The column pushed further east, sticking to the narrow veins of the only road that cut from Nonium back into Kakunian soil. There was a wider trade route to the south that swung through the capital, but it was a long, looping detour. This path was faster, or it was supposed to be. To Latio, every heartbeat spent in the saddle felt like another hour he was gifting his cousin time to adjust his mismatched move.

He didn’t expect a long, drawn-out campaign. In his gut, he felt Merelao would disdain the "strategic" choice of hiding behind stone walls.

His cousin followed a moral code that only he understood, a strange thing that usually involved the most direct and bloody path possible out of all option.

The air was filled with the thirsty, rhythmic neighing of horses as the vanguard reached the banks of the Zauern River. The beasts smelled the water, their ears pricking forward as they neighed , but Latio didn’t slow. He knew there was a smaller, cleaner creek two leagues ahead to get water from. They needed to move with every bit of speed reality allowed. His cousin had made the first move; Latio intended to make it his last.

"No breaks! Keep the column moving!" Latio shouted as he saw a cluster of knights begin to veer toward the muddy bank. They looked back at him with hollow, tired eyes, but when they realized the order stood and knowing of the small creek, they merely shrugged and pulled their mounts back into the dust of the formation.

"We ought to have asked for the bridge, you know," a voice drawled from behind.

Latio turned to see Ser Cleo’s nephew, gesturing toward the hinterlands beyond the Zauern. The squire was looking at Latio with that irritatingly pointed expression, as if wondering why the Prince’s son hadn’t been clever enough to demand the territory.

The far bank had once been Kakunian, lost in a border war fought before any of them were born. Now, the Principality of Oizen grew fat on the tolls of any merchant wishing to cross. There were only two ways over: the "Big Ford" to the south, a massive span of stone, and the one they were approaching now, the "Small Ford," a rickety, narrow thing of timber and rope.

"Between us, I suspect we’ll be coming back for it soon enough," Latio said, his voice low. The squire looked astonished that Latio was speaking so freely with him. To be honest, the prince’s was surprised himself, but the weight of his thoughts was becoming too heavy to carry alone. So he decided to share the load.

"I have little faith that the League will find success at the Bastion."

"Little confidence in your future father-in-law, ser?"

"Unless the Habadians learn how to fly, I have more confidence in the Mountain of Aracina holding those walls than I do for the league’s stomach" Latio replied. "It was already hard when we were at full strength and with a strong line of supply behind.

Now? Between the lack of food and our departure...along with the reinforcement my father was raising lost for a ill-timed rebellion? Yes, we’ll be back here in a few years, after I deal with my cousin. Perhaps then I’ll take the river tolls for ourselves. Oizen is on its last legs; it’s time someone else held the purse strings."

Noros chuckled, ’’A fine plan for the future, Ser. But for now, you should focus on the present, leading a mighty host to crush your cousin’s rebellion. I imagine the ’Mad Bull’ is quite a different beast than a river-warden."

Latio felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He forced a thin, nervous smile, trying to hide the fact that the mere thought of facing Merelao in open battle made his pulse skip. He didn’t want to think about the harp-player.

He didn’t want to think of how the played with their wooden swords when they were boys.

But even that fragile smile died when Ser Cleo pulled his horse alongside them. The old knight’s face was as hard as the iron on his chest.

"I regret to inform you that you won’t be leading the host against your cousin, at least not in direct command," Cleo said, his voice as flat as a whetstone.

Latio blinked, the leather reins slick and treacherous in his grip. "What? My father’s orders were clear—"

"Plans changed," Cleo interrupted, his gaze fixed on the grey horizon as if he could already see the trouble waiting there. "We aren’t bound for Ricorum to wait for reinforcements. We are the reinforcements. The main host is already moving to meet us. We’re marching for Eurediolo."

Eurediolo. Barely two days’ march from Ricorum, but it might as well have been a different world. Latio felt a sharp, bitter prick of resentment. He had prepared himself to carry the weight of the Prince’s banner, only to have the staff snatched from his hand before the first stride.

Yet, a cold part of his mind understood. His father was many things, but he wasn’t a gambler; he wasn’t about to bet the fate of the province and the throne on a boy who hadn’t yet seen a real battle-line clash.

"Who is leading the host, then?" Latio asked, his jaw tight.

"Lord Ober," Cleo answered laconically.

Latio felt a headache beginning to bloom behind his eyes. "The Lemon Tree? Or the Shield and Sword?" He prayed for the latter, a veteran’s house, but Cleo’s silence was his answer.

"My father saw fit to strip me of command?"

Cleo nodded.

"And he gave it to Lord Ober? That mismatched, bumbling fool?"

Another nod.

Latio would have laughed if the joke weren’t so dangerously unfunny. "What has taken my father’s head? Giving the Lord of Ponstelbium command against the Mad Bull? Is he mad, or just tired of living?"

"We heavily outnumber your cousin," Noros attempted, though the squire looked just as sickened by the prospect of following the Lemon Tree’s banner. "Numbers count for something, don’t they?"

"Lord Ober couldn’t lead a thousand brooms to clean a stable, let alone an army in the field," Latio snapped. "He’ll spend three days deciding which silk tent to pitch while Merelao is sharpening his axe."

"The Prince’s resources are not infinite, Latio," Cleo reminded him, his voice hardening. "The loss of Ricorum was a hammer blow to the League, but it was a gut-punch to your father. We have no food to spare for an army on the march.All we had was there, and now it in your cousin’s hands. We’re starving out here."

"And that’s where the Lord of Lemons comes in," Latio muttered, the pieces falling into place as he realised the reasons behind that foolish choice

"Exactly. He offered fodder and grain for a month, along with four hundred footmen and twenty mounted lances he raised from his estates. Your father’s army would have been eating their own boot leather in a week without Ober’s stores."

"No doubt His Lordship wants to dress himself up as a conqueror," Latio spat. "He should have stuck to his orchards. At least he knew how to prune a tree without losing a limb."

Latio nudged his horse forward, the conversation curdling in his gut. He reached the edge of the Small Ford, the wooden planks of the bridge groaning and complaining under the weight of his destrier. The river below was a murky, rushing brown, swirling with the debris of a broken season. He crossed slowly, the rhythmic thud-thud of hooves on timber echoing like a funeral drum.

On the other bank, he pulled his horse to a halt. He sat there in silence, watching the mist-shrouded vanguard trickle across behind him.

"So, what is the Lord of Lemons doing with himself while we rot on the road?" Latio asked, twisting in his saddle to face Cleo.

"Waiting for our arrival" Cleo replied.

"Yes, you’ve said that. Three times now." Latio’s knuckles whitened on the reins. "And? What else?"

"And nothing," Cleo said, his voice as flat as the grey sky.

"Nothing? You mean to tell me he hasn’t moved to cut the retreat?’’

’’As I said...he is waiting for us’’ 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

’’Merelao is sitting in Ricorum with his back to a wall, and Ober has been dallying in Eurediolo for a week? A week!" Latio’s voice rose, choked with something he did not know whetever was fury or disbelief.

"My cousin isn’t a statue! He and his host have likely scurried off into the night while we march in circles. They’ll leave us nothing but ash for our trouble, and we’ll be forced to wait until next year’s harvest to try again. By then, the Fox will have filled Merelao’s pockets with enough Yarzat steel to torch half of Kakunia! But that’s fine, isn’t it? At least we’ll have plenty of lemon juice to wash down the sour taste ,yes?’’

"Calm yourself, lad!" Cleo snapped, his voice a whip-crack that silenced the Prince’s son. "Mind your tongue and remember your station. We have received no word of the rebels moving, and until we do, we follow the Prince’s orders. You will behave, or I will see to it you’re—"

The old knight’s reprimand could have gone long, but instead it was cut short by a sound that didn’t belong to either the wind that howled or the water of the mighty river raging below.

It began as a low, agonizing groan of tortured timber, pushed to its limits.So akin to the caw of the ravens flying above.

Latio, already safely on the far bank, spun his horse around just in time to see the small Ford shudder.

To his greatest disappointment, at that moment Latio blinked. One heartbeat, so short. And yet it was enough to raise his eyes , now , to the disaster he had just ridden past some seconds ago.

And along with it the most terrible sense of dejavù he ever had.