The sky over the siege-lines was a bruised red, weeping a fine and persistent mist that turned the earth into a sucking mire. Beneath the sodden canvas of a supply wagon, two men-at-arms laboured in the gloom, their breathing heavy and rhythmic against the backdrop of a camp that was slowly, fitfully beginning to stir with movement.

"Nearly two months in this shit-hole and not a single bronzii to show for it," one spat, his fingers red and raw as he gripped the edge of a heavy crate.He had of course passed the majority of the siege working on the logistics sector, so he didn’t saw much of the fighting.

The Bull of Kakunia was stitched into his breast, though the thread was frayed and caked in grey mud. "Where are the gems every tavern-singer in the South was crowing about? I’ve got nothing but wet dirt in my pockets and a cough that tastes bad."

His companion heaved a bulging sack of grain from the mud. With a grunt of exertion, he swung it onto the wooden cart. The sack hit the boards with a dull, hissing thud.

"The ’Rising Gem’ they speak of is the Fox’s capital, you thick-skulled whelp," the older soldier grunted, popping his back with a wince. "It’s a city, not a hole in the ground you can dig into with a shovel."

"So there are no stones? No shining stones?"

"Unless your balls have started glowing in the dark, no, there are no shining stones." He leaned against the wagon wheel, wiping a smear of dirt from his brow. "And if I were you, I’d keep that trap shut and thank the Five. We were spared the worst of it. Those poor bastards under the Screaming Chicken or the Tower? They’ve been picked apart by crows for weeks. We’re leaving with our hides intact, which is more than most can say."

The younger man paused, a frown creasing his mud-flecked face. "But why? Why are we packing the grain now? I don’t see the rest of the host readying their boots. Did the siege fail while I was asleep?"

The veteran looked at him as if gazing upon a particularly slow-witted mule. "Haven’t you heard the whispers ? We have a fire in our backyard. A rebellion has broken out back home, and the Prince has called his son to lead our host back to douse it. You’ll get your chance at loot yet, if you have the stomach to put a spear through a countryman."

The lad sighed, looking back toward the dark, silent silhouette of the Bastion. "A pity. I’d always heard the Fox shat gold. I would have liked to take a handful of that home to my mother."

"You’d have to wait for him to squat, then," the veteran chuckled grimly. "And I believe there’s a long line for that privilege. All these great Lords and Princes... they weren’t looking for shit. They were looking for the Fox’s pelt. But....from the look of those pyres , I doubt they’ll be taking either."

"Do we know which lord it is?" the younger one asked, his voice dropping an octave. "Who was treacherous enough to draw steel while the host was away?"

The older man’s expression darkened. The cynical humor vanished from his eyes. "I don’t think you’ll like the answer, boy. It’s the lord of Epietoli. "

The lad blinked, searching his memory. "Doesn’t ring a bell..."

"The Mad Bull," the veteran clarified.

The younger man’s hands went slack on the crate. "Oh... fuck. Him? The one from the story?The singing reds?"

"That would be it...yes that one," the veteran muttered, turning back to the grain sacks in order to shift away from the conversation

The lad looked at his trembling hands, then at the cart they were loading for the long march south. "I... I don’t think I have the stomach for that fight. Is it true...about what it says?"

’’Hell if I know...could be or could be not.It’s a song.They sing of how Aeron misfooted got wings, but last I checked he was squashead against stones.’’

’’I don’t know if I want to march against a guy that plays the harp while burning people...’’

’’Those were bandits...if the lyrics are to be believed. So you know, fuck them.

But I get what you mean.And I am not excited about it any more than you are.’’

"Gods’ blood," the younger man spat, his bravado curdling into a thin, bitter whine. "When they told me I’d be part of the pinrce’ son expedition, I thought it would be a summer stroll. A bit of light looting, a few village girls in the hay, and a purse full of Yarzat silver. It was supposed to be a sweet gig, a story to tell over ale, not a one-way march into the maw of a lunatic. I didn’t sign on to be the seasoning for a madman’s feast."

He kicked a clump of mud toward the cart, his face twisted in a sneer. "And for what? Because gods know who is allied with who? If Sir Latio had half the stones of his cousin, we’d be sacking the Bastion instead of scurrying home like beaten dogs to chase after the mad bastard himself"

The veteran’s face went ash-grey. He dropped the sack he was holding with a heavy thump and lunged forward, grabbing the lad’s tunic. "Shut your gods-damned mouth," he hissed, his eyes darting frantically toward the shadows between the tents. "If a sergeant hears you rattling that tongue, or some little bird takes your words to the pavilion, you’ll be swinging from a pine branch before the sun breaks the mist.’’

The younger soldier shrugged him off, trying to reclaim his nonchalance. "Let them listen. A man’s got a right to—"

"I trust the weight of the grain is not too much for your delicate constitution?"

The voice cut through the damp air like an headman’s axe.

The younger soldier’s color vanished instantly, his face turning the shade of spoiled milk. Both men spun around, their boots slipping in the mire, as they collapsed into frantic bows

Standing a few paces away, framed by the grey morning light, was Sir Latio himself. He looked every bit the prince’s son, his armor polished to a dull, silver sheen, his dark cloak pinned with the Bull of Kakunia. His eyes, cold and unblinking, swept over the two men-at-arms, lingering for a heartbeat longer on the one who had spoken of his ’stones.’

The air grew so still that the only sound was the distant neighing of an horse. The soldiers held their breath, waiting for the order that would see them in irons, or worse.

"Leave the sacks," Latio commanded, his voice devoid of heat. ’’Go to the stables. Ensure my destrier is bitted and saddled for the march. If I find a speck of rust on his barding, you’ll be walking home on your hands."

"A-at once, my Lord!" the veteran stammered, grabbing the younger man by the arm and dragging him away before he could find his voice again. They fled as they sprinted toward the horse-lines.

Latio watched them go, his expression unreadable.

"You ought to have them hung, you know," a voice drifted from behind, smooth as silk and surprisingly calm given the tempest brewing around them.’’No one would have given you fault for it...’’

Latio did not need to turn to know the speaker. He merely adjusted the strap of his gauntlet. "Soldiers will always find something to chew on when the hardtack runs thin," he replied, finally turning to face the Prince of Habadia. Nibadur stood a head taller than the younger man, a figure of polished poise amidst the churning mud of the camp. "We have sat before these walls for a moon and a half, only to be beckoned home to extinguish my cousin’s lunacy. Hanging them would serve nothing but a wounded ego. Worse, it would lend the weight of truth to words I’d rather were forgotten. Victory is the only thing that silences a camp. I prefer that road to the gallows."

"A surprisingly measured perspective," Nibadur mused, his tone humming with a quiet pleasure. "I suspect my other dear allies would have reached for the rope before having such thoughts"

"It is different for them," Latio said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "They are princes of the blood.They should not be mispoken by common borns. But I am a bastard. I came to this campaign to carve a name for myself in Yarzat stone, but since the gods have denied me that, I must settle for slaying the leviathan in my own waters. Merelao is alone, severed from his faction. If there is a moment to put the rabid dog down, it is now. Indeed....it is."

Despite the iron in his voice, a flicker of trepidation stirred in his gut. The thought of meeting his cousin in the red press of battle rattled him more than the thunder of the siege engines. He could still remember the clatter of wooden practice swords when they were boys; the thought of meeting Merelao with cold steel made the world feel suddenly very thin.

But this was the path to the crown, and it was paved with his cousin’s blood.He always knew that.

"I must admit, I am sorry to see you depart," Nibadur said, his mount letting out a low whinny. The Prince reached into a silken pouch, offering a sliver of carrot to quiet the beast. "Of all the company gathered here, yours was the only one I found myself... liking."

"And I must apologize for leaving before the curtain falls," Latio countered. They both knew how fragile their hopes were, yet they wore them like armor. "I will reclaim Ricorum and restore the supply lines to the host. You have my word."

They nodded to the lie.

"What will you do in the interim?" Latio asked, glancing back at the silent, brooding walls of the Bastion.

"His Grace of Oizen has enough grain to stave off starvation in the short term, though it will not see us through the first frost," Nibadur admitted, a hollow smile touching his lips. "I shall attempt to bring this to a swift close. It seems Sorza’s words wasn’t entirely far-fetched; the constant battering has frayed the defenders’ nerves. They’ve abandoned the outer stronghold on the left to huddle behind the main gate."

There was a shadow in the Prince’s eyes, things left unsaid and Latio had the tact not to press. He had his own ghosts to hunt.

"I have waited my whole life for this moment," Latio admitted, the honesty surfacing before he could check it. "To meet my cousin on the field. Now that the hour approaches... I find myself wanting." He looked to Nibadur, searching for the wisdom of an older hand.

"Most men, when the moment of destiny finally arrives, find themselves looking for the exit," the Prince said softly. "We did not. We marched on with certainty, and look where it has led us? The high lords are at each other’s throats over trifles, the men are a single sleepless night away from desertion, and there is a rot in the air that keep shouting this is a failure. I shall do my best to hold the line here. I trust you will do the same on your grounds."

With that the Prince offered his hand, the gold rings upon his fingers which he seemed to like to play with for as long as the siege started, catching the pale, watery rays of the sun.

"We shall see each other soon, I hope," Latio muttered, clasping the Prince’s hand.A bit moved by the motion. Strangely as it sounded even admist all that deaths , he liked it here.

"And both with auspicious news, I pray," Nibadur replied. "The Five know we are due some."