The fire burned for a long time.
When it finally died down, they gathered the ashes of more than twenty fallen men, each wrapped carefully in enemy clothes.
By the time the wagons rolled back to camp, the refugees hiding in the hills had already come down.
As soon as she saw them return, the old woman waddled forward, ready to put on her usual act of tearful gratitude.
Matthew ignored her completely.
Instead, he ordered his young mercenaries to burn the remaining corpses—just as they had done before.
This time, every man saw it himself. Every man watched his fallen companions pass into the fire.
The old woman had nothing to say. She stepped away, lips pressed tight.
When the flames finally faded, she stirred again as if preparing another plea—but Matthew was already gone.
He, Bors, and Sir Haven rode out once more, their wagon clattering into the dark.
No one asked what they were doing.
By the time they returned, a dead horse was tied to the cart.
Matthew jumped down and called to the gathered refugees.
"Who here can cook meat?"
The old woman perked up immediately and motioned for a few farm women to step forward. "Here, my lord! These ones can!"
The women looked nervous, heads bowed, their hands twisting in their skirts. Even peasants had a kind of modesty about them.
Matthew, for the first time that night, smiled faintly. "Let them help. Tonight, we eat horse meat."
The two surviving draft horses snorted loudly, stamping the ground in protest.
Bors quickly stroked their long faces and whispered something calming until they settled.
Meanwhile, Sir Haven was already cheerfully butchering the carcass, tossing cuts of meat over a rough wooden rack.
When the smell of roasting horse filled the air, even Bors abandoned the animals and hurried over.
They feasted late into the night—half the horse gone by the time the flames began to dim.
The refugees ate the most.
The children, bellies round and greasy, were grinning ear to ear.
The younger mercenaries, though, looked less amused, their resentment silent but simmering.
Yet none dared act on it under Matthew's gaze.
He leaned back against the wrecked wooden planks, chewing his fill.
Beside him, Fishy stuffed his cheeks until they bulged, whispering between bites about everything he'd seen that day—an eager little spy reporting his world.
Matthew listened, saying nothing.
Before long, it would all end anyway. The refugees would stay behind, and his group would move on. As long as no trouble sparked, he didn't care if the men grumbled.
When his share was gone, he wiped his mouth, stretched out on the planks, and closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to think.
The old woman, sitting apart, had been waiting for a chance to talk. She patted her full stomach and smiled nervously, ready to approach.
But when she saw him lying down, asleep or pretending to be, she froze.
If she disturbed him, she might ruin what little favor she had earned. Yet if she waited until morning, he might already be gone.
She chewed her lip. She had to speak with him—to beg him to take them along. A man who led soldiers to victory against impossible odds was a man worth following.
The brave had banquets. The weak had nothing.
So she rose on trembling legs and took a hesitant step forward.
But before she got far, Fishy looked up from his plate, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and moved in front of her.
"Lord Matthew's resting," he said curtly. "He's tired. Don't disturb him."
The old woman's face flushed. She glanced around and saw the others watching—mercenaries grinning in open mockery.
She forced a smile. "Of course, of course. I'll talk to him in the morning."
She turned away, mumbling to herself, "Old bones just need someone to talk to, that's all."
Fishy rolled his eyes and flopped back down, popping another strip of meat into his mouth.
From where he lay, Matthew almost wanted to give the boy a thumbs‑up.
He had no desire to talk either.
Yes, he'd been the one to let those women and children run first—but they'd fled faster than fear itself.
No courage, no loyalty, no honor—and now only self‑preservation.
He doubted they'd have even buried the dead if the bandits had won.
To him, they were like most common folk: fearful, selfish, and quick to bow to strength.
He would make use of them, but never trust them.
When they reached Sow's Ridge, their only purpose would be to speak of him—to spread his name wide.
No regrets. No mercy.
The fire cracked loudly, each spark like a hammer on his thoughts.
He turned everything over in his mind until only one truth remained: power solved everything.
If he'd had a hundred trained men, none of today's pain would have happened.
He was still thinking about that when Fishy shuffled over and lay down beside him, yawning once before falling dead asleep, snoring softly in less than a minute.
Matthew almost laughed—but the steady snore was weirdly peaceful.
The others drifted off too, except for Bors and Morty, who sat side by side, keeping quiet watch.
The night passed swiftly.
It felt like only a few breaths before the dawn's gray light touched their faces.
"Hey! Lord Matthew—wake up!"
Morty shook his shoulder eagerly.
Nearby, Sir Haven stretched and grinned at the morning fuss.
The old woman, a light sleeper, stirred as well.
Matthew blinked his eyes open and groaned. "Gods, I actually slept… What is it?"
Morty pointed toward the spot where Raif's severed head still lay, dried blood crusting the dirt. "You forgot his little clue, remember?"
Matthew slapped his forehead. "Right. Nearly forgot."
He turned to Haven. "Wake a few men. The rest will follow when ready. We're heading out."
The words jolted the old woman awake fully.
She scrambled to her feet, fear and urgency tightening her voice.
"My lord, wait!"
Her shout startled everyone.
Matthew sighed, looking at the faces now rousing around them. He exhaled deeply before meeting her eyes.
"What is it, grandmother?" he asked, tone weary but polite.
The old woman straightened as best she could, clutching her shawl. "It's nothing much," she said, voice trembling. "It's just… we're almost at Sow's Ridge, and I've been thinking. We owe you our lives. So I—I want to pledge myself and the others to you. Let us be your people. Let us serve you."
The truth finally crawled out.
Matthew glanced at Haven and Morty, both struggling to hide their grins. He shook his head slowly.
"I'm afraid not," he said. "What lies ahead is dangerous. You'd only slow us down."
Disappointment flickered across her face. She tried again, voice small. "Then—perhaps tell us where your lands are, so we might—"
Matthew held up a hand to stop her. His tone softened.
"If you truly wish to repay me," he said, "then live well in Sow's Ridge. Tell my story. Let the children there grow up wanting to be true knights."
He smiled then—warm but distant. It was hard to say whether it was kindness or irony.
The expression faded before anyone could decide.
He turned, mounted his horse, and called to his men.
"Time to go."
The old woman reached out as if to call him back, but no words came.
She could only watch as Matthew, Haven, Morty, and Bors spurred their horses and disappeared down the road—leaving nothing behind but the rising dust and the echo of hooves fading into the dawn.
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