Kollo’s musing regarding his...well their Prince, left a lingering silence in the tent. There was little else to do but think.

Being nursed abed didn’t leave much for entertainment.

And yet the mind , could became a restless bird in a cage of bone when the body was pinned to a cot.

So he did the only thing he could, he wondered and wandered with it.

He wondered about the world beyond the Bastion.

For he knew a thin thread of communication existed between the Legate and the Fox, a one-way path of desperate missives carried by wing. Asag had told him, in the early frantic days of the siege, that their only purpose was to buy time.

But time for what? Alpheo was facing a host six times his size outside these walls. How did a man, even one as clever as the Fox, outmaneuver such a number?Perhaps he had lied to give them heart that they were not the last line?

Were he at the head of such a situation , he too would do anything to prevent his own allies to rallying against him. It would be hard enough with an army outside, let alone with one inside.

Anyway, that was outside Arnold’s field now. Not that he expected to have much of a "field" left after the smoke cleared. What did a man in his state do? He could not even wobble around anymore...that would have required a leg.

Strangely, the resentment he expected to feel was absent. If he truly hated the man who had taken his father’s crown, he wouldn’t have handed over that letter from the Prince of Habadia detailing in ink everything that he may have wished.

The Habadian had written with oily sympathy, testing the waters of his loyalty for the new regime.

And he had turned it over to Alpheo without a word. That had been the turning point. For the first time, he hadn’t been met with the cold, stinking eye reserved for the "Lechlian spawn." Alpheo had received him warmly, as a man and a comrade. Those few weeks of genuine respect had been the sweetest wine he’d ever tasted.

He hoped the Gods had taken his father fast. It irked him to his marrow that even now, he lived in that bloated shadow. They say a son must strive to outwalk his father’s ghost, and for Arnold, that ghost was a mountain of shame. What chances did he have now to redeem a name his father had dragged through the mud? Perhaps now it was all in the hands of Thalien, the All-knower knew better than himself that his career in the military, was everything and over.

"Hey, Kollo," he found himself saying before his pride could bar the door.

The legionnaire turned so sharply he let out a choked whimper of pain from his neck. He stared at Arnold with a look of pure, unadulterated astonishment. "First time Your Grace ever called for me by name," he whispered, his eyes wide.

Arnold didn’t bother correcting the title. "What do you think makes a good prince?"

It was madness to ask a man whose world began and ended at the tip of a spear and that before that toiled in shit.

What could a lowborn know of the heavy matters of ruling?His was a world of turnip not of gold and crowns.

"Hell if I know, Your Grace," Kollo shrugged, the movement making him wince again. "Before I wore the black and white, I was paling pig-shit in a village that didn’t have a name on a map. I hated the smell, so the moment the recruiters came through, I took the iron and became iron.

I’m a rather simple man."

That was useless...

"Happy you have it all figured out," Arnold muttered absent-mindendly.

He suddendly envied the simpleness of the man.And of course his two legs.

"Still," Kollo added, his tone turning thoughtful, "I’d say our dear high commander, is going to be the finest prince we’ll see in a long time. So, I’d reckon whatever it is that makes him so special is what makes a good prince."

That was not very useful, admittedly.

Arnold let out a long, tired sigh, the answer only deepening his doubts. He began to come to terms with the horizon of his life. Whatever good that may do him.

He would never lead a charge again. He would be the lord who watched from the rear. Just like his father....though at the very least he was of sound mind.

But perhaps... yes, perhaps after this, no one would ever call him a coward again. No one would see the father when they looked at the son.

Suddenly, a ruckus erupted at the mouth of the tent. The heavy canvas flaps were heaved aside with a violent snap, and the rhythmic clank of heavy plate drowned out the moans of the ward.

Kollo struggled to sit up, his face contorting with agony. He got halfway before the pain in his neck forced him back down. "Your Grace!" he hissed, his eyes fixed on the blurring shapes at the entrance. "Who is it? Can you see?Is it Dary?The bastard owe me ten bronzii and I am gonna have it back even in death , be it mine or his!"

Arnold strained his neck, his heart hammering against his ribs. Two men stood in the doorway of the tent, their silhouettes massive against the afternoon light. They were caked in so much dried blood and grey stone-dust they looked like statues come to life. They scanned the rows of cots with predatory intensity until their eyes locked onto Arnold’s.

"No,it’s not Dary," he whispered,he did not even know who the fuck that was , his voice instead trembled with a strange mix of dread as the wolf of Bracum eyes set on him.

"It’s your Legate... and the Lord of Bracum."

He leaned back against the thin, sweat-stained pillow.The effort taking half his life.

"You think they’ve come for you?" Kollo whispered, his voice uncharacteristically small as he watched the two titans draw closer

"I doubt there is any other highborn in this tent to warrant the attention," Arnold admitted, his eyes tracking their approach. "Though the reason for it escapes me."

The two figures waded through the sea of cots, navigating the narrow aisles where men moaned in the throes of fever and pain. Along the way, Asag stopped twice. He leaned down, placing a heavy, gauntleted hand on a soldier’s shoulder, exchanging a few low-hushed words.And another time he gave a weary nod to another who had his arm on a sling, much like his.

When he pulled away from them, he left behind a small, weary smile.

The Legate seemed so at ease among the wreckage of his men, as if he had been born in the blood and the mud and knew no other home. Yet, up close, the toll of the last assault was written across him plain. His face was tired, his eyes sunken and bloodshot from days without sleep. His left hand, the only part of him not encased in steel, was a mass of thick, white bandages that could not hide the sickly purple-hue of the swollen flesh beneath.

They came to a halt at the foot of his bed, their shadows stretching long across Arnold’s blanket.

"My lords," Arnold conceded, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. "I would rise and give my hand, but I find myself impeded for obvious reasons."

"We wouldn’t presume such a thing," Asag said. His tone was surprisingly gentle. "How do you find yourself?"

"Well," Arnold replied, a flicker of his wit returning. "I’d say I’ve had the easiest time of it losing weight. I’m a few pounds lighter than when we last spoke."

Lord Xanthios let out a short, braying laugh that made the physician at the far end of the tent flinch. Asag’s expression remained somber, though a glint of respect touched his eyes.

"I wanted to come here to see you with my own eyes," Asag said, stepping closer. "You gave us good service, Arnold. I was told you held when the line was thin, and you stood when men with whole legs were running or stood in the rear. I wanted you to know that I have seen it and will remember it."

Asag turned then, his gaze heavy as he looked at the Lord of Bracum.

With a cough, the Wolf himself, took a step forward. He reached up and unlatched his scarred helm, revealing a face that looked as though it had been carved from the very stone of the walls. He looked down at Arnold, not with the pity he had feared, nor the disdain he had suffered since the Dog’s Banquet, but instead with the levelled gaze of a peer.

"I am a man of little tact and even less patience for the ’noble’ sons of Herculia," Xanthios rumbled. "Your father and long-dead lord Vroghios saw to that. But I saw you on the wall. You fought like a man who had a name to build."

After those wored he reached out, his gauntlet clashing softly against the wooden frame of the bed. "You did well, boy. You showed the grit of a proper warrior. I’ll not hear a word said against your valor, and I’ll make sure the Prince hears the same. You’ve redeemed that silver lion on your house twice over, which is a lot considering that the shit of bad batches usually require more than one generation to clean after. I’ll make it shot, just want you to know that if you call for help, Bracum will answer."

Arnold felt a lump form in his throat, a sudden, stinging heat in his eyes.He swallowed it down.It would not ever believed such a small thing could lighten his chest so much.

For years, he had been the "Lechlian spawn," the son of a traitor and a fool.

They didn’t know how much that meant for him.

"Thank you, my lords," Arnold whispered, his voice thick with what , even he didn’t know. "That... that means more than the leg I lost."

Xanthios chuckled, a dry sound like grinding gravel, while Asag allowed a rare, tired smile to touch his lips.

"I presume the siege did not find its end while I was dreaming," Arnold said, his voice regaining a sliver of its old strength. "You both look as though you’ve crawled out of the mouth of hell itself."

"You don’t know how true those words are," Asag replied, his gaze dropping to his bandaged wrist. A shadow passed over his features, fleeting as a cloud over a winter sun. "Though I’d say the honors of the day belong to the Wolf. Exceptional valor, even by his bloody standards."

"I’ve shown valor every day of this month," Xanthios countered, his tone devoid of even the pretense of humility. "The sun simply chose to shine on it more brightly today. I was merely given an opportunity equal to my appetite."

Arnold looked to Asag, seeking the truth behind the bravado. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"We learned from the survivors that the assault on the Eastern Stronghold was spear-headed by a knight, a man they called Left-Hand Mers," Asag explained. "He was a veteran, missing a limb yet seemed more skilled than those with both they sent us. He nearly had the wall. He pushed the Tholiceans to the breaking point and nearly had them to a rout. I had already sent word for the Wolf to abandon the ramparts and seal the inner gate to save what was left of us."

Xanthios picked up the thread, his eyes gleaming with a savage satisfaction. "Of course, I’ve never been much for retreating. I ignored the Legate’s wisdom and instead led my own retinue into the heart of the press. I carved a path straight to the star of the show himself. He fought well for a man with half his parts missing, but not well enough to keep the rest."

With a grin that was more teeth than mirth, Xanthios reached behind his back, where he held a leather pouch and produced his day’s prize. He held up a severed human hand, a right one, the guantlet still strapped to the cooling meat. "His remains will be gathered with a spade by dusk at the base of the wall and all will sing of how the Wolf took Ezvanian arm and life.

They’ll obviously sing of him as No-Hand Mers, if they bother to write a ballad about it. I plan to keep this; it’ll make a fine conversation piece when the wine is flowing."

Arnold stared at the trophy, suddendly getting goose-skin on his arms.

Perhaps from finger-keeper, he would now go as hand-keeper, provided of course it didn’t have the same ring to it.

He turned his eyes back to Asag. "And the cost?"

"Too high," Asag admitted softly. He looked around the crowded, smelling tent, his expression softening with a sudden, weary guilt. "I apologize for this place, Arnold. Someone of your line should not be forced to heal amidst the ruckus of the common ward. But privacy is a luxury the Bastion can no longer afford.We have a lot more problems to take care of."

"It fares well enough," Arnold replied, his gaze drifting to the cot beside him. "Though I’d have preferred a companion with a greater appreciation for silence."

At that, Kollo piped up, his voice cracking with excitement despite the bandages around his throat. "My Lords! A grand victory! I knew our proud legate wouldn’t let the wall slide into the dirt!"

Asag turned, his brow furrowing as he recognized the black and white of the legions. "One of mine?I see... How you fare, soldier?"

"Better than the Oizenian who gave me this neck-scar, Legate!" Kollo chirped, a cheeky grin splitting his face. "Though I almost lost my good arm just an hour ago, not to a mace, mind you, but to the head nurse. She nearly took it off with her shears when I gave one of the nurses’ arse a friendly pinch to see if I was dreaming. Took exception to that, mind you the nurse didn’t even seemed to be bothered by it... "

Xanthios barked a laugh at these words , tossing the severed hand onto the foot of Arnold’s bed with a heavy thud.

Arnold stared at it. Suddendly feeling the need to push it away.

’’Anyway,’’ Kollo continued ’’I apologise for bursting into your conversation. I’ll think soon enough I will stand there once more with a halberd. After all, beneath the iron’’

Asag finished for him, bringing his sword arm closed in a fist to his breastplate ’’Hard Blood.’’

’’Eh’’ he chuckled ’’Always wanted to do that...’’