Night deepened over the camp.
The fires burned low now, reduced to embers and small tongues of flame dancing with the wind. Men spoke in smaller groups, some sharpening blades, others simply trying to rest before the war demanded blood again.
Inside the healers' tent, the air had grown quieter.
One of the wounded slept deeply.
Another had stopped groaning.
The healer was arranging small clay jars when she heard Rowan getting to his feet again.
She glanced over her shoulder.
— I told you not to walk.
Rowan tested his leg carefully.
The pain was still there.
But now it was controlled.
— I'm just… checking.
— Checking if you want to end up back on the cot tomorrow?
He gave a small smile.
— I've been worse.
She watched him for a moment.
Then returned to her work.
— They all say that.
Rowan walked slowly to the tent opening and lifted the canvas slightly.
The night air was cold.
The camp stretched before him like a small sea of flickering lights.
Soldiers.
Horses.
Shadows moving.
For a moment, it almost looked peaceful.
— You should sleep, — the healer said behind him.
— I will.
But he didn't move.
Across the camp, near one of the larger fires, a man watched the tent.
Captain Darius.
Arms crossed.
Eyes fixed.
He had received clear orders.
And men like him knew how to obey.
Without drawing attention.
Without asking questions.
When Rowan finally stepped out of the tent, leaning more on his good leg, Darius pretended to busy himself with his sword.
Watching only from the corner of his eye.
Rowan walked a few steps through the camp.
Slowly.
Testing the ground.
Some soldiers looked at him.
Recognizing him.
It was hard not to.
He was the man who had still been standing when the dragon descended onto the battlefield.
That was the kind of thing soldiers remembered.
Darius rose from the fire as if merely taking a walk.
He began moving in the same direction.
Unhurried.
Uninterested.
The distance between them closed gradually.
Rowan stopped near a barrel of water.
He dipped his hands.
Splashing his face.
The cold water helped clear his mind.
— You walk quickly for someone who almost lost a leg.
The voice came from behind him.
Calm.
Steady.
Rowan turned his head.
The captain stood there now.
A few paces away.
— I walk slowly for someone who almost died, — Rowan replied.
Darius studied his face for several seconds.
Like a man used to measuring other men.
— Rowan, right?
— That's what they say.
— I was on the field yesterday.
A brief pause.
— I saw the dragon descend.
The silence between them thickened.
— And I saw you standing when the fire passed.
Rowan shrugged.
— Luck.
Darius let out a small breath through his nose.
— No.
He shook his head slowly.
— Luck is when an arrow misses by a handspan.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
— Dragons don't miss.
Rowan didn't answer immediately.
He took another handful of water and splashed it across his face.
Then said:
— Maybe it was aiming at something else.
Darius remained silent.
Watching.
Thinking.
— Maybe.
A small pause.
Then he asked:
— How long have you been fighting?
— Long enough.
— Where from?
— The north.
Darius nodded slowly.
But his expression made it clear that meant nothing.
— The north is large.
Rowan simply shrugged again.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke.
The wind moved between the tents, making some lanterns sway.
Then Darius changed the subject.
— Be careful with Lady Lyra.
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
— Advice or threat?
— Neither.
The captain glanced toward the dark sky.
— Just experience.
He looked back at Rowan.
— Men who attract her attention rarely live quiet lives.
Rowan let out a tired breath.
— I've noticed.
Darius nodded.
— Get some sleep, soldier.
He started to walk away.
But before going far, he added without turning:
— And Rowan…
Rowan looked at him.
— If you're lying about who you are…
A pause.
— I'll find out.
Then the captain disappeared into the shadows of the camp.
Rowan stood still for a moment.
Watching the darkness where the man had vanished.
Then he looked up at the sky.
Where, far above, something massive moved among the clouds.
Vaerith.
Lyra's dragon.
And for some reason he didn't entirely understand…
The news didn't take long to spread.
War camps were places where almost nothing stayed secret for long.
Especially something like that.
A soldier from Edric's army.
Alive.
Inside the camp.
And worse—
brought there by Lyra herself.
The story moved from fire to fire, passed between tents, and arrived—like most important things did—at the largest tent in the center of the camp.
Marrick's tent.
Inside it, the air was thick with the smell of leather, iron, and wine.
Maps were spread across a wide wooden table. Small stones marked troop positions along the frontier.
Marrick leaned over the map when a voice spoke behind him.
— My lord.
He didn't lift his head immediately.
— Speak.
The soldier hesitated.
— There is… something you should know.
Marrick moved one of the stones across the map.
— Then say it.
— Lady Lyra brought a man from the battlefield.
Now he stopped.
Slowly.
Straightened.
— A prisoner?
— Not exactly.
Marrick turned.
Dark eyes met the messenger.
— Explain.
— He's a soldier of Edric.
Silence.
The kind that makes men measure every word that follows.
— And he is… alive.
Marrick frowned slightly.
— Many of them were alive yesterday.
— Yes, my lord.
Another pause.
— But this one is in the camp.
Marrick's eyes hardened.
— In the camp.
— Yes.
The soldier swallowed.
— Lady Lyra brought him.
Now Marrick stood completely still.
For several seconds he simply stared at the man before him.
Then he asked, with controlled calm:
— Has she taken him prisoner?
— No, my lord.
— Then what is he?
The soldier hesitated again.
— I… don't know.
Marrick exhaled sharply.
Contained irritation.
— Where is he?
— In the healers' tent.
Silence again.
Marrick walked to the table and took a cup of wine.
Drank a short sip.
Then said:
— An enemy soldier enters my camp.
He set the cup down.
— And no one thinks to inform me first?
— My lord… it was her order.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then Marrick gave a small humorless laugh.
— Of course it was.
He ran a hand across his short beard.
Thinking.
Lyra.
Always Lyra.
Her dragon had won half the war by itself.
That gave her power.
Perhaps too much.
Marrick picked up the sword resting on the table.
— This man.
He began walking toward the tent entrance.
— Rowan.
— Rowan, — Marrick repeated.
The tent flap opened as he stepped into the cold night.
Fires lit the path.
Soldiers moved aside instinctively as he passed.
— If Lyra thinks she can bring soldiers of Edric into my camp…
He stopped briefly.
His gaze hard.
— Then I want to see this man with my own eyes.
He continued walking.
Straight toward the healers' tent.
Not yet knowing whether he would find there a prisoner…
a spy…
or something far more dangerous.
And inside the tent—
Rowan still sat on the low bench.
The bandage tight around his leg.
His head tilted slightly back as he rested.
Unaware that, at that very moment,
the man who commanded the entire army
was coming to meet him.