but no fear either.
"Two riders passed here before dawn," she said. "Didn't stop. Watched. Left."
She did not look at Mikkel as she spoke. Her gaze stayed on the road, on the horizon beyond it, as if she trusted her surroundings more than people.
Only after a moment did she glance at him—briefly, assessing—and then away again.
Liv Nørgaard did not announce her presence.
He nodded. "Graymarch?"
"Maybe." Her grey eyes flicked toward him briefly, then back to the road. "Or someone wondering who survived."
She shifted her weight slightly, gaze drifting to the horizon. The movement was small, instinctive—like someone who always tracked exits even when none were needed.
"You don't talk much," he observed.
Liv shrugged. "Words don't change what's coming."
"No," Mikkel agreed. "But they can prepare people for it."
She studied him then, head tilted just enough to suggest curiosity.
"Maybe," she said. "If they listen."
They stood together in silence as the sun climbed higher.
By midmorning, the caravan moved again.
This time, the guards walked tighter, shields closer, eyes scanning constantly. Mikkel found himself walking nearer the front now, not because he had been told to—but because space had opened around him without explanation.
Recognition, he realized, was its own kind of momentum.
They reached the border garrison by late afternoon: a squat stone fort perched above the road, banners faded, walls chipped but intact. Soldiers watched from the parapets as the caravan approached, their posture wary.
The gates opened only after a full inspection.
Inside, the garrison smelled of damp stone and old oil. Supplies were counted, tallied, recorded. The caravan master argued loudly with an officer over losses and payment.
Mikkel waited near the courtyard edge, content to be overlooked.
That lasted less than five minutes.
A man in a dark cloak approached, flanked by two guards. He was older than Mikkel, hair streaked with grey, eyes sharp with a bureaucrat's precision.
"You," the man said. "You're the one who gave orders."
Mikkel inclined his head slightly. "I spoke."
The man snorted. "You saved grain worth more than your weight in iron. I'm Captain Havel. Quartermaster here."
"Just Mikkel," he replied again.
Havel studied him. "You plan to keep being 'just' anything?"
"I plan to live," Mikkel said.
The quartermaster laughed once, short and humorless. "Then listen carefully."
He gestured toward the fort's inner wall, where notices had been posted.
"Graymarch pressure is increasing," Havel said. "Caravans are being cut apart. The frontier lords are bleeding men faster than they can recruit. We need bodies who don't panic."
"I'm not trained," Mikkel said.
Havel shrugged. "Neither are most of the dead."
He paused, eyes narrowing. "You held. You didn't run. That matters."
Signe appeared then, clanking up with unmistakable presence. "I'll vouch for him," she said. "If he's wasted, it won't be on my watch."
Havel considered that, then nodded once.
"Temporary assignment," he said. "Auxiliary support. You'll eat with the troops and sleep inside the walls."
A door cracked open.
That night, Mikkel sat in the fort's common hall, a bowl of stew cooling between his hands. Around him, soldiers laughed more freely than the caravan had dared. Walls created illusions of safety.
Freja passed by, hair still tied back, sleeves clean now. She paused when she saw him.
"You made it inside," she said.
"So did you."
She smiled faintly. "I go where I'm needed."
He hesitated, then said, "You could leave when this is done."
"So could you."
They shared a look—brief, knowing.
Across the hall, Signe raised a mug in his direction. Liv sat near the doorway, silent, eyes tracking movement. Somewhere beyond the walls, Graymarch waited.
Mikkel lifted his spoon and took a bite.
The stew was thin.
But it was warm.
Later, as the fort settled into uneasy rest, Havel found him again.
"There's talk," the quartermaster said quietly. "Of abandoning the southern road. Too costly to defend."
Mikkel frowned. "That road feeds three settlements."
"Yes," Havel said. "And burying three settlements feeds the rest."
The words sat heavy between them.
"If the road falls," Havel continued, "the frontier collapses inward. Refugees flood north. Garrisons thin. Then Graymarch doesn't raid anymore."
"They march."
Havel watched him closely. "You think ahead."
"I have to," Mikkel said. "No one else is paid to."
The quartermaster sighed. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we talk more."
As Mikkel lay back on his borrowed cot, staring up at the stone ceiling, a realization settled over him—quiet, insistent.
Survival was no longer the only question.
Someone would decide which roads were worth defending.
Which people were expendable.
If he stayed silent, others would choose.
If he spoke, he would be noticed.
Outside, the wind carried distant echoes of movement along the darkened road.
Ashes did not ask for names.
But those who survived the fire would soon be forced to choose one.