Veran felt no fear preparing for the march. He recruited locals for the company, trained them to fight in formation and swing a sword. Most of them had only used an axe or a spear - easy to kill with, easy to maintain. But these were farmers’ weapons, and they were going to war. They had to learn to swing a sword.

He made sure everyone had sharp steel, and a piece of armor to put on, even if it was only a tight-fitting helm. He planned provisions and went over the logistics. It wasn’t a long march, but they still had to eat, and the camps still had to be made. A tingle of excitement went through his stomach as he was putting lines on the map.

He had sworn off the blade after his last battle but the soldier in him rejoiced that he got to do what he knew best rather than ink pages in the keep.

Veran immersed himself in planning from the day he said that wretched “yes” to the morning when they marched off. The cycle of working to the point of exhaustion, sleeping, and doing it again did wonders. It reminded him of the days when he was young, still had two ears, and did nothing but swing the sword a hundred times every day.

But during the two weeks of preparation, something lingered in the back of his mind, deep in a distant corner where light rarely shone. It would wait for him to get half an hour of calmness and whisper to him of old battles. Of that battle. Veran silenced it by going over the supply chain with his captains for the hundredth time or taking the men out for yet another drill.

He heard it when he mounted his horse. He heard it when Ozren led the column. He heard it in the rattling of armor and the sound of raindrops on their armor.

A few days into the march, the whispers had already become screams. There was little to occupy his mind on a full day of riding. It was just him, the men, the trees, and the mist dancing around them. Mud splashed under horse hooves and soldier boots. The rain appeared to hang in the air, and they walked through cold little drops that always found the gaps in their armor. No matter how well-dressed you were, it was a matter of time until you felt the cold touch of water on your skin.