The mist had long cleared.

  The bodies were all too visible now. Spatters of blue lined the riverbank, the swamp, and the burned-out husk of what used to be their glory. Fighters, mostly. But also some who were years away from holding a spear. And a few years past having any right to.

  From the parapet, it lay plain as scripture. The muck. The blood. The tangled corpses of men and something far worse—things with shapes that didn’t hold, limbs bending where none should, faces that looked unfinished.

  And no sight of the captain.

  Never caught his name. He’d seemed the only bright light in a pool of dimwitted fools, barking orders like he meant to pull them out of the mire by voice alone. And now? Gone for hours. Dragged into the lion’s den—into the pit of the fanatics.

  I spat twice. Once for the dishonor of the Gustavians.

  And once to clear the last taste of blood from my mouth.

  Disaster, waiting to happen.

  What had they thought? That renewed attacks wouldn’t come? That the enemy would grow tired? Fodder for civilians, that’s what this was turning into. They sent some riders east—boys too young to keep their knickers up, let alone hold a sword straight. Barely old enough to curse proper.

  And west? Nothing. Not a word. Not a rider. No report.

  Who was even still with us? Which poor bastards hadn’t crawled off to die under some root or ditch?

  And worse—what burning horrors, what twisted shitstains of creation, were still out there in the fog… waiting to be found?

  And if I dared look back into the courtyard, an even fouler sight would taint me: Blemmyes. A small army’s worth.

  I’ve known Blemmyes. Seen them in the barns. In the lime mines. The tobacco plantations. Dragging crates, hauling stone, coughing their lives out in the dust.

  I’ve seen their eyes—dull, distant, beaten to habit.

  These were not those.

  These… these were no Blemmyes I’d ever seen.

  A particularly, disastrously big one followed the captain.

  Its weapon was the size of a man—iron and wood twisted into something that looked more like a siege tool than a soldier’s armament. Each step it took left impressions deep enough to drink rain.

  The others parted as it moved, like they felt its weight in their bones same as we did.

  I shifted my eyes from the swampy graveyard and onto the courtyard.

  There they were. Giants. Mounds of flesh pretending to be something else. Moving like men, but built like the ruin of old gods.

  Among them—young, old, and something in between. Soldiers, some of them. A few looked like they could hold their own in a charge. Others looked like a mild breeze would stop their hearts for good.

  Breathing, yes. Thinking? Harder to say.

  All of them standing there, waiting, as if the next horror hadn’t already started walking toward us.

  And then… eyes met mine.

  Cold eyes. Set deep beneath a tricorn that didn’t fit right. Connected to a uniform that tried—and failed—to carry the weight of import. The red coat was clean enough, the buttons polished, but it all hung on him like borrowed pride.

  We’d come under suspicion the moment we arrived. I knew how we looked. So did they.

  I held the gaze long enough—long enough to let him know I’d bite the ear off any commander fool enough to come understrength into this mess—then turned my search elsewhere.

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  Where was Elrik?

  I found him close to the main gate.

  A tactical position—always was with him. Quickest place to bolt if the ground turned sour and the need to leave without goodbyes came calling.

  The sweat on him had dried during the night, leaving salt crusted across his collar and boots. The boots told the story plain enough—caked with dirt, scuffed raw, soles worn thin from the kind of running that’s done under fire.

  He spotted me the second I came near.

  The sack was already packed and lifted, slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Axe strapped at his side, but loose, hanging in that way that meant ready hands and bad intentions.

  “Any report? Any news?” he asked, voice low—too low. That quiet hum he got when his nerves were fraying and he hadn’t yet decided if the next words out of his mouth would be prayer or profanity.

  “Captain’s parley’s gone on too long,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Peace stands for now, but I wouldn’t wager a fart on the Gustavians playing ally a moment longer.”

  Elrik’s jaw tightened. He shifted the weight of the sack higher on his shoulder, like it might help.

  “The Blemmyes roam freely,” I added, tilting my head toward the courtyard. “On Gustavian land they’d be flayed on the spot. Open mockery to their sensitive minds.”

  I glanced back at the yard.

  The remnants of some great beast still lay where it fell. Blackened, broken. A couple of Blemmyes stood over it, watchful, like undertakers too tired to finish the job. Smoking moss covered the worst of it, but not well enough.

  “We’ve come uninvited,” I said.

  Elrik exhaled through his teeth. “But we also came with warning. And with insight.” His eyes narrowed, scanning the road beyond the gates. “That’s worth something.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. Won’t matter much if the next tide comes before they pick a side.”

  “Say we go,” Elrik muttered, shifting his stance like the ground was growing hot. “Say we feel the fire under us and pack our things. Where to, Johan?”

  I hated that he had a point. Damn him.

  “East is certain doom,” I said. “North’s no better. Just more forest, more fog, more places to meet a slow or quick death. West… maybe. But what meets us on the way? Who knows what waits in that stretch?”

  “One would hope these dry whores would figure that out,” I sneered, voice bitter enough to curdle milk.

  “Indeed,” Elrik muttered. “Why not you be the one to put them on that thought?”

  I gave a dry snort. “You mean to stun them with commands?”

  “Whatever keeps them too busy to think too deeply about our past.”

  Steps came. Too fast. Not the measured stride of discipline—this was the stomp of someone working up the nerve to bark.

  I turned my head just enough to catch him in the corner of my eye. The officer with the loose uniform. Same cold stare from earlier. Same borrowed pride.

  And he wasn’t alone. Two others followed close behind. Inbred fools, by the look of them—faces too young or too soft, armed more with bravado than skill. Muskets slung lazy over their shoulders, blades hanging at awkward angles.

  “Shut the fuck up and follow my lead.” I whispered, low and sharp—pitched with enough venom that it might’ve hit Elrik straight through the spine.

  He stiffened. Good.

  “You are requested immediately at the war room for questioning,” the officer announced, puffed up like a rooster two seconds from getting its neck wrung. “Bring all property for inspection and search.”

  He let the words hang, then gave us both a long, sweeping look—up and down, like he expected contraband stuffed in our boots or secrets sewn behind our teeth. The kind of gaze meant to make a man feel smaller. It failed.

  What was there to search? Unless he wanted a handful of swamp-stained breeches and the stink of old sweat.

  “Your captain is away,” I said, letting the sentence curl slow. “Who commands this circus without him?”

  “We are trusted to keep the circus without him.” The officer’s tone tightened, his posture squaring like a boy imitating parade stance. “Will you need to be otherwise persuaded?”

  Another set of steps rang out. Too loud. Too deep. No need to look—the source was plain enough.

  A Blemmye.

  A particularly ugly one, at that. Its bulk filled the gap behind the officer like a landslide threatening a garden wall. Lopsided shoulders, mottled skin gone grey with old scars and new sweat. One eye sat higher than the other, giving it the look of something hammered together in bad light.

  What a pair… the preening pup and his pet stone.

  “I was asked to not let the situation develop,” the Blemmye said, voice low and wet, like river mud sliding down old wood.

  “I’m sure you were,” I replied, with enough mockery to kill a weaker man where he stood.

  Elrik’s shoulder tensed beside me. No use in fighting. Not unless we were begging to be spread across the stone by a giant with no sense of mercy and less sense of restraint.

  We had questions of our own, after all. And answers don’t come to men who bleed too early.