Once in the thicket, I met a strange old man—either a sage, or a madman, or both at once.
He sat by a fire in a ragged cloak, cooking something in a pot and humming an ancient song under his breath. When I rode up, he didn't even lift his eyes:
"You're going because you're seeking. You suffer because you're living. Just don't lose what you're seeking, boy."
"And what am I seeking?" I asked, dismounting.
"How should I know? Everyone seeks their own. Some a princess, some meaning, some just the road home. The main thing—don't stop. Standing water goes stagnant."
He fed me a brew of roots and herbs, gave me shelter by the fire. In the morning I woke up—the old man was as if he never was. Only coals smoldered and a path led into the depths of the forest.
Maybe I dreamed him. Maybe he was real. In such times, the boundary between dream and reality blurs like a shoreline at high tide.
I found the camp on the border with Kriver's possessions (Dagla in the past).
A dozen tents, fires, tired faces of soldiers. The atmosphere of defeat hung in the air like smoke from damp wood. But they held on. Still held on.
The marshal stood by his tent—a tall man with a face scarred like a map of past battles. Eyes deep like old wells, full of bitter water.
I told everything: about the death of the king and queen, about the myth of the surviving princess, about the knights waiting for orders and losing faith every day. About how the army was scattering and how peasants stopped recognizing our soldiers.