Chapter 3 — The Cost of Standing
The order came before dawn.
Mikkel heard it not through shouted commands, but through the sudden shift in the garrison's rhythm—the way boots began moving with purpose, the way voices lowered instead of rose. Urgency without panic. The kind that meant someone had already decided things were bad.
He swung his legs off the cot and stood, rolling his shoulders as stiffness protested. The stone ceiling above him was dim, the torchlight along the corridor flickering as soldiers passed.
A horn sounded once. Short. Sharp.
Action, then.
By the time he reached the inner yard, a crowd had already formed around Captain Havel. The quartermaster stood beside a crude table, a rolled map spread across it, weighted down with a dagger at one corner. His expression was tight, jaw set in a way that suggested this was not a problem he liked.
Signe Rasmussen was there too, helm on, armor already strapped tight. She leaned forward with both hands braced on the table, green eyes fixed on the map.
Liv stood a little apart from the others, near the shadow of the wall. Hood up. Bow slung across her back. She watched the gathering without seeming to watch anyone in particular.
Freja lingered near the infirmary door, hands folded loosely in front of her, face composed but alert. She didn't belong in a war briefing—but neither did half the wounded men who would come back from whatever this was.
Mikkel slipped into the edge of the group without announcement.
Havel noticed him anyway.
"Good," the quartermaster said. "You're here."
Mikkel didn't comment on the implication.
Havel tapped the map. "Graymarch movement overnight. Scouts confirmed a raiding column moving south along the old river road."
A murmur rippled through the soldiers.
"That road's barely guarded," someone muttered.
"It's not guarded at all," Havel snapped. "Because it was marked expendable."
Mikkel's eyes tracked the map quickly. The old river road cut through lowlands and scrub, linking three settlements—small, poor, and stubbornly still inhabited.
"How big is the column?" Signe asked.
"Forty. Maybe fifty," Havel said. "Mixed infantry. Light cavalry. Fast."
Signe swore. "That's not a raid. That's a sweep."
"They're not after grain," Havel said grimly. "They're after people."
Silence fell.
Freja's fingers tightened slightly.
Havel straightened. "We have one company available. Seventy men. Most green. We intercept, or we let it happen."
"And if we intercept?" a guard asked.
"We lose men," Havel replied flatly. "Possibly badly."
Mikkel studied the map, mind racing ahead of the discussion.
"How far out?" he asked.
Havel glanced at him, then answered. "Half a day's march."
Signe's gaze snapped toward Mikkel. "You thinking something?"
"Yes," Mikkel said. "You're already too late to stop them cleanly."
A few heads turned.
"That road isn't straight," he continued. "They'll split. Burn what they can. Scatter before you engage."
Havel's jaw tightened. "Then what do you suggest?"
Mikkel took a breath.
"Don't chase them," he said. "Block them."
Signe leaned in closer. "Explain."
"There's a choke point," Mikkel said, pointing at a narrow bend along the river. "Old stone culvert. Low banks. If you force them there, they can't spread. They have numbers, not discipline."
"And the settlements?" Havel pressed.
Mikkel's voice stayed level. "We can't save all three."
The words landed like a blade.
Freja inhaled sharply.
"But we can save two," he continued. "If we move now, fortify the culvert, and pull civilians from the southernmost village."
Signe straightened slowly, eyes locked on him. "That leaves the northern settlement exposed."
"Yes," Mikkel said.
A soldier spat on the ground. "That's abandoning them."
"No," Mikkel replied quietly. "That's choosing who lives."
Silence stretched.
Havel rubbed a hand over his face. "You're asking me to order a retreat from civilians."
"I'm asking you to prevent a massacre," Mikkel said. "Graymarch doesn't take prisoners if they scatter. They take slaves."
Freja stepped forward then.
"How many people?" she asked.
Havel hesitated. "Northern village? Maybe sixty. Mostly elderly. Few children."
Freja closed her eyes briefly.
Mikkel felt the weight settle in his chest—not guilt, but gravity.
"This isn't clean," he said. "But it's survivable."
Signe studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
"He's right," she said. "We can't be everywhere. If we chase, we lose control. If we hold ground, we decide the terms."
Havel looked between them, then at the map.
"You're both damnable," he muttered. "But you're not wrong."
He straightened.
"Orders," he barked. "We move in ten. Signe, you take the vanguard. Mikkel—"
He paused, then exhaled sharply.
"You advise."
The word carried more weight than it should have.
They moved fast.
The company left the garrison at a jog, armor clanking, breath steaming in the cool morning air. Mikkel ran with them, spear in hand, thoughts sharp and ruthless.
This was the line.
Not between life and death—but between who decided.
They reached the culvert before midday.
It was narrower than Mikkel remembered—stone walls rising waist-high on either side, the river sluggish and shallow beneath. Trees crowded close, branches overhanging just enough to restrict movement.
"Perfect," Signe muttered.
They set to work immediately.
Logs dragged into place. Rocks stacked. Archers positioned on the banks. Liv moved like a ghost among them, pointing out angles, sightlines, places where shadows swallowed sound.
"Here," she murmured, indicating a narrow slope. "They'll try to flank."
Signe nodded and assigned two squads without question.
Freja moved among the soldiers quietly, distributing bandages, murmuring reassurances. Her presence steadied more than she knew.
Mikkel watched her for a moment—then forced himself to look away.
The horns came an hour later.
Graymarch arrived like a tide—ragged banners, shouted taunts, the smell of sweat and iron carried ahead of them.
They charged without hesitation.
The first volley of arrows cut into them brutally, bodies dropping into the river with splashes that stained the water dark. The culvert became chaos—steel ringing, men screaming, blood slicking stone.
Mikkel fought where the line bent, spear thrusting and withdrawing, body moving on instinct honed by fear and calculation. He did not shout. Did not rage.
He watched.
When the enemy tried to push through the center, Signe met them head-on, roaring orders, blade flashing. When they attempted to climb the banks, Liv's arrows found throats and eyes with quiet precision.
They held.
They always held.
Until a scream rose from the treeline to the north.
A sound too shrill to be a battle cry.
Mikkel's head snapped up.
Smoke rose beyond the bend.
The northern settlement.
Graymarch had split after all.
"Damn it," Signe snarled.
Havel swore. "They outplayed us."
"No," Mikkel said, voice tight. "They gambled."
The question burned in his chest.
Do we hold… or do we run?
He looked at Freja, already moving toward the wounded. At Liv, eyes dark, expression unreadable. At Signe, bloodied and unbowed.
And beyond them—at the smoke.
"If we break," Signe said, reading his face, "this line collapses."
"Yes," Mikkel agreed.
"If we don't," she continued, "people die."
"Yes."
The choice stood naked between them.
Mikkel stepped forward.
"We hold," he said. "But we send riders."
Havel frowned. "We don't have—"
"We do," Mikkel cut in. "Two light scouts. Fast. Warn whoever's left. Give them a chance to flee."
Liv met his eyes.
"I can go," she said.
Signe shook her head. "Too valuable here."
"I'm quieter than horses," Liv replied.
Mikkel hesitated for only a breath.
"Go," he said. "And don't die."
Liv nodded once and vanished into the trees.
The fight dragged on for another brutal hour.
When Graymarch finally broke, it wasn't because they were crushed—but because they had failed to overwhelm.
They fled in pieces.
The river ran red.
As the survivors regrouped, battered and bleeding, Liv returned.
Alone.
"They ran," she said simply. "Some escaped."
Mikkel closed his eyes.
Not enough.
But some.
That night, as the wounded were tended and the dead laid out beneath the stars, Havel found Mikkel standing apart, staring into the dark.
"You made the call," the quartermaster said quietly.
"Yes."
"You'll be blamed," Havel continued. "By the ones who lost family."
"Yes."
Havel studied him. "You still think it was right?"
Mikkel did not answer immediately.
Then: "I think it was necessary."
Havel exhaled slowly.
"That's how it starts," he said.
Mikkel looked back toward the river, the smoke, the road that led nowhere safe anymore.
If this was how it started—
Then he would have to decide how it ended.