Coin and Silence

The man who approached him wore a scribe's half-robes. His hands were too clean to be quartermaster, and too soft to be infantry.

"Walk with me," he said.

Darin didn't move.

"I bring no threat. Only words."

They walked behind the canvas rows, where the wind snapped the meal flags and salt meat hung like torn sleeves.

The man's voice was smooth, papery.

"You've been noticed. Not praised, mind—noticed."

Darin said nothing.

The man continued. "Serjeant Raive speaks well of you. A few others do not."

Still Darin didn't speak.

"So I'm here with an offer. Or a warning. It depends how you hear it."

They stopped beside the ration crates.

The man's fingers touched one—lightly. "There are… paths that accept your kind. Advancement, service, and yes—title. But not the one you walk."

Darin narrowed his eyes. "What path is that?"

"Quiet work," said the man. "Listening. Delivering things. Recording things. Things… not every knight is meant to see."

"And if I say no?"

The man smiled faintly.

"Then I suggest you keep winning quietly. Don't gather eyes. And don't bleed too slowly if you fall."

When Darin returned to the fire ring, Raive was waiting.

"You look pale," Raive said.

"Wrong meat," Darin muttered.

Raive studied him.

Then passed over a skin of warm beer.

For the first time that season, Darin drank.