The rain fell as if the sky itself were in mourning.
It was not a gentle rain, the kind that refreshes the earth and promises harvest. This was heavy, relentless—an icy curtain that turned the world into mud and silence. Every drop struck like a nail hammered slowly into the battlefield, as though the gods wished to seal that place forever.
Rowan awoke to its sound.
The constant drumming against the leather of his tent was an irritating, almost cruel summons. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling his body weighed down, his muscles stiff, as if he had slept on stone.
The air inside was damp and foul.
It reeked of old sweat, soaked leather, and metal.
The small tent held nothing of comfort. A simple cot, covered by a thick, filthy blanket. A wooden crate serving as a table. A canteen hanging from a hook. And, resting near his hand, the only thing that truly mattered in that world:
His sword.
It was not beautiful.
It bore no ancient inscriptions, no silver hilt. It carried no family history, because Rowan came from no family worth remembering.
It was only steel.
And steel, Rowan knew, respected no noble blood.
Only skill.
For a few moments he stared at the low ceiling, listening to the camp beyond the canvas. Distant voices, hurried footsteps, restless horses. The entire army seemed awake before the sun, as if war allowed no rest.
War never allowed rest.
Rowan ran a hand across his face, feeling the rough stubble, and sat up.
Outside, a shout echoed.
"Move, you worms! The day won't wait!"
He recognized the voice. Sergeant Halvek. A man carved from stone and hatred, with enough scars to tell the story of ten different wars.
Rowan rose, pulling on his dark tunic and fastening his sword belt.
The leather creaked.
A familiar sound.
A sound that meant survival.
He pushed aside the flap of the tent.
The world outside was gray.
Rain fell without mercy, turning the camp into a swamp of men and banners. Tents lined up like improvised graves. Fires struggled not to die, coughing wet smoke. Soldiers moved hunched beneath soaked cloaks clinging to their bodies.
And above it all, heavy and trembling in the storm, flew the banners of the domain Rowan served.
The black falcon of Varynhold, on a crimson field.
The symbol of the lord commanding this army.
Lord Edric Varyn, ruler of the hills and stone fortresses, a proud and unyielding man whose name carried enough weight to bend vassals and lesser kings alike.
Rowan was nothing to Edric Varyn.
Just another arm.
Another blade.
Another possible corpse.
He walked among the men, stepping around deep puddles, listening to muffled conversations.
"They say today might be the day…"
"The patrol saw torches in the woods…"
"Damn it… all this because of a spoiled girl…"
Rowan heard that last remark and could not stop a bitter smile.
Yes.
All of it because of a girl.
Or rather… because of a refusal.
The war they were drowning in had not begun with ancient invasions or broken vows between kings.
It had been born of pride.
Lord Edric's daughter—Lady Maelyra Varyn—had been promised in marriage to the heir of a vassal house, a young man named Ser Caelan Marrick.
A political marriage.
A chain disguised as an alliance.
But Maelyra refused.
And she did not refuse gently.
Before the entire court, she declared she would sooner tear out her own tongue than belong to the Marricks.
Humiliation.
And humiliation, Rowan knew, was a dangerous spark among nobles.
House Marrick demanded reparations.
Edric Varyn demanded submission.
Neither yielded.
Then came the shouting.
Then the swords.
Now… the rain.
Rowan stopped near an improvised horse pen where the animals trembled beneath soaked blankets. A boy tried to calm them, though his hands shook more than the horses' legs.
Rowan recognized him.
Tomas.
Too young to be here.
"You'll get yourself killed if you stay that nervous," Rowan said quietly.
The boy looked up, startled.
"Rowan… I… I heard the Marricks hired mercenaries from the south."
Rowan shrugged.
"Mercenaries bleed like any man."
Tomas swallowed hard.
"You speak as if you aren't afraid."
Rowan stared beyond the camp, where mist swallowed the world.
"I'm afraid every day."
He stepped closer, gripping the boy's shoulder.
"The difference is I don't let it control me."
Tomas nodded, though he didn't seem to understand.
Rowan continued on.
At the center of the camp, a circle of soldiers had formed. Raised voices.
Rowan already knew what it was.
Training.
Or rather… spectacle.
Men who were bored and terrified needed to prove something to each other before they died.
He approached and saw two soldiers facing off with wooden swords. One was large, strong, wearing a cruel grin.
Branik.
Rowan felt his stomach tighten.
Branik was the kind of man who loved war not for duty, but because in war he could be monstrous without consequence.
The other soldier was smaller, trying to defend himself, but clearly losing.
Branik struck far too hard.
The wooden blade smashed into the man's face.
Blood.
The circle laughed.
"Get up!" Branik snarled. "Or are you going to cry for your mother?"
The man fell again.
Rowan stepped into the circle before he even thought.
"Enough."
Branik turned slowly, his grin widening.
"Well, well… the talented bastard."
Rowan said nothing.
Branik spat into the mud.
"Want to play too?"
Rowan took the wooden sword someone offered him.
"I do."
A murmur spread.
Branik laughed loudly.
"Fine. I'll teach you your place."
They positioned themselves.
Rain streamed down Rowan's face, mixing with the blood staining the mud below.
Branik attacked first—a brutal swing, no technique, only strength.
Rowan sidestepped.
Second strike.
He dodged again.
The third came like an axe.
Rowan turned, letting the blade pass, and then—
A swift movement.
Precise.
The wooden sword rested against Branik's throat.
Silence.
Rowan could have crushed his windpipe.
Could have ended it there.
But he only stepped back.
Branik remained frozen, breathing hard.
His eyes burned with hatred.
"Again," he hissed.
Rowan lowered the sword.
"No."
Branik lunged anyway.
Rowan sighed.
This time the strike was faster.
A crack against the wrist.
Branik's sword fell into the mud.
Another blow to the knee.
Branik collapsed with a grunt.
Rowan pointed the wooden blade at his chest.
"Your place is not above anyone," Rowan said softly. "And it certainly isn't above me."
The circle was silent.
Branik spat blood and mud.
"One day… I'll kill you."
Rowan only turned his back.
"Get in line."
He left the circle feeling their eyes on him.
Some with respect.
Others with envy.
And some… with fear.
That was how it began.
A man from nothing could not simply be good.
He had to be extraordinary.
Or he would be crushed.
When he returned near the tents, a messenger came running, soaked through, face pale.
"Call the captains!" he shouted. "Call everyone!"
The entire camp seemed to hold its breath.
"What is it?" someone demanded.
The messenger swallowed.
"The Marricks… are marching."
Thunder rolled overhead, as if the gods were laughing.
Rowan stared into the gray horizon.
War, after all, was not a possibility.
It was a certainty.
And he… he was only a knight of nothing.
For now.