Pockets of soldiers clustered across the yard, voices low—the calm before the storm. Horse hooves clomped against the dirt as handlers led them in slow circles. The sunrise crept over the mountains, casting everything in sharp gold.
The soldiers were a strange sight—no matching armor, no polished parade gear. Some wore scraps of steel and battered chainmail, others full suits of plate like Qahir's. They weren't dressed like the manor guards. No polished crests, no gleaming colors. These men wore their emblem like a threat.
Over their chests sprawled a black sun, its jagged rays uneven, like claws tearing outward from a hole in the world. At its center, a faint glimmer caught my eye. At first I thought it was chipped paint, but when one stepped into the light, I saw the truth: a scatter of tiny silver dots, arranged into constellations I didn't recognize.
A thin ring of crimson edged their sleeves and shoulder plates—like dried blood. The same black sun marked their cloaks, its jagged rays stretching to the hem. Even their shields bore it, the silver stars only visible when the sunlight struck just right.
They didn't need gold or jewels to announce themselves. The emblem alone was enough—an eclipse in motion, warning that the light was gone, and all that remained was them.
Then I spotted Qahir, standing in full armor with several others. They were shorter than him, but the way they spoke… this was no casual gathering. Whatever it was, I wasn't about to walk into it.
I wandered the manor grounds instead, passing racks of weapons and glints of steel—like stepping into the center of some medieval painting.
Then a horse stepped into my path, sides heaving, breath wheezing as if it had galloped across the whole world.
"Hey! Boy!" a voice barked from behind it.
The horse passed, and I saw a man I'd never met. He was definitely a soldier, though not a rich one—chainmail and leather shoulder guards marked with the same black sun and crimson as the others. He was massive, broader than any man I'd seen here, though still shorter than Qahir.
"Get over here!" he shouted again.
I looked left, then right, unsure if he meant me.
"If you don't move right now, I'll tell Qahir you disobeyed me!" His voice cracked like a whip.
That settled it. I rushed forward. "Yes—yes, sir. What do you need?"
The man looked me up and down like he was measuring the weight of a coin.
"You're Qahir's boy, aren't you?" His voice had that thick, grinding quality of someone used to barking orders.
I nodded. "I'm his squire."
He snorted. "Squire, huh? Must be nice. Never thought Qahir was the type to keep pets."
My jaw tightened. I didn't answer.
"Relax," he said, though his smirk made it sound more like a threat than advice. "I just need you to carry something." He turned, waving me after him.
We passed between groups of soldiers who glanced our way, some curious, some… dismissive. I could feel their stares following me. Not friendly ones.
The man led me to a cart half-buried under sacks and crates. He pointed to a heavy chest reinforced with iron bands.
"Lift that and bring it to the west end of camp. Don't drop it. And don't open it. If you do… well, let's just say you won't make it past sunrise."
He handed me a worn leather strap to sling around it. The chest was heavier than it looked, the weight uneven, shifting inside.
"What's in—" I started, but his stare cut me off.
"You don't ask questions, boy. Not here. Not in this camp. You just do what you're told."
I bit back my words, adjusting the strap across my shoulder.
As I walked away, I heard him mutter under his breath to another soldier, his voice carrying just enough for me to catch:
"Let's see how long Qahir's pup survives outside the manor."
The chest bit into my shoulder as I hauled it through the camp, weaving between cookfires and rows of sharpened pikes.
Everywhere I passed, the air shifted—conversations dipped, eyes followed.
At first, I thought it was me they were staring at.
But then I caught the tone.
"…can't believe we're still taking orders from him," one man muttered over a half-cleaned blade.
"Not like we've got a choice," another grumbled. "Council says jump, we jump."
The first spat into the dirt. "I don't care what the Starborne Council says. He's not fit to lead us. Not with his blood."
I slowed, pretending to adjust the strap on the chest.
"Careful," the second hissed. "You want him to hear you?"
"I don't care if he hears me. Let him swing that halberd all he wants—doesn't change where he comes from."
They both fell silent when they noticed me watching. I hurried along, pretending I hadn't heard a word.
Leader?
Orders?
Qahir?
I reached the west end of camp and set the chest down beside a stack of spears. My arms ached, but my mind was buzzing.
Qahir had never once mentioned leading anyone. I'd assumed he was just another soldier—a skilled one, sure, but not someone these men would resent.
Now I wasn't so sure.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and turned back toward the manor, hoping to slip past the clamor without bumping into anyone else.
But luck wasn't on my side.
Rounding one of the supply carts, I stopped short.
Qahir stood a few paces away, squared off against a man in heavy pauldrons—one of the ones who'd been staring earlier.
"You think being the council's dog makes you untouchable?" the man sneered, stepping forward until they were chest to chest.
Qahir didn't move. His voice was low, but every word carried. "No. But I don't need their permission to take your head off where you stand."
The soldier's jaw worked, his hands flexing at his sides. "You shouldn't be leading us. Not you."
Qahir's smile was thin, almost amused. "And yet… here we are."
The man muttered something I couldn't catch and stormed off, shoving past me hard enough to nearly knock me into the tent pole.
Qahir's eyes flicked to mine. For a heartbeat, I thought he might explain, but he just said, "Get ready. We march soon," before walking away without another word.