The trees were still thick around us, dark and dripping, but I could barely see anything anymore. Not with the fog. Not with the blood. Not with my eyes full of tears.
Somewhere behind all the noise, Count Luka was screaming.
"Form ranks! Hold them! Stand your ground, damn you!"
His voice cracked like wet wood in a fire, full of command but empty of courage. I didn't have to see him to know he was behind his guards, hidden between their polished backs, nowhere near the front. Not where the arrows fell. Not where the dying was.
I crouched behind the shield I'd taken from the dead giant. It was heavy. Cold. The wood smelled like mildew and copper. I didn't dare lie down, not in the water. I couldn't. The swamp was sucking at my boots already, and I didn't want to disappear in it.
I stayed hunched there, knees bent, arms shaking, the shield rising just above my head. It didn't feel like it would stop anything.
I looked out past the rim.
The boy I'd spoken to—the one who joked about boots and nobles—he was charging. His axe was up. He ran like he thought he had a chance.
He didn't.
There was no one in front of him. Nothing but fog. He yelled something I couldn't hear over the clash and screaming, and then he fell. Hard. His body hit the ground like meat. He didn't move after that.
I started crying. I didn't want to, but it came out of me, stupid and loud. My chest rose and fell too fast. I pressed my face to the inside of the shield and sobbed like I was ten again. I wasn't ready for this. I didn't think war would be like this. No one had told me it would smell so bad or feel so quiet and loud all at once. That the fear would make your bones feel weak.
Then, I heard it.
Marching.
Different from before. Not like our mess of steps and dragging armor. This was tight. Sharp. Measured.
I turned my head, peeking around the shield's broken edge.
Through the mist came a group—fifty, maybe more. Dressed in red and green. Every man looked the same. Straight backs. Polished gear. Clean uniforms. Not like us. Not the half-starved farmers and drunkards we called soldiers.
They weren't part of Count Luka's force. I didn't need anyone to tell me that.
I looked back over the field.
We were all dead.
Everyone.
Men on their backs, faces slack. Some still twitching. Some with arrows in their necks or their chests or eyes. No one standing. Just me, hidden behind a dead man's shield with a knife that wasn't made for killing.
The marching stopped.
One of them, the man at the front, stepped out from the line.
He carried a massive sword, two-handed, with a chipped edge and dried blood along the fuller. His armor wasn't flashy but strong. His visor rose with a slow motion.
Underneath, his face was pale. Smooth. No beard. He had deep blue hair, darker than the sky before a storm. Eyes that didn't blink.
He looked across the field. Then he looked at me.
He walked forward.
My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to run, but my body didn't listen.
Behind him, others began to spread out. I could hear the thud and creak of crossbows being unshouldered. Light charms jingled on their armor—coins, rabbit's feet, strips of painted cloth. I knew what they were. Followers of the Goddess of Luck and Vigor. Mercenaries. Hired killers who prayed to a god who liked games and gold.
I stared at the man coming toward me.
He didn't rush. Just walked like he had all the time in the world.
Then, in one swing, he brought the sword down.
It struck the shield.
Split it.
Clean through.
I stumbled backward as the broken halves of the shield dropped into the swamp with a splash. My arms went limp. My dagger slipped from my fingers. My knees gave out, but I didn't fall all the way.
He stepped in.
I was frozen.
His hand grabbed my face—fingers pressing into my cheeks, thumb under my chin. I could feel the metal digging into my skin. His gauntlet smelled like iron and cold water.
He stared at me.
Then he smiled.
"You'll sell for a pretty penny."
And then—