The next morning, Kaelan awoke to the low sound of a warhorn drifting through the dawn mist.
Its somber tone rolled across the outpost, waking the soldiers long before the sun cleared the trees. He sat up, the silver-haired veteran’s words from the night before surfacing once more in his mind.
So... the old dog is still breathing.
A single sentence, yet it had kept him awake for hours.
Harold almost never spoke of his youth. Back in Stony Creek, Kaelan had never thought much of it—most adults kept their younger days to themselves. But standing in this
outpost, he realized with a quiet pang that he knew almost nothing about the man who had raised him.
Footsteps crunched outside his shelter. Kaelan stepped out into the crisp morning air.
The garrison was already humming with activity. Sentries were assembling for morning roll call, thin tendrils of woodsmoke rose from the cookhouse, and men hauled sacks of grain, fetched fresh water, inspected the timber fencing, or brushed down the horses in the stables.
The entire camp operated in a quiet, disciplined order.
There was no yelling, no frantic rushing, yet every man knew his duty without a word being spoken.
Kaelan stood by the barracks, watching in silence.
Aether approached from behind, rubbing his eyes. "You're up early."
Kaelan didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the soldiers.
Aether followed his gaze. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," Kaelan murmured softly. "Just... they aren't what I expected."
Aether offered a small, tired smile. "Me neither."
When they were younger, both boys had imagined army life as an endless saga of glory and battle. But after spending two days in the garrison, they realized that bloody conflict was rare. Most of a soldier's life was spent on the mundane: mending roads, hauling grain, patrolling dusty tracks, grooming mounts, repairing rusted gear, and taking turns cooking stew.
It wasn't so different from village life—just larger, stricter, and carrying a heavier weight of responsibility.
◆
After breakfast, Aether was summoned once more to assist with the inquiry, leaving Kaelan in the courtyard.
A short distance away, a few young soldiers were wrestling with a broken wagon. One recruit strained against a heavy iron-rimmed wheel, forcing it onto the axle with a grunt.
The moment he secured it, a nearby corporal glanced over and burst out laughing.
"You put it on backward again, you fool!"
Roars of laughter rippled through the nearby men.
The young soldier’s face turned bright red. "That's how I put it on yesterday!"
"That was the left side, lad!"
"What's the difference?"
"The difference is you get to take it all off and do it again!"
The men chuckled as the flustered recruit dropped to his knees, grumbling under his breath as he unfastened the bolts.
Kaelan watched the scene and found himself reconsidering what a soldier really was.
These soldiers weren't mythic guardians. They were no different from the villagers back home. They made stupid mistakes, grumbled about hard work, cracked crude jokes, and bore the brunt of teasing.
Yet no matter how much they complained, the work got done.
The wheel was eventually fixed, and the wagon was pushed back into the barn. No one brought up the blunder again—it was just another small blip in a long day.
Kaelan stared at the empty yard, a strange feeling taking root in his chest.
He remembered Stony Creek. Every year before the hard frost set in, Harold would rally the villagers to repair the palisades, mend thatched roofs, stack firewood, and ration winter grain. Many villagers would slack off, complain, or mess up their tasks. Harold never lost his temper over it; he simply made sure everyone kept moving until the village was ready for the snow.
Kaelan had never given it much thought back then. But looking around the garrison, he saw Harold's shadow everywhere.
Not because these men knew Harold, but because they were bound to the same unyielding purpose: keeping things moving forward.
◆
Around noon, Kaelan spotted the silver-haired veteran sitting under an oak, sharpening his hunting knife with a whetstone.
His movements were slow, practiced, and silent.
Kaelan hesitated for a moment before stepping into the shadow of the tree.
The veteran looked up, his pale eyes narrowing. "What is it, lad?"
Kaelan touched the brass badge hanging beneath his tunic. "You knew Harold?"
The rasping sound of metal against stone paused.
The old soldier went still, then gave a single, slow nod. "I did."
"Did you serve together?" Kaelan asked quickly.
The old man offered a faint, dry smile. "A lifetime ago. Back when we both had fewer scars and more hair."
Kaelan leaned in, his heart beating faster. It was the first time anyone had ever spoken to him about Harold's past. "Was he a soldier?"
The veteran looked up, a hint of genuine surprise crossing his weathered face. "He never told you?"
Kaelan shook his head. "He almost never talked about his past."
The old man let out a soft laugh. "Aye... that sounds like him."
"What was he like back then?" Kaelan pressed.
The veteran looked toward the wooden watchtower in the distance, considering the question. "Much the same as he is now, I imagine. Quiet. Believed he could fix the world's problems with his own two hands. Always took the weight of everyone else's troubles onto his own shoulders."
Kaelan listened intently. Every word fit the man he knew.
"Course, he was a stubborn bastard in his youth," the old man chuckled softly. "Gave the commanders a right proper headache."
"What happened to him after?" Kaelan asked eagerly.
The veteran went quiet.
The wind rustled through the oak leaves overhead, filling the silence.
"That isn't my story to tell, lad," the old soldier said softly after a long pause. "If you want the truth of it, ask him yourself when you get back."
He stood up, slapping the dirt from his breeches. "Though I'll tell you one thing."
Kaelan looked up instantly.
The old man smiled down at him, his gaze soft. "If he gave you that badge to carry... it means he trusts you with his life."
Without another word, the veteran turned and walked toward the armory, leaving Kaelan standing alone under the shade of the oak.
Kaelan reached down and grasped the cold metal token. For the first time, he realized it carried a far heavier weight than he had ever imagined.
◆
By late afternoon, the inquiry finally concluded.
The garrison commander gathered everyone involved in the open courtyard: Matthews, the injured farmer, the young guard, and the witnesses.
A heavy silence fell over the yard as the commander opened a thick ledger and read the findings aloud in a flat, even tone.
The farmer had deliberately concealed a portion of his harvest—guilty of tax evasion.
The young guard had used excessive force during the line of duty—guilty of misconduct.
Both men bore responsibility. No one was absolved; no one was singled out as a lone villain.
When the verdict was declared, silence stretched across the courtyard.
Aether stood among the onlookers, his mind swimming. When he had first walked into Riverdale, he thought everything was simple: the farmer was the victim, the guard was the oppressor.
Two days of questioning had shattered that illusion.
The farmer had his desperate hardships, and the soldier had his rigid duties. But reasons didn't erase mistakes. Everyone had to carry the burden of their own choices.
As they left the yard, Aether saw the young guard step up to the injured farmer, bowing his head to whisper a low apology. The farmer stared at him in silence for a moment, then gave a stiff, single nod.
Neither said another word, but the crushing tension between them seemed to dissolve into the dusty air.
◆
As evening set in, the caravan prepared to depart.
Heavy freight wagons rolled slowly out through the wooden gates of the outpost. The guards on sentry duty waved a quiet farewell to the travelers.
Aether climbed into the back of a wagon and looked back.
In the fading light of sunset, the garrison looked entirely ordinary—rough palisades, wooden towers, timber barns, and muddy stables. It bore none of the grand romance from the heroic ballads.
Yet, as he stared at it, he felt a strange comfort. It felt far more real that way.
"Kaelan!" Aether called out, noticing his friend lingering near the gate.
Kaelan blinked, breaking his gaze, and jogged to catch up with the wagon. But before stepping onto the road, he couldn't help stealing one last look behind him.
Under the bloody hues of sunset, the sentries were changing shifts. The soldiers marched in tight, disciplined ranks, their boots striking the earth in unison as they crossed the yard.
None of them noticed him. None of them knew what he was thinking.
Truth be told, Kaelan couldn't quite put it into words himself. He only felt a deep, haunting sense of familiarity in these men. They were like Harold, yet different.
They spoke no grand speeches, nor did they crave heroic songs. They simply woke up every morning and did what needed to be done—keeping the roads open, keeping the villages safe, and allowing countless strangers to keep moving forward into the dawn.
In the distance, the garrison horn sounded one last time, its deep note echoing through the valley.
Kaelan turned away and set his eyes down the path.
The caravan rolled onward along the Great Road, and in the quiet depths of his heart, a new resolve began to take root.
--- #