CHAPTER 77: ASHES OF VALOR

The night swallowed their retreat, broken only by the labored breathing of exhausted horses and the occasional groan of the wounded.

No torches lit their path, light would only make them targets. They rode blind through darkness thicker than ink, guided by Ashgard’s scouts who somehow found passage where others saw only shadow.

Soren’s gelding stumbled beneath him, nearly sending him tumbling from the saddle. The poor beast had been running for hours without rest, foam flecking its heaving sides. He leaned forward, patting its sweat-slick neck.

"Just a little further," he murmured, though he had no idea if that was true.

The shard against his chest remained cold, Valenna unnervingly silent since they’d fled the camp. Her absence left him feeling strangely exposed, as if a shield had been withdrawn when he needed it most.

Ahead, Lord Ashgard rode with spine rigid as iron, his silhouette a darker shadow against the night.

He hadn’t spoken since ordering the retreat, hadn’t looked back at the ragged column trailing behind him. But his silence pressed down on them more heavily than any reprimand could have.

To Soren’s right, two knights struggled with the makeshift stretcher carrying Kaelor, the uneven terrain making their burden all the more difficult. The Swordmaster’s breathing came in ragged gasps, occasionally punctuated by half-coherent curses. Even in delirium, Kaelor fought.

"Watch the flank," the Swordmaster muttered suddenly, his voice startlingly clear. "They’ll come from the trees. Always the trees."

Then, softer: "Blade up, you worthless whelp. Die on your feet."

Soren couldn’t tell if Kaelor was reliving past battles or fighting Sylas again in fevered dreams. Either way, the Swordmaster refused to surrender, even as blood soaked through hastily applied bandages.

Behind them rode the remnants of what had been a proud hunting party. House banners had been abandoned, insignias covered, anything that might draw attention.

Noble lords who had sneered at each other over precedence now huddled together like frightened children, their earlier rivalries forgotten in the face of shared terror.

No songs broke the silence. No boasts or challenges. Just the hollow sound of retreat, hooves on dirt, leather creaking, men breathing through clenched teeth.

"Should have brought more men," a voice whispered from the darkness, Lord Lanther, recognizable by the petulant edge that even mortal fear couldn’t erase. "A proper force. Not this... this inadequate assembly."

"Your men fled first," came the hissed reply, a Trescan noble whose name Soren couldn’t recall. "While mine held the eastern flank."

"Held? Is that what you call abandoning your position at the first sign of blood?"

The bickering continued, hushed but venomous. Even facing extinction, they couldn’t resist assigning blame. Soren wondered if they’d still be arguing as Sylas opened their throats.

The column crested a low rise, and Lord Ashgard finally raised his hand, calling a halt. They had reached some predetermined position, a ridge overlooking the valley they’d fled through, offering both visibility and defensible high ground.

"Make camp," Ashgard ordered, his voice carrying without seeming raised. "No fires. Minimal movement."

Knights dismounted with the awkward stiffness of men pushed beyond exhaustion. Some simply collapsed where they stood, armor clanking against stone. Others moved with mechanical precision to secure the perimeter, training overriding fatigue.

Soren slid from his saddle, legs nearly buckling as they took his weight. Every muscle screamed in protest. His hands, clenched around the reins for hours, refused to straighten completely. He forced himself to move, leading his exhausted mount toward where the other horses were being gathered.

"Water the animals," Ashgard commanded, already striding toward where his captains had begun assembling. "They’ve earned it."

Soren nodded, though the lord hadn’t been addressing him specifically. He found a stream trickling down the ridge’s eastern face and led several horses to drink, his own gelding nearly dragging him in its eagerness to reach water.

As the animals drank, Soren became aware of eyes on his back. He turned to find Harrick watching him from several paces away, the Trescan knight’s usual arrogance replaced by something darker—suspicion mingled with fear.

"He looked right at you," Harrick said, voice pitched low but carrying in the night stillness. "The killer. He had us all at his mercy, and he looked at you."

Soren turned away, focusing on loosening his gelding’s saddle straps to prevent sores. "He looked at everyone," he replied, keeping his voice neutral despite the heat rising in his throat.

"No." Harrick stepped closer, hand resting on his sword hilt. "Not like that. He recognized you."

Before Soren could respond, a commotion broke out near the center of their makeshift camp. Lord Lanther’s voice rose above the general murmur, sharp with hysteria barely contained.

"We cannot simply cower here like rabbits!" the noble shouted, gesturing wildly as he confronted Lord Ashgard. "We must summon reinforcements! Raise the countryside! Hunt this monster down with proper forces!"

Ashgard regarded him with the detached interest one might give an insect behaving in unexpected ways. He didn’t immediately respond, which only fueled Lanther’s growing panic.

"My son is dead!" Lanther continued, voice cracking. "Slaughtered like an animal while Trescan knights fled! Where was House Dravien’s vaunted discipline? Where was—"

"Enough."

Ashgard didn’t raise his voice, yet the single word silenced Lanther as effectively as a blade to the throat. The lord’s steel-gray eyes swept the gathering, taking in the haggard faces of survivors, nobles and knights alike rendered equal by shared terror.

"Survival was the only victory offered," he said, each word precise as a knife cut. "I took it."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Lanther opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. Even in his grief-maddened state, he recognized the cold truth in Ashgard’s words. They hadn’t been meant to win. They had been meant to die.

"Tend to your wounded," Ashgard continued after a moment. "Rest while you can. At dawn, we ride for Northaven."

The gathering dispersed, lords retreating to whatever comfort their remaining retainers could provide. Soren finished with the horses and made his way to where Kaelor had been placed, beneath an outcropping that offered minimal shelter from the night wind.

The Swordmaster lay still, his breathing shallow but steady. Someone, one of Ashgard’s knights, probably, had changed his bandages and cleaned the worst of his wounds. In the dim moonlight, Kaelor’s scarred face looked oddly peaceful, the permanent scowl smoothed by unconsciousness.

Soren knelt beside him, checking the bandages with careful fingers. The largest wound, a deep slash across the ribs, had finally stopped bleeding. Kaelor stirred at his touch, his single eye fluttering open.

"Still alive then," the Swordmaster rasped, recognition flickering across his features. "Disappointing."

Despite everything, Soren felt his mouth twitch toward a smile. "Sorry to disappoint."

Kaelor grunted, shifting slightly before wincing as pain reasserted itself. "Water."

Soren held a waterskin to the Swordmaster’s lips, supporting his head as he drank. It was strange to see Kaelor like this, vulnerable, dependent. The man who had seemed invincible during training now struggled with tasks a child could manage.

"You fought well," Soren said quietly as he lowered Kaelor’s head back to the folded cloak serving as a pillow.

The Swordmaster’s laugh was a broken sound that ended in a cough. "I lost."

"You survived."

"Not the same thing."

They fell silent, the weight of the night pressing down around them. From nearby came the murmur of other survivors, knights comparing wounds, nobles whispering contingency plans, all of them casting nervous glances into the darkness beyond their meager camp.

"Should have killed me," Kaelor muttered, his voice fading as exhaustion reclaimed him. "Why didn’t he kill me?"

The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed once, Valenna’s presence returning like a cold wind after long absence.

’Your Swordmaster bleeds like any other,’

she whispered, her voice sharp with something that wasn’t quite mockery. ’You thought him invincible. Learn from this.’

Soren adjusted Kaelor’s blanket, an unexpected surge of protectiveness rising in his chest. For all the Swordmaster’s cruelty during training, for all his cutting remarks and impossible standards, he had stood against Sylas when others fled. He had bought them time with his blood.

’He’s earned my respect,’ Soren thought back.

’Respect is earned in victory,’ Valenna replied coldly. ’Not noble defeat.’

Soren rose, leaving Kaelor to his restless sleep. Around the camp, small clusters of survivors huddled together, their earlier house rivalries temporarily forgotten in the face of shared trauma.

But even in their unity, fractures showed, Trescan knights keeping distance from Dravien counterparts, Lanther’s remaining retainers glaring at Karvath greens.

"...abandoned us at the first sign of trouble," a Trescan noble was saying, voice low but intense as he confronted a Dravien knight. "While my men held the line."

"Your men?" The Dravien’s laugh held no humor. "I saw you running before your banner even fell."

Nearby, two Karvath knights argued over who had given the order to retreat, their gestures growing more agitated as fatigue and fear frayed their control.

"Lord Merrin said to hold position!"

"Lord Merrin was already halfway to the horses by then!"

Only the Ashgard contingent maintained discipline, their gray-clad forms moving with quiet efficiency as they established watches and secured the perimeter. They had suffered losses like the others, but their response was fundamentally different—focused on survival rather than recrimination.

As Soren made his way toward the edge of camp, seeking solitude, he became aware of whispers following in his wake. Not the arguments of nobles assigning blame, but something more insidious, speculation about him.

"...stopped right in front of him," one knight murmured to another. "Could have killed him, but didn’t."

"...looked at him like they knew each other," came the response. "Strange, wouldn’t you say?"

Soren kept walking, his back stiffening under the weight of their stares. The shard against his chest cooled further, Valenna’s presence sharpening with what felt like grim satisfaction.

’Now you understand,’ she whispered. ’Survival brings its own suspicions.’

He found a relatively isolated spot at the camp’s edge, a flat stone overlooking the valley they’d fled through. Sitting with his back against a stunted pine, he tried to make sense of what had happened.