A Friend Who Watches

The tent was round, silken, and empty of color. Its walls were cream-white, veiled twice from the outside, and warmed faintly by coal pots buried beneath clay slabs. No flags. No house sigils. No guards at the entry.

Darin had entered without being stopped.

He'd passed through three checkpoints, each man simply nodding him forward with the detached obedience of someone told, not convinced.

That meant someone powerful—but cautious.

He didn't speak when he entered.

He wasn't told to sit.

But he did. Because there was only one seat in the room—low, padded, carved of bone-inlaid cedar.

A voice broke the quiet.

"You aren't what I expected."

It came from behind a wine-lacquered screen—decorative, useless for privacy. Meant only to create tension.

The screen parted.

The man who emerged was thin, not tall, and wore fur without armor. His belt bore no sword, but a silver wax stamp. His eyes were lined with violet ink. A quill poked from behind his left ear like a loose arrow.

Ser Venric Falshade, third cousin of House Myren, holder of no keep, commander of no troops, but recipient of six votes in court arbitration sessions.

Darin recognized him from the war boards.

Never from the front.

Falshade poured two cups. Did not ask.

Then offered one, smiling with the corners of his mouth only.

Darin took it.

He didn't drink.

"You made a ditch into a shrine," Falshade said. "Unintentionally, I'm sure. But the court sees what's useful. And fears what inspires."

Darin remained quiet.

"Do you know how many letters crossed desks last week about your trench?"

Darin tilted his head slightly.

"Four?" he said.

"Eight," Falshade replied. "Three from scribes. One from a minor baron's heir. One from a supply officer—your requisition order was… let's call it unusually honest."

He smiled again. There was no warmth in it.

Falshade stepped closer, swirling his wine.

"Your men wear armbands now. Not against the law, of course, but close to the edge. You've created a unit with identity. That's dangerous."

Darin finally spoke.

"If I wanted danger, I'd march them into court. We're digging, not preaching."

Falshade's smile deepened.

"Ah. But that's the trick, isn't it? You've done neither. You've simply survived. With flair."

He set his cup down.

"And that's the problem."

Darin leaned forward slightly, finally sipping the wine.

Too sweet.

Cheaply masked vinegar.

He set it down.

"I'm not offering a title," Falshade said. "Nor protection."

"Then what?"

"A shield," the noble said, sitting. "One made of paper and disinterest. I'll see to it that the court stops looking directly at you—for a while."

Darin frowned. "Why would you help me?"

"I don't help. I bargain."

Falshade reached into his sleeve and pulled out a folded document. Unsealed. Handwritten. Short.

He set it between them.

It read:

Request granted. Auxiliary trench detail reassigned to independent command. Watch, do not interfere.— V.F.

Darin stared.

"This isn't from a general."

Falshade nodded. "No. But it's from someone whose pen signs grain routes and siege maps. That means power. The quiet kind."

He tapped the paper.

"I'll file this. Quietly. In exchange, you will do three things."

Darin waited.

"First," Falshade said, "you remain where you are. No pushes for territory. No public salutes. Let others raise your name. Never you."

"Second," he continued, "you will send quarterly reports—direct to me. Men. Mood. Rumors. I want a mouth in the mud."

"And third…"

He leaned close.

"When someone does come to test you—and they will—you will not break. But you will not kill them. You will let them leave, and you will let them speak."

Darin didn't move for a moment.

Then: "And in return?"

Falshade smiled at last—a real smile.

"You get to keep your ditch."

Later, as Darin stepped out into the sleet, the guard at the checkpoint gave no nod. Just a glance.

Measured.

Respectful.

A little afraid.

That night, Raive saw the folded paper in Darin's cloak.

"No seal?"

"No need," Darin replied. "It's already filed."

In the tent beyond, Falshade lit a candle, scribbled two notes, stamped them with a minor family's sigil, and poured his wine into the dirt.

"Too much sugar," he muttered.

Then he smiled.

The kind of smile that meant plans had moved forward.