The dragon was no longer in the sky.
But no one remembered how to breathe properly again.
The war still raged around them—steel still clashed, men still fell—but it was as if everything had lost its meaning. As if, suddenly, swords were children's toys.
Rowan still held his.
The blade dripped.
Not with rain.
Ser Garron moved slowly through the center of the chaos, shoving back a soldier trying to retreat, grabbing another by the shoulder.
"Line!" he shouted. "Hold the damn line!"
But his voice did not carry the same weight.
Because they had all seen it.
And once a man sees a dragon… he never fully believes in shield walls again.
The red-haired captain spat into the mud, eyes wide.
"That… that wasn't supposed to be here."
Harlon looked twenty years older.
"Dragons don't descend for some minor lord's dispute," he muttered, as if speaking to the ground itself. "They don't come down into the mud."
Alric Fenn laughed once, broken and humorless.
"Marrick did."
Rowan looked at Garron.
Ser Garron stood still now, staring toward the horizon where the shadow had vanished.
His face was hard.
But there was not enough hardness in the world for this.
"He bought it," Garron said at last.
The words dropped like a stone into a well.
The red-haired captain blinked.
"Bought it?"
Garron turned slowly.
"Marrick has no dragon blood. No ancient right. No lineage."
He spat the word like sickness.
"But he has silver."
Harlon's fists clenched.
"Who would sell something like that?"
Garron answered without hesitation.
"A broken domain. A desperate lord. A man who believes fire is worth more than honor."
He looked around.
"Or someone who wants to see the world burn."
The wind carried the distant scent of smoke, though nothing yet was burning.
Rowan felt it.
The future had a smell.
Ser Garron drew a long breath, then shouted:
"Bring me Corvin!"
A soldier ran.
"Yes, sir!"
Garron pointed at Rowan.
"You. With me."
Rowan followed.
They entered the war tent like men stepping into a grave.
Inside, the map was still spread open.
The stones still marked squadrons.
As if it mattered.
As if small stones could compete with a creature made of ancient fire.
Corvin arrived breathless—a thin young man, face smeared with grime, eyes sharp and quick.
"Ser…?"
Garron seized him by the collar.
"Can you ride until you bleed?"
Corvin swallowed.
"I can, sir."
"Then you will ride."
He yanked out an empty parchment, dipped the quill with brutal force.
"You go to Lord Edric."
Corvin blinked.
"Now?"
"Now."
Garron wrote only a few words, each one a sentence.
MARRICK HAS BROUGHT A DRAGON.IT IS NOT A BLUFF.WE NEED MORE MEN.WE NEED EVERYTHING.
He sealed it with wax, hands far too steady for someone who had just watched the sky become an enemy.
Rowan spoke quietly.
"They won't arrive in time."
Garron lifted his eyes.
"I don't need them to arrive in time."
He leaned closer, so near Rowan could smell rain and iron on him.
"I need them to arrive."
Corvin hesitated.
"Sir… what if I'm caught?"
Garron smiled.
There was no joy in it.
"Then die running."
He shoved the boy toward the exit.
"Go!"
Corvin vanished into the mud.
Garron remained, staring at the map.
Then he spoke, as if to himself.
"Marrick didn't use fire."
Rowan frowned.
"Yet."
Garron nodded slowly.
"Yet."
Far in the southern hills, away from mud and screaming, Marrick was dry.
His cloak did not hang heavy with rain.
His boots did not sink.
He watched.
From here, the war looked smaller, as if men were only stains moving across a dark field.
Around him, knights and captains spoke in low voices, as though afraid the sky itself might hear.
And above them, perched upon a formation of black stone, was the dragon.
Its wings folded like furled sails.
Its neck arched.
Immense.
Impossible.
Ancient fire breathing slowly.
Beside the creature, a mounted silhouette remained perfectly still.
The rider.
Too small for something like that.
A woman wrapped in dark leather, her face hidden beneath a heavy hood, as if even she knew she should not be seen.
One of Marrick's knights approached, nervous.
"My lord…"
Marrick did not take his eyes from the field.
"Speak."
The knight swallowed.
"Should we send… now?"
He gestured vaguely upward.
He did not dare say the word.
Dragon.
Marrick smiled, slow.
"Now?"
He repeated it as if it were a joke.
"You think you buy the sky… only to waste it in the first hour?"
The knight flushed.
"They're retreating. Their morale is breaking."
"Not yet."
Marrick turned his head.
His eyes were pale as thin ice.
"I want them to bleed first."
The knight hesitated.
"But the mercenaries…"
"They are paid to die."
The answer came far too simply.
Marrick returned his gaze to the field.
Below, men ran, slipped, collided.
Steel flashed and vanished.
"Mercenaries first," Marrick said. "Then our common soldiers. Let them spend their strength. Let the mud swallow them to the knees."
He raised a finger, like a septon teaching a lesson.
"An army is not broken by fire."
He paused.
"An army is broken by exhaustion."
The knight glanced at the dragon, uneasy.
"And then…?"
Marrick's smile widened.
"Then, when they are too tired to lift a shield…"
The distant roar of battle rose like smoke.
Marrick spoke softly.
"…we show them what despair truly means."
The rider did not move.
The dragon only breathed.
As if it waited patiently.
As if human war was far too slow for it.
The field did not wait.
The mud did not wait.
Death never waits.
Ser Garron grabbed Rowan by the shoulder, hard.
"Enough staring at the sky."
Rowan blinked, as if waking.
"They didn't attack."
"Not yet."
Garron spat into the mud.
"That's worse."
He shoved Rowan forward.
"Back to the line."
Rowan obeyed.
The center was giving way.
Not from cowardice.
From weight.
From bodies.
From mercenaries who came like starving dogs, shouting in southern tongues, with empty eyes and stained teeth.
They had no banner.
Only hunger.
One of them appeared in front of Rowan, a curved blade in hand, grinning as if it were sport.
"Varyn gold pays well?" he shouted, spitting rain.
Rowan did not answer.
He had killed before.
He knew words were waste.
The mercenary struck fast, a horizontal slash.
Rowan barely dodged.
The blade passed so close he felt the wind of it.
He answered with a short, direct cut.
The sword sank into flesh beneath the ribs.
The man made a strange sound, like surprise.
Dropped to his knees.
Blood mixed with mud like dark ink.
Another came.
And another.
The line was shouting now.
"Hold!"
"Shields!"
"For Edric!"
A soldier beside Rowan slipped, fell onto his back.
Before he could rise, a mercenary leapt onto him and drove a knife into his throat.
The man tried to scream.
Only bubbling came.
Rowan moved instinctively.
He slammed the mercenary with his shoulder.
The enemy turned, too fast, the knife darting for Rowan's belly.
Rowan blocked with his forearm, feeling the impact.
The knife tore leather, scraped skin.
Hot pain.
Rowan snarled and struck.
His sword split the man's face from chin to eye.
He fell like a sack.
The rain washed the wound slowly.
But it cleaned nothing.
Nothing stayed clean there.
The air reeked of iron and filth and fear.
Alric Fenn appeared farther left, fighting like a possessed man, screaming orders no one heard.
"Line! Damn it, the line!"
Harlon was nearly buried in mud, his shield heavy, his arm trembling.
"They don't stop…" he murmured, like a prayer.
Rowan heard Garron shout behind him.
"This is only the first wave!"
The words froze colder than the rain.
First.
The mercenaries came in waves because Marrick could pay for waves.
Rowan struck again.
One man lost two fingers.
Another lost an eye.
A third lost his courage and tried to run—and died with a spear in his back before he took three steps.
The field was a grinder.
And they were inside it.
Rowan's breathing was heavy.
Each blow was slower.
Each step harder.
The mud pulled like hands.
The sky was a low ceiling.
And then…
A sound.
Not screaming.
Not steel.
A deep, ancient sound, like a mountain shifting.
Rowan lifted his eyes.
Nothing yet.
Only clouds.
But he knew.
They all knew.
The dragon had not left.
It was only waiting.
Like Marrick.
Like fire.
Ser Garron appeared beside him, sword in hand, face smeared with grime.
"Stay alive," Garron said, almost a growl.
Rowan panted.
"How long?"
Garron looked toward the horizon, where mercenaries still came.
And spoke the truth.
"Until they grow tired."
The rain fell harder.
And the mud kept drinking blood.