The next morning, Riverdale remained hung in the dark shadow of the previous night's chaotic confrontation.
Villagers huddled in quiet corners, whispering about the injured young farmer, cursing the tax quotas, or laying the blame squarely on the young guard's shoulders.
When Aether stepped out of the borrowed barn, Matthews, the tax collector, was already waiting for them outside. Dark rings weighed heavily beneath his eyes—he clearly hadn't caught a wink of sleep.
"I need to head to the local garrison outpost," Matthews said softly. "What happened last night requires an official report."
Aether nodded. It was only right. A simple tax dispute had escalated into violence, and someone had bled; there had to be accountability.
Matthews looked at the two boys. "You were both there as witnesses. I’d appreciate it if you came along."
Aether and Kaelan traded a quick glance. The outpost lay directly along their path anyway, so they agreed.
Their party was small: Matthews, two veteran soldiers, and the nervous young guard who had dealt the shove.
The walk to the outpost was oppressively quiet.
The young guard kept his head low the entire time, his mouth set in a tight line. Aether stole a few glances at him along the trail. The guard couldn't have been older than twenty- one—a far cry from the formidable, imposing soldiers Kaelan had imagined. He was just a terrified boy in iron.
By noon, they crested a windswept hill, and Matthews gestured toward the valley below. "There it is."
Aether followed his gaze.
Tucked into the far side of the slope stood an outpost built of rough timber and stacked stone. It was far from grand—shabby, even. A sharp wooden palisade encircled the compound, flanked by a few timber watchtowers where faded pennants fluttered lazily in the breeze. A handful of guards moved through the yard in an orderly, disciplined routine.
Aether felt a sudden pang of disappointment. He had pictured a military camp from the old legends—towering stone walls, gleaming breastplates, and endless ranks of armored knights. What lay before him looked more like a sprawling, fortified village.
Kaelan, however, studied the place with intense focus.
His eyes tracked the sentries on patrol. Their footsteps fell in a steady, synchronized rhythm. Even a routine shift change exuded a quiet, dangerous precision.
◆
Upon entering the compound, Matthews went straight to the commander's quarters, leaving Aether and Kaelan to wait in the open yard.
Soldiers shuffled past them continuously. Some hauled heavy sacks of grain, others oiled horse tack or sharpened dull blades, while a few sat in the shade, mending torn tunics with bone needles.
Aether realized then that life in a military camp wasn't spent in constant battle, but in a endless grind of mundane chores.
"I thought they spent all day drilling," Aether murmured under his breath.
A grizzled old soldier sitting nearby overheard him and let out a hearty bark of laughter. "Drill all day?" the veteran chuckled. "Who'd cook the stew then, kid? Who'd mend the palisade, or brush the horses?"
A few nearby guards joined in the laughter, making Aether flush with embarrassment.
The old soldier bore no malice, however. He reached down and handed Aether a wooden cup. "Here, wash the road dust down."
Aether took the cup with a quiet word of thanks. Up close, he noticed the man was well past his prime, his hair streaked with silver and a jagged, faded scar cutting down his left cheek. He had clearly seen his share of blood and iron.
◆
By afternoon, the inquiry officially began.
The young guard, representatives from Riverdale, the tax collector, and several witnesses were summoned one by one into a heavy timber room.
When Aether's turn came, the process proved far more tedious than he had anticipated. The same questions were asked over and over again.
"What did you see?"
"Who raised a hand first?"
"Where were you standing?"
"How far were you from the stone?"
Aether strained his memory, but the harder he tried to recall, the murkier the details became. He remembered the deafening shouting match. He remembered the crowd surging forward. He remembered the young farmer stepping up, and he remembered the guard shoving him back.
Yet, as to who had physically initiated the contact... he realized with a jolt of panic that he couldn't say for certain.
Stepping back into the sunlight, a strange, hollow realization took hold of him: even things seen with one's own eyes could be shrouded in doubt.
◆
By dusk, the preliminary questioning wrapped up.
The young guard was assigned night watch duty while awaiting the commander's final judgment. He looked utterly drained, staring blankly at the dirt.
As Aether walked past, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Did you mean to hurt him?"
The guard blinked, startled, then shook his head numbly. "No." He paused, his voice barely audible. "...At least, I don't think I did."
He let out a dry, hollow laugh. Aether didn't ask further—he didn't know what else to say.
◆
After supper, while Kaelan was walking through the quiet yard alone, the silver-haired veteran called out to him.
"Young man," the old soldier said, eyeing him intently. "Mind letting me see that badge on your neck?"
Kaelan’s hand went instinctively to his chest, fingers wrapping around the old brass token Harold had pressed into his palm before they left home.
The veteran took the badge, holding it up to the torchlight. As he studied the worn markings, the casual air vanished from his face, replaced by a heavy, stunned silence.
After a long pause, the old man let out a soft sigh. "So... the old dog is still breathing."
Kaelan froze. "You know him?"
The veteran didn't answer right away. He simply passed the badge back, his gaze drifting toward the darkening sky above the palisade.
"Knew him a long time ago," the old man murmured softly. "Back when we both still had all our teeth and no gray in our hair."
Without another word, he turned and walked away into the shadows, leaving Kaelan standing alone in the yard, clutching the badge tightly.
For the first time in his life, Kaelan realized he didn't truly know Harold at all.
◆
In the distance, the horn sounded for the changing of the guard, its low, solemn note drifting over the wooden walls.
Night settled over the outpost. One by one, torches flared to life along the perimeter.
Aether sat perched on a wooden beam, watching the soldiers move through the courtyard. Some carried water buckets, some leaned on their spears, some huddled by the lanterns writing letters home, while others slumped against stone walls, nodding off into sleep.
They were no different from the villagers in Stony Creek—they just wore iron.
A cold wind swept over the ridge, carrying the damp, pine-scented breath of the distant wilderness.
From a dark corner of the barracks, someone began to sing an old military ballad in a quiet, rasping voice. The song drifted intermittently through the chilly air, slowly dissolving into the deep, dark night.
◆