Matthew hadn't expected any more pleasant surprises that day.
This—Haven's decision to join him—was one of the only good things to come out of their bloody victory.
For a moment, even the urgent need to relieve himself vanished.
In the dim firelight, Matthew's eyes gleamed with unmasked excitement as he looked at Sir Haven, nearly glowing with pride.
His grin stretched wider before he laughed and punched the knight's shoulder.
"You've finally come around. Trust me, Sir Haven—you'll be proud of this decision one day."
Haven liked that about Matthew—his confidence, unshakable and contagious.
He scratched his head, smiling. "So, should I ask Morty again? He's still a useful man."
Matthew's brow furrowed. He hesitated for a second, then shook his head. "No. I gave him my word—if he wants to go, I won't stop him."
Haven didn't understand, but nodded anyway.
"Go on ahead," Matthew said, waving him off. "Help Bors with the wagons. I'll meet you after checking on Bernas."
He turned away, disappearing into the shadows.
Haven lingered for a moment, watching the young man's back until it vanished behind the trees. His face stiffened, then softened into quiet sorrow.
He lifted his eyes to the half‑hidden moon and murmured, "Rest well, old Bernas."
The thought weighed heavy. The old man deserved a better end—but fate was cruel that way.
With a sigh, Haven trudged back down toward the flicker of campfires below.
When he arrived, the camp looked different from the bright chatter of morning. A few more fires had been lit.
The elderly mercenary sat motionless near one, quiet and hollow‑faced, like a carved log left behind by time.
Across from him, the younger soldiers whispered softly among themselves, no laughter—only silence and shadows.
Behind them stood several small oaken logs, each the width of a man's leg.
Bors sat on one, hammering away.
Beside him, little Fishy squatted and passed him tools whenever asked, eager to help.
Haven approached under the lingering gazes of the mercenaries. "Need a hand?"
Bors raised his head and gestured toward the remaining pile of wood. "If you can shape them to match those boards there, that'd help."
He pointed to a neat stack of planks beside the cart frame.
Haven's mouth twitched—it was meticulous work, whittling dozens of boards down to two‑finger width—but he said nothing and joined in.
Soon the sound of chopping wood and scraping blades filled the silence again, echoing with dull rhythm.
Back up the slope, Matthew stood apart, straightening after finishing his business when a sudden thump echoed behind him.
He spun at once, sword drawn, shouting, "Who's there!"
A fit of coughing followed, then the faint rustle of movement through the brush.
Someone was trying to stand.
Matthew lowered his stance slightly, eyes sharp, ready for either beast or blade.
Then came a woman's trembling voice: "M‑My lord! It's me! The elder sent me to find you!"
He froze, then remembered—the refugees.
He lowered his sword, exhaling. "Where are you hiding?"
The woman limped into sight, covered head to toe in dust and leaves, eyes red from fear and exhaustion.
She hadn't expected his tone to still be kind after everything. The warmth in it nearly made her cry.
"We're in a hollow to the east," she said, tears spilling over. "I can take you there."
Matthew shook his head gently, steadying her. "No need. Rest first. I'll send Sir Haven to bring them back."
Her gratitude was immediate, almost childlike. "Thank you, my lord. Whatever you command."
He smiled faintly and guided her down the slope toward the camp.
When the others saw her, surprise rippled among them—but welcome did not.
Even Haven kept his distance, frowning slightly. No one liked those who ran first.
Matthew noticed the tension and placed the woman carefully aside before walking over to Haven.
"Forget the wood. Take torches," he said quietly. "Go with Morty and bring the rest."
Haven grumbled, "I'm exhausted. Climbing again might finish me off."
Matthew sighed, eyes flashing in the firelight. "Don't start slacking on me now. Those women are worth more than you think. When we reach Sow's Ridge, they'll help us bring in recruits."
The flames lit half his face, shadows forming across the other half—making antler‑like shapes behind his shoulders, tall and sharp.
He looked almost otherworldly.
"Their words," he added softly, "can do what a thousand of ours can't."
Haven blinked, then nodded slowly. "Fair point."
After one last strike of his sword to split a stubborn log, he sheathed it. "Alright. I'll go."
Matthew bent down, pulled two burning sticks from the fire, and handed them over. "Be careful."
Haven thumped his armored chest, grinning, and strode off. Morty and the woman followed him into the dark.
When they disappeared, Matthew exhaled, then took up a hammer himself, helping Bors shape the planks.
The work continued beneath the rising moon until its pale light broke through the clouds.
Soon one wheel was done. The second followed quickly.
When the wagons were reassembled, harnessed to new horses, the group was ready to fetch the others.
They didn't wait for orders—half the men volunteered on their own.
Matthew let them go but kept five behind.
They worked fast—the new wagons rolled far smoother than before.
Wind whipped through the torches fixed along their sides, bending the flames sideways but not extinguishing them.
As they climbed the ridge, Bors suddenly jumped down with a shout, clutching something from the bushes.
When he lifted it high, Matthew saw his old hammer glinting in the firelight.
Bors beamed. "Found it!"
Matthew just smiled. Amid all this death, such small moments of joy felt precious.
At the top, they dismounted.
The slope before them was littered with bodies.
They spent a long while clearing the path—moving corpses so the wagons could roll. When they finished, twenty‑odd bodies were laid together in the valley below.
Torches burned low, their soot curling up the cliff walls.
When the wood was ready, Matthew stood silently at the center. Everyone watched him.
The wind fell still.
He held out a torch.
Flames caught; the others followed, setting the piles of brush and grass alight around the fallen.
Under the rising fire, the night glowed red.
The smoke swirled heavy in the valley, drifting low—as if the souls of their brothers lingered nearby.
No one spoke.
A few of the younger mercenaries wiped their eyes, pretending they hadn't.
Matthew watched silently as the flames took each body, his eyes red from both heat and grief.
Bernas's face seemed to shimmer through the smoke for a fleeting instant before the fire swallowed it whole.
His first real comrade. His first believer.
Maybe all the old man wanted was a knighthood.
Nothing wrong with that.
Fate just hadn't let him live to see it.
But the weight of that loss settled deep in Matthew's chest.
He clenched a fist, feeling a flame of his own burning inside.
Looking into the pyre, he swore quietly,
They'll have peace. And I'll make sure our name rises above the ashes.
---