Chapter 13: What Holds, What Splits
The Northern Plains did not wake.
They were already awake.
Snow lay thin across the ground, uneven where the wind had dragged it into shallow ridges. The sky was pale and distant, the sun a dull presence behind drifting cloud. Sound traveled strangely here—sometimes too far, sometimes not at all.
Aren felt it before anyone spoke.
The squad moved differently.
Their spacing was correct. Their formation intact. Shields angled properly against the wind.
But something had loosened.
Lethan walked near the center now, his injured leg bound tightly, his pace slower but steady. He said nothing. He didn't look at Aren.
Rovan stayed on Aren's left as always, shield high, eyes forward. Corin walked a half-step farther back than usual, spear resting across his shoulder, jaw tight.
No one argued.
That was worse.
The army advanced across the plains in a wide formation, dark shapes moving against white. Wagons creaked. Scouts drifted ahead and back like ghosts.
Aren raised his hand.
The squad slowed.
They stopped without question.
Aren turned to face them.
"Short rest," he said. "Five minutes."
They broke formation immediately, but not together.
That was the crack.
Rovan knelt to adjust his straps. Corin walked a few steps away and began checking his spear tip, movements sharper than necessary. Bran lowered himself carefully, injured arm held close. Lethan sat down hard, back to the wind, eyes fixed on the ground.
No one looked at Aren.
Aren didn't speak.
He stepped away instead, moving a short distance toward a low rise where the wind cut harder and the snow thinned.
From there, he could see the army.
And beyond it—
Seraphina Valecrest.
She stood near the rear command cluster, cloak drawn close, helmet under one arm. She was not looking at maps. Not speaking to officers.
She was watching.
Not the army.
Him.
Aren turned away.
This was his problem.
---
They resumed marching after the break.
The fracture didn't heal.
It deepened.
Commands were followed—but slower. Adjustments that had once been instinctive now required confirmation. When Aren shifted formation slightly to account for wind, Rovan complied immediately, but Corin hesitated half a beat before moving.
Half a beat didn't matter in marching.
It mattered in combat.
By midday, the silence had weight.
Aren felt it pressing against his ribs with every step.
He didn't call them together.
Not yet.
You didn't fix something by naming it too early.
The opportunity came in the afternoon, when the wind shifted sharply and visibility dropped.
A low ridge ahead disappeared into blowing snow. Tracks were swallowed almost as soon as they were made. Sound flattened, distance collapsing into uncertainty.
Aren raised his hand.
"Halt."
The squad stopped.
"Spacing," Aren said. "Closer. Wind's hiding movement."
Rovan stepped in immediately.
Corin didn't.
Aren saw it clearly this time.
"Corin," Aren said. Not sharply. Just his name.
Corin moved.
The delay was brief.
It was also deliberate.
Aren didn't react.
They advanced another hundred paces before Aren halted them again.
"This ground is bad," Aren said. "We hold here until scouts confirm."
Bran nodded. Rovan stayed silent.
Corin exhaled through his nose.
"We keep stopping," Corin said. "We're slowing the column."
Aren looked at him.
"Yes."
Corin met his gaze. "Orders were to screen and move."
"And to keep the column intact," Aren replied.
Corin didn't answer.
The tension spread.
Lethan shifted where he stood, wincing as his leg protested. "If we'd moved faster yesterday—"
Aren cut him off immediately.
"No."
The word was firm.
Not loud.
"No," Aren repeated. "Yesterday's decision is not open for debate."
Silence followed.
Not acceptance.
Resistance.
Rovan finally spoke. "Someone was going to get hit," he said quietly. "That's the Plains."
Lethan's jaw tightened. "Doesn't mean it had to be me."
The words weren't angry.
They were honest.
That was worse.
Aren felt it then—the moment where this could fracture beyond repair.
He did not defend himself.
He did not explain.
He did not justify.
Instead, he nodded.
"Yes," Aren said. "It could've been someone else."
Lethan looked up, surprised.
"And next time," Aren continued, "it might be."
Corin frowned. "That's it?"
"That's reality," Aren replied.
The wind howled louder, snow stinging exposed skin.
Aren stepped closer to them.
"I won't promise you safety," he said. "I won't promise clean victories. And I won't pretend my decisions don't cost blood."
No speech.
No elevation of voice.
Just fact.
"But I will promise this," Aren continued. "If I make a call, it's because I believe it costs less blood than the alternative."
Rovan nodded slowly.
Corin crossed his arms. "And if you're wrong?"
Aren met his gaze.
"Then it's on me," Aren said. "Not the squad. Not command. Me."
That landed.
Not because it sounded noble.
Because it sounded dangerous.
"You want to question my calls," Aren continued, "do it after. Not during. Not in formation. Not when hesitation gets someone killed."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"I won't punish you for speaking," Aren said. "But I will not carry doubt into a fight."
Silence stretched.
This time, it shifted.
Not to unity.
To clarity.
Corin exhaled slowly. "Alright."
Not agreement.
Acceptance.
Lethan swallowed. "I don't blame you," he said finally. "I just… needed to say it."
Aren nodded. "You did."
They reformed without being told.
Not tighter.
Not looser.
Honest.
From the rear of the column, Seraphina watched.
She noted the lack of speeches.
The lack of threats.
The way Aren didn't shield himself behind rank or orders.
She noted the moment Corin accepted structure over emotion.
She said nothing.
The march resumed.
That night, camp was made early.
The wind cut hard enough that fires were kept small and close. The squad gathered naturally, not ordered, around a low flame.
No one joked.
No one argued.
Aren sat slightly apart, sharpening his blade with slow, controlled strokes.
After a while, Corin spoke quietly.
"You could've blamed command," he said.
"Yes."
"You didn't."
"No."
Corin nodded. "That helps."
Rovan added nothing.
Lethan stared into the fire, then looked at Aren. "Next time," he said, "don't hesitate with me."
Aren met his eyes. "Next time, don't outrun your footing."
Lethan snorted softly. "Fair."
The system remained silent.
No favorability increase.
No mastery change.
This wasn't about metrics.
Later, as the camp settled and the plains stretched endless and white beyond the firelight, Aren stood and looked back.
Seraphina stood where she always did—near the rear, quiet, watchful.
Their eyes met briefly.
She inclined her head.
Just once.
Not approval.
Recognition.
Aren turned away.
The squad wasn't whole.
But it would hold.
And in the Northern Plains—
That was enough.