It took them about an hour to fully collapse the site, with plenty of grumbling from Siv throughout. Eventually, though, they were back on the road.

  Siv rode in the wagon with their merchandise—it made the most sense, him being the smallest of the three. Less weight for the horses to carry, and someone needed to keep an eye on the stock.

  They travelled throughout the day, making good time. The road wound through low hills blanketed in fresh spring grass, and the scent of damp earth followed them as the sun broke through scattered clouds. Wagon wheels creaked over muddy ruts, and birdsong accompanied the soft clop of hooves. By nightfall, they’d covered a solid twenty miles—not bad, all things considered.

  Camp was set again under the stars, and Siv got to work preparing dinner. By the smell, Alec guessed it was rabbit stew... though, with Siv, you could never be too sure.

  Albos lounged near the fire, a half-empty bottle of cheap wine in hand—something he'd picked up from a roadside peddler with more enthusiasm than taste.

  They were no more than thirty miles from the Border Valley now.

  It had been twenty years since Alec had been this close. The scent of scorched wood and iron still haunted him—ghosts rising from memory as clearly as if he'd left them only yesterday. A girl’s scream. Smoke choking the sky. A blade slick with blood in his trembling hand. Twenty years since that day. Just the thought of it made his chest tighten. The closer they got, the harder it was to breathe. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.

  He sat down beside Albos, watching the fire dance in the growing dark.

  “Give me a taste, mate,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bottle in Albos’s hand.

  Albos turned to him, surprised. Even Siv paused his stirring, the spoon hovering over his near-edible concoction. In the two years they’d travelled together, Alec had never touched a drop. Not once.

  Albos handed the bottle over, his voice uncertain. “Sure…”

  Alec took it without a word and brought it to his lips. The sour, vinegary taste hit his tongue like a punch, but he didn’t stop. He took a breath and drank again—deeper this time—then handed it back.

  He needed something. Anything to dull the edge. His shoulders hunched forward, thumb tracing the rim of his empty cup. A war raged behind his eyes, the part of him that had held the line for two decades straining not to unravel now. He knew the dreams would come tonight. They always did when he got too close. And he just wanted... something that might let him sleep.

  Even if only for a little while.

  “You good, my burly friend?” Albos asked, his words slightly slurred as he leaned forward, concern flickering briefly across his features. His usual grin softened, eyebrows drawing together in quiet seriousness, eyes searching Alec's face for something deeper beneath his friend's guarded expression.

  “I’m good, my lecherous friend,” Alec said, managing a faint smirk. “Just needed a drink.”

  Albos looked at him through glassy eyes, blinking slowly. “You know,” he said, voice slurred just slightly, “I’ve met a lot of men with demons they need to cast out.”

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  He swirled the bottle in his hand, the firelight catching in the dregs of the wine.

  “And the only way a man like that can exorcise ‘em…” Albos looked straight at Alec now, his tone softer than usual, “...is by talking to someone.”

  Alec didn’t reply. He simply took the bottle again and brought it to his lips, taking several long, gulping swigs. The alcohol was starting to hit now—a welcome, warming numbness creeping through his limbs and softening the edge of his thoughts.

  He stared into the fire for a moment longer before finally speaking.

  “Whatever demons I carry… they’re mine. And I carry them for good reason.” For an instant, a shadow passed through Alec's gaze, a silent echo of faces lost and battles that could not be forgotten.

  He handed the bottle back to Albos.

  “Good night, my friend.”

  Without waiting for a response, Alec stood abruptly, shoulders tense, and made his way swiftly to his tent, the flap closing behind him with a quiet rustle that betrayed a controlled urgency. The fire crackled on, and Albos sat in silence, bottle resting loosely in his hand, watching the shadows flicker across the trees.

  Sleep dragged Alec down into the familiar nightmare, and suddenly the all-too-familiar sting of sweat and grit was back. Sand clung to his tongue, burned his eyes.

  Alec stood once more in the front line.

  Arrows flew past overhead—he could see the black mass surging forward across the battlefield. He felt it all: the fear, the desperation, the thunder of thousands charging toward him with one purpose—to kill and break through the shield wall.

  Then they hit.

  The sound was deafening. Screams erupted around him.

  But the dream didn’t end.

  Alec fought. He thrust and stabbed with his spear. Hands clawed at it, tearing at the shaft, but he kept driving it forward—again and again. Until a tremor ran through the wood. He drew it back and found only a splintered end.

  The spearhead was gone. A jolt of panic surged through Alec's chest, his breath hitching sharply as he felt defenceless, exposed in the chaotic swirl of combat.

  He dropped the useless shaft and drew his Warhammer. Then he began.

  Each swing was deliberate, brutal. He put every muscle fibre into the downward arcs, each blow driven by raw desperation and a dark, relentless fury that simmered beneath his skin. There’d be resistance—bone, flesh, armour—but then the skull would give way. At that moment, grim satisfaction mingled with revulsion, reminding him of the fine line he walked between warrior and butcher.

  He did this again and again, dozens of times. His world narrowed to the swing of the hammer and the sea of twisted, snarling faces that rose before him. Around him, the roar of battle filled the air—thousands of micro-duels playing out in a chorus of violence.

  Then, he brought his hammer up for another strike.

  It clipped an obsidian-red helm. The enemy staggered—and Alec froze.

  It wasn’t a beast. It wasn’t a monster. A cold shock rippled through Alec's chest, tightening around his heart as realization struck, raw and painful. He felt momentarily sick, his hammer suddenly heavy in his hands, the battle fading briefly into silence as he faced the haunting humanity in front of him.

  It was a boy.

  No more than five years younger than Alec had been. There was terror in his eyes—but also defiance.

  The boy raised a scimitar and brought it down. Alec caught the blow on the brim of his shield.

  “Stop, boy!” Alec shouted—his voice breaking.

  The blade came down again. He caught it once more.

  “Stop!” he yelled again, not from fear, but desperation. He didn’t want to kill him. He didn’t want to have to.

  But the boy didn’t stop.

  Another strike—this time Alec was too slow. The blade sliced a shallow line down his cheek. Pain bloomed sharply, a fiery sting that shocked Alec into sharper awareness, adrenaline surging through his veins. He gritted his teeth, frustration and regret twisting together inside him.

  Alec wanted to disarm him. Restrain him. Talk him down.

  But there was no space, no time. All around him, men were fighting and dying in their own desperate struggles for survival. The shield wall depended on every man holding firm.

  The boy raised his sword once more.

  Alec knew what he had to do.

  He didn’t want to. But for the sake of the line—for the men beside him—he had no choice.

  He brought his hammer up and swung it down, putting all his strength into the blow. He made it quick. Clean.

  The hammer struck the boy’s skull, and in an instant, the light behind his eyes vanished.

  Alec woke with a jolt.

  He wiped his face—not from sweat this time, but from tears.