If someone later asked when the line began to fall back, Rowan would not be able to say the exact second it happened.
The entire week had felt like a single endless afternoon — constant rain, mud to the ankles, men dying for strips of land none of them truly owned. From the first clash, when they believed this would be just another border dispute, to the moment the sky itself became the enemy, everything had escalated too slowly to seem inevitable… until it was.
Rowan was not thinking about politics now.
He was thinking about staying upright.
The enemy shield struck his again, vibration running up his arm into his shoulder. His wounded leg protested with every shift of weight, the earlier cut still burning beneath soaked fabric. He breathed through his mouth because the air smelled of iron and damp smoke.
And above it all, there was the sound.
The dragon was not diving at that moment.
But it was there.
Circling.
Waiting.
The beat of its wings created uneven pressure that made the air pulse. At times it seemed distant; at others so close Rowan felt he could reach up and touch the shadow.
The man in front of him attacked too quickly — perhaps nervous about what flew overhead. Rowan parried and answered with a short cut to the forearm. Resistance. Then give. The soldier stepped back, immediately replaced.
They were fresh.
Rowan was not.
Then he heard Garron.
Not as an isolated shout.
But as an order that cut through layers of noise.
"Fall back!"
The word felt wrong.
Fall back meant weakness.It meant risk.It meant opening space.
Rowan almost thought he had misheard.
But it came again, clearer, closer:
"Ordered withdrawal! To the right! To the rise!"
Rowan dared look past the rim of his shield.
Garron stood several paces behind the main line, sword raised not to strike but to indicate direction. He pushed men backward with his free hand, controlling the movement like someone forcing open a heavy door that could not be thrown wide all at once.
It was not flight.
It was repositioning.
The dragon swept lower.
The shadow crossed the field again, accompanied by a roar that vibrated through Rowan's wounded leg as if the sound itself sought to pull him down.
Some men turned too early.
Garron grabbed one by the collar.
"Face forward! Withdraw facing forward!"
It mattered.
Turning one's back meant death.
Rowan began taking short steps backward, shield raised, sword forward. Each movement demanded absurd concentration — mud pulled at him, bodies obstructed footing, and Marrick's regulars pressed harder as they sensed the shift.
A blow struck the top of his shield and slid aside. Another scraped his helm. He answered without thought, cutting into an opponent's thigh before stepping back again.
The rise was not far.
But it felt far.
With every meter yielded, fear thickened — not of the man ahead, but of the sky. The dragon did not attack again. Not yet. And the waiting was worse than flame.
Rowan heard someone fall behind him.
Another shouted they were being surrounded — panic-born lie.
"Hold formation!" Garron called again, and there was something different in his voice now — not desperation, but timed urgency.
Rowan understood.
The soaked plain favored a dive.
The rocky elevation would narrow the angle.
Less room for the dragon to gather momentum.
They were not retreating because they were losing.
They were retreating because they were finally fighting something that did not obey the rules of mud.
The dragon tilted its body again.
Rowan caught the motion in the corner of his eye.
Wings adjusted.
Chest expanded.
He did not know if the strike would come.
But he knew that if it came now, it would catch men in motion.
And men in motion are fragile.
"Faster!" someone shouted.
A mistake.
Speed broke rhythm.
Rowan kept the short step.
Shield high.
Sword ready.
Another of Marrick's soldiers lunged, attempting to exploit the withdrawal. Rowan parried and shoved with everything he had, feeling the impact through bone.
He no longer knew how many steps he had taken.
Only that the ground beneath his boots shifted slightly.
Less saturated.
Firmer.
They were close.
The roar came again.
Lower.
Heavier.
And Rowan thought, with frightening clarity, that perhaps that was the sound men heard just before realizing the world would never again be the same.
The incline beneath Rowan's boots grew steadier, less treacherous than the drowned plain, though still uneven enough to turn every step into calculation. The rocky rise lay only meters ahead — close enough to see, far enough to feel unreachable.
The withdrawal was working.
Not elegant.Not clean.But working.
Shield forward.Short step.Deflect.Step again.
Marrick's regulars pressed harder, trying to transform controlled retreat into fatal disorder. They knew this was the most fragile moment in any line — when men move backward and instinct screams to turn and run.
Rowan felt his leg fail for the first time.
It was not dramatic.
Not a spectacular collapse.
Just a small misstep.
His right foot found unstable ground where mud met stone, slipped, and the pain in his thigh surged upward like an internal blade, stealing strength for a second too costly to lose.
He tried to compensate.
Too late.
The impact came from the side.
A regular slammed into his shield with calculated violence, using his full body weight. Rowan lost balance and fell to one knee.
The world tilted.
Battle noise receded briefly, replaced by dull ringing in time with the pulse of blood from his wound.
He tried to rise.
The leg did not answer.
The soldier in front saw.
Advanced without hesitation.
The blade came down in a swift arc, aimed for the space between shield and shoulder.
Rowan raised the shield too late; the strike slid, opening leather near his clavicle, tearing fabric and skin. The pain flared hot but shallow.
The second blow would not be.
Above them, the dragon roared.
Lower.
Closer.
The sound vibrated through the ground.
The soldier hesitated half a second — enough to glance skyward.
Rowan seized the mistake.
Not with strength.
With necessity.
He lunged from his knees, driving his shield into the man's legs, toppling him onto the uneven ground. The enemy's sword fell into the mud.
Rowan tried to stand again.
The leg failed once more.
Worse this time.
He realized with cold clarity that he was falling behind.
The line continued to withdraw.
Step by step.
Shield by shield.
And he was two, perhaps three paces out of position.
Two paces were the difference between soldier and corpse.
"Rowan!" someone shouted.
He did not know who.
Perhaps Alric.
Perhaps no one.
The regulars saw the gap.
Two advanced together, coordinated.
One high strike to force defense.One low to kill.
Rowan raised his shield for the first impact, arm nearly buckling. The second blade swept low. He twisted, but not fast enough; steel cut along the outside of his already wounded leg.
This time the pain was white.
Blinding.
He fell fully.
On his back.
The sky filled his vision.
Torn clouds.Fine rain.And the immense silhouette crossing above.
The dragon was descending again.
Not directly upon him.
But close enough.
He heard the wings like massive doors slamming shut.
He tried to roll.
The leg refused.
One of Marrick's soldiers stood over him, sword raised, shadow blocking gray light.
The blow would come.
There would be no third mistake.
Then something collided with the man before the blade could fall.
Ser Garron.
He entered the fight with raw brutality, sword carving a heavy arc that struck the soldier's helm hard enough to hurl him sideways. Without pause, Garron drove into the second man, shield locking, forcing him away from Rowan's prone body.
"Up!" Garron barked — not plea, but command without tolerance for failure.
Rowan tried.
The world swayed.
The dragon passed low enough that its shadow swallowed them whole for a full heartbeat. Air was ripped from Rowan's lungs by the violent displacement.
Garron seized the collar of his armor and hauled him upward with near inhuman force.
"Stand or die here!"
The words cut through the haze.
Rowan leaned on his sword like a crude cane and forced one foot beneath him. The leg trembled. Blood filled his boot, warm.
But he was standing.
Behind them, the line had reached the crest of the rise.
Two soldiers stepped back to seal the space Rowan had left.
Marrick's regulars hesitated as they recognized the terrain change.
Above, the dragon did not dive.
Not yet.
It circled.
Measuring.
Rowan, breath ragged, understood how close he had come.
Not to glorious death.Not to heroic end.
But to being forgotten in the mud while the line moved on without him.
Ser Garron did not look at him again.
He was already repositioning men along the higher ground.
But Rowan understood something there:
They were not merely retreating to survive.
They were buying minutes.
And every minute now cost flesh.