The Sergeant's Eye

The fog lifted by evening. Not like a curtain drawn back, but a sickness withdrawing. The air still tasted wet. The trees still loomed, but the path between them could now be seen.

They counted bodies by lamplight.

Darin stood near the back of the fireline, cloak wrapped tight, watching Raive stalk from corpse to corpse like a butcher pricing meat.

"Mark him," Raive muttered to a scribe, pointing to a dead man whose stomach had been torn open. "Could fight. Lazy stance, but firm hands. Don't let the quartermaster throw him to the dirt pile."

The scribe scratched in the ledger.

Harl stood beside Darin, pale and stiff. "They say it wasn't just border folk."

"Then who?" Darin asked.

"Mercs," he whispered. "Low-grade. Paid to harass the Thirel levy. Could be some baron playing games before the spring push."

Darin didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on Raive.

The sergeant stepped closer to their cluster of survivors. His eyes landed on Darin. Stayed there a moment too long.

Then passed on.

Darin felt the weight of that glance—like a blade pressed lightly against his ribs, not yet cutting, just… measuring.

Later, while the fires crackled and the stew thickened, Darin sat alone. He cleaned his standard blade, slowly, with a cloth that used to be his mother's apron.

Raive approached without sound. The other men fell quiet as the sergeant passed. Not out of respect—out of calculation.

"You held position," Raive said.

Darin looked up. "I did."

"You used the standard blade?"

"I did."

Raive's eyes flicked to the cloth bundle near Darin's bedroll. Still tied. Still hidden.

"Good," Raive said.

He turned. Walked three paces. Then stopped.

"Don't get clever. This levy has no place for clever men."

He kept walking.

That night, as wind rolled across the thinning camp and the stew boiled too thin to count as food, Darin sat awake.

The sword beneath his cloak stayed wrapped.

But it wasn't forgotten.

Nor was Raive's glance.