It was cold enough that morning for Godmar's breath to linger through a slow count of three before fading away. He kept his hands tucked beneath his arms as he walked, his boots following the worn path through the garrison quarter without any thought. He had gate duty again.
It was a different kind of exhaustion, this one. The kind that stayed lower, buried in his knees. It came from standing for hours in weather that had no business turning this cold so early in the season.
The day waiting for him would be long either way. Standing still would be colder than walking, and gate duty meant plenty of standing still.
Some unlucky squad was already running blank-fire drills behind the barracks wall, and the sharp reports rolled over the rooftops while Godmar cut past. Whoever had planned the exercise clearly hadn't considered empty stomachs.
His own stomach had reached a much simpler conclusion. As long as he wasn't dead and wasn't trapped outside the walls, breakfast came first.
