Chapter Text
Callumhold was changing.
It used to be that you could not walk the stone spine of the city without hearing the march of boots on wet stone or the shouts of Knights echoing in the training barracks. Blackened watchtowers loomed over the buildings and people like the ribs of an open corpse, and the population its organs. The walls surrounding Callumhold were old and weary, still bearing the weight of past wars, even before the Antiheim War or the Seven-Year Gap. The city was never beautiful; that was a given, but it was solid. Grounded. Callumhold was held for over 200 years as a military-run city, its soul one of stone and rusted iron.
Garren looked out from his office cum living quarters through the new glass window. The pointed merchant banners atop the newly erected trade houses were already fluttering in the quiet morning wind. Callumhold saw winds nearly twenty out of the twenty-four hours of the day. At least that would not change anytime soon, Garren mused as he watched the banners fly. Red, gold, saffron, green. Colours that hadn't been seen in Callumhold in over twenty years. The Antiheim War had stripped Callumhold down to its bones till it was devoid of feeling and flesh, but in the aftermath, its bones had decomposed to soil: soil that was raw, scorched, and fed by the ashes of its dead, ready for something new to take root. Callumhold had experienced a new breath of life as the scholars and merchants displaced or encouraged by the globalisation of the war efforts took to its wet, cobbled streets. Foreigners in fine robes moved among the mud-slick cobblestones, trailing perfumes that stung the nose and lingered too long. Ink runners darted between carriages carrying ledgers instead of swords. Just ten years ago, all Garren had seen when he overlooked the streets were men in uniform and armour marching up and down, arms swinging as the swords on their hips jangled and clanged.
Callumhold was no longer a fortress. It had become… softer. Taller buildings, larger windows, more glass, lattice, and wood. Everything was being refitted and replaced, from the buildings to the people. The war was over. The people had moved on. Nobody was stopping it, least of all Garren. Even the Order had started selling their steel and services to the highest bidder. Less "Old Knights", more "Hired Knights".
Garren Ardent was not bitter. Just tired.
He took a step away from the window and sighed. He stood in the middle of his office slash quarters. The room was a bare stone, the same one he had kept for a decade. The same cobbled floor. The same carved walls. The same rusty hook beside the door that always caught his cloak when he wasn't paying attention. Garren had been stabbed in the ribs more times than he could count on two hands, yet that damned hook still caught him off guard.
His armour was already packed. Not the parade plate, of course; he hadn't worn that in years.
Just the leather hauberk, oiled and folded, and a pair of thick boots that had seen more mud than a farmer. Beside the case, his satchel lay open, half-filled with the practical items he would be taking with him: travelling trousers, spare linen, a bone-handled razor, and a roll of boiled leather strapping. A few coins jingled in a leather pouch tucked beside his field journals. Their pages had been stained with oil, sweat, blood and the silence of too many nights with too little sleep. Garren half-regretted bringing them along.
He worked slowly and deliberately. Folded every item flat. Packed it neatly and pressed it down to conserve space. Tied every bundle tight. He packed like a man digging his grave: quiet, resigned, choosing what to bury with him as if the other side might honour the weight of his wants. His solemnness was not an indicator of nervousness, anxiety, worry or fear. Truthfully, Garren did not fear going without. He simply hated the idea of something of his own being left behind to be swept away or thrown. He had seen too many of his brothers' and friends' lives end that way. Their journals and letters were used for kindling, their swords and medals hung above the fireplace, and their boots were stored in an upstairs cupboard in a tight box where moths would eat away at the skin.
With a snap and a twist, Garren clasped the satchel shut and tied the last of his bundles. Setting them aside at the foot of his bed on the footlocker, he strode over to the lone closet in the corner of his room. Its contents were empty, its clothes and hangers having been already cleared, folded and tucked away. All that remained was a scabbard with a strap, standing and leaning on the back of the closet corner.
Garren's sword.
It had no name. No inscription. No ornament. Just a weathered, plain-backed blade with a sheen that still shone and a grip darkened by decades of sweat and blood. It had never failed him, nor had it ever pretended to be more than it was. Garren unsheathed the sword, its blade running along the leather as it came out smoothly. He ran a thumb along the fuller, reminiscing. The metal was cold under his digit, ice-cold. Memories still lingered and clung to that feeling. Some he would rather forget, and some that he never wanted to. Garren exhaled through his nose and buckled the sword to his hip. The leather creaked as it settled into place. He snatched the cloak off the back of the chair, gave it a rough shake to knock the dust off, and then slung it over his shoulders. He hefted the satchel and bundles at the bedside—one strap over each shoulder, the weight familiar, if a little off-balance. He adjusted without thinking, then stood momentarily, looking at the empty bed like it should mean something. It didn't. With that, Garren turned heel and made for the door.
He caught himself in the mirror on his way out. The mirror was a warped old thing, something Garren barely used, seeing as there were functional ones in the public toilets just down the corridor. It caught the light wrong, making one shoulder look higher than the other. Garren had never paid it much mind. Still, as he shrugged his cloak to fit him better, he couldn't help but take a glance.
There he was. Same as ever.
Not younger. Not nobler. Not haunted. Just tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the kind that settles into the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and stays there, like it's taken root. His jaw was still square, stubble clinging to the skin like dry moss on stone. His brow still sat low as though it was too much work to keep his face anything but serious. There were lines at the corners of his mouth he hadn't earned laughing. He looked like a man who'd done his job. That was all. Not a hero. Not a legend.
The man in the mirror had been a Knight once, a younger man who had stood tall in armour, carrying the weight of responsibility like it was something to be proud of. That man had looked at himself and seen purpose and strength. There had been confidence in his stance. A sense of power in how he carried his name, sword, and oaths. A sense of responsibility, too, with the loyalties of men weighing heavy on his shoulders.
The coat hung looser than it used to. Garren noticed it now: he'd lost weight this past year without meaning to. The belt needed a new hole punched. His boots were clean but cracked at the seams, soles going soft. He could afford new ones, but these still had a few good miles left.
The man in the mirror had been a Brother-in-Arms once, a soldier forged in the fires of war who had fought alongside men who would either die or live to see the next battle. That man had looked at himself and seen loyalty. There had been a bond with the men beside him that nothing could break. The blood on his hands had felt like duty, not a burden.
His sleeves were rolled back halfway, exposing the scar along his forearm—jagged, pale, familiar. The cuffs were fraying. One button was missing. He'd meant to sew it on months ago but never did. His shirt, once white, now held a permanent yellow tinge near the collar. A sweat-stain ghost, clinging on.
The man in the mirror had been a Squire once, a boy who had dreamed of glory, who had worked the fields and polished armour with the ambition of someone who hadn't yet learned the true weight of the world. That boy had looked at himself and seen promise. There had been a spark of something greater in his eyes, the belief that someday he would become more than just a servant. His sword had been too heavy then, but he had carried it with pride. Now, though, his hip felt unbalanced without a sword at his side.
Garren tugged his belt a notch tighter. The leather was cracked and creased from use, and the brass buckle was scratched and dull. The coat bunched awkwardly at the waist, not tailored for a man who'd stopped eating properly. He smoothed the fabric, pointlessly, out of habit.
The man in the mirror had been a Page once, a child so eager to prove himself who had taken the first steps toward the life he thought he wanted. That boy had looked at himself and seen potential. He had believed in the stories of the great knights, whose names had been whispered with reverence. He had wanted to be one of them, to walk the halls of history with the same honour.
And now the man in the mirror was a Knight-Captain. A soon-to-be ex-Knight-Captain. A man who no longer wore the title with pride. Not disgust or hatred, either—simply a bone-tired exhaustion. The reflection that now looked back at Garren was older, heavier, and more worn than he remembered. There was no more purpose in it, no more strength. Just the face of a man who had lived through the years and outlived his ambition and purpose.
Here I am. Despite everything.
The man in the mirror wasn't the same. He wasn't sure if he was anyone at all anymore, but what he'd been felt distant, like someone else. The knight. The soldier. The boy. They all seemed like ghosts now, flickers of a life that didn't belong to him.
With a sigh, Garren turned away from the glass, his shoulders settling under the weight of a world he no longer carried. The door was still open. It would be closing behind him, and that would be it. With a final glance, he turned away from the glass and moved toward the door. The door creaked as it closed behind him, and Garren didn't look back.
The hallway beyond had kept its dank aura despite the changes outside the compound. The sconces flickered low, their oil running thin, throwing light onto the cold, narrow walls. Garren moved through it without ceremony, the sound of his heels scratching faintly against the flagstone. The stones underfoot were smooth with time and use, darkened by years of boots, blood and sweat.
The place smelled like old iron, cracked leather, and the dank, sweaty smell of too many men crammed into too little space. The same scent clung to the walls and the uniforms. Ahead, young men stirred bleary-eyed, stumbling out from their barracks, either hungover or sleep-deprived. They mouthed curses about the weather and the gear and the schedules—the usual. As Garren approached, a quiet hush settled over them, and they stepped aside to let him pass. It was not out of fear nor reverence, but with that instinct, soldiers are trained to have. Make way for the ones who carry weights heavier than yours. None of the men who looked and stared at him now had served beside him, let alone seen him swing a blade. Yet the name Garren Ardent came with whispers and a shape, and shape filled space. They gave him that space.
Garren didn't offer anything in return. He kept his head straight and his gaze ahead as he walked past the slowly parting sea of Brothers, Squires and Pages. He had wasted enough words in his life and had little appetite left for them now. The small talk felt like peeling scabs—tolerably painful but ultimately pointless. Besides, what could he say that hadn't already been said by greater men?
Outside, the courtyard was slick and grey from the morning slush. The winds still blew, and the mist stayed—thick, clinging and crawling along the flagstones like smoke from an old pyre. It gathered at the ankles and swirled between boots. Dawn hadn't quite broken yet. A small smear of pale yellow light bled through the cloud cover, trying and failing to warm stone that didn't want to be warm.
A half-circle of men had already assembled. Squires, Pages, and a handful of weathered knights held formation like habit, not instruction. Fifteen or twenty of them—Garren didn't count. He knew their type. Young blood with old eyes and old men with older scars. Kids pretending to be men and men still pretending to be men.
One of them spoke as a greeting. "Steel holds, Captain Ardent."
Garren had heard those words too many times. For once, it wasn't shouted nor barked nor sputtered from mouths full of blood. Just said, clean and practised. The way it was meant to be. He had the misfortune of hearing those words in every condition imaginable. Over mountains of corpses, still warm from the blood that seeped through their clothes. Under banners that flew high, fluttering in the wind, triumphant in their stand over the dead bodies of its enemies. Through cracked teeth and broken jaws, through spat blood and cut tongues, through black eyes and broken limbs, Garren had heard those words too many times.
Garren gave a nod and smile that was crooked at the edges. He called the greeting back as he crossed the green to meet them: Break theirs. The call had been around since the Order was first formed—May your steel hold. And may your steel break theirs. It was a formal greeting at first, but as more newbloods joined the ranks and the Order grew in age and size, the greeting was shortened.
When he reached the congregation, they held out hands for handshakes and clapped his back in celebration. Garren didn't hear their words. He put a hand on the shoulder of a boy and muttered a few words of thanks. With that, he moved through them like a ghost. He heard their cheers and murmurs die down as he walked away.
The old pathway across the courtyard hadn't changed. The stones remembered him even if the people didn't. Every worn groove, every patch of moss in the cracks. His boots found the right rhythm again on those familiar stones.
The gate was ahead. Tall, rusted and thick with ivy, it had weathered a hundred year's worth of climate and storms. A guard stepped forward from his post. Not one Garren recognised, but young enough to still be careful.
"Leaving, sir?"
Garren held out a scroll he took from inside his coat. The wax seal, broken once to confirm, was pressed closed again, keeping the scroll in a tight roll.
The guard raised an eyebrow as he took the paper. He cracked the seal open and unfurled it.
Whistling a low tune in amazement, he rerolled the scroll and handed it back. "These really exist?"
Garren chuckled dryly, and the guard joined in his amusement.
The guard stepped back and turned the crank. The chain clinked to life, slow and reluctant, as it pulled on the gate to lift it off the ground. A great groaning filled that air, attracting the attention of the people in the area. They looked on as the iron teeth of the gate were lifted from their long bite into the earth. The rain had carved a scar into the stone beneath, a permanent line from years of closure. The Order never wanted its soldiers to leave.
As the gate shuddered to a stop, dirt clumps falling from the jagged iron teeth hanging above, a voice called out from the mist. Rough. Older. Familiar in tone if not in name.
"Until the horns, Ardent."
Voices filled the courtyard, repeating the greeting. The words echoed, bounced off stone and steel, then disappeared into the greyness like prayers without gods.
Garren didn't turn. He lifted his right hand in farewell and stepped out. The courtyard filled with cheers and whoops as his feet stepped onto the path outside the gates. They were happy and proud of their Captain, who had seen almost three decades of service, who would finally see the end of his career and could look forward to his retirement. Garren did not share the feeling. As he put one foot in front of the other, the mist kissing his boots, the cheers still sounding from the young Squires, Garren sighed.
Garren continued to walk, his pace unhurried but steady. Soon, the cheers behind him bled into the distance, muffled by the thick and windy city air. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he continued down the path. Each step tapped out a quiet rhythm, familiar and final. The path eventually twisted into the streets of Callumhold. The old stones gave way to newer cobblework, laid tighter and cleaner by city planners who never wore mail. Water traced lazy rivulets along the seams.
Callumhold was stirring now as Garren continued to walk deeper into the more populated parts of town. Shopfronts clacked open as vendors lit their lanterns and muttered over crates of bread, brass fittings and dyed fabrics. The high-arched lanes of the upper quarter hadn't yet filled with coin or conversation, but the hum had begun.
Garren moved through the crowds, his boots scraping against the stone, his eyes set on the distant market that was coming into view up ahead. As he took a step forward into a junction in the streets, a group of children dashed by, peals of laughter spilling from them like water from a cracked barrel. They were a blur of bare feet and ragged shirts, arms full of bread sausages and chunks of cheese—a hearty breakfast hastily stolen from a kitchen's open window. One of them, a girl with a wild tangle of red hair, tripped forward with a hunk of bread in her mouth, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's. She collided with Garren's leg with a loud thud.
"Hey, watch where you're going!" she yelped around the bread as she stumbled back to her feet. Her friends slowed down, their voices calling out various exclamations of surprise and laughter.
Garren glanced down at her, surprised for a moment, but a slight smile tugged at his lips. "Careful, kid."
She didn't wait for more. With a brief glance at him, she was off again, her friends picking up their pace to follow her. A boy, smaller than the rest, lagged behind as he ran unevenly past Garren. His pants were too big, and his sandals had seen better days. As he ran, a chuck of bread fell from his hand, dropping toward a
Garren's eyes followed it, and before the boy could react, Garren stooped down and caught it. He held it out to the wide-eyed boy who had stopped in his tracks.
"Watch your step, bud," Garren said, his voice soft.
The boy blinked up at him before snatching the bread from Garren's hand. With a gap-toothed smile, he yelled his thanks before darting off to follow his friends, his sandals slapping against the stone ground.
Garren continued on. Past a locksmith sweeping his threshold, past a statue of a long-dead governor with birdshit caked in his eye socket. He walked through an underpass where stone gave way to plank before he finally met the entrance of the market. It was an old market alley built on slats above a runoff canal. There, standing next to a barren flower cart, engaged in a vigorous conversation with the vendor in another dialect, stood a young woman in a mustard-coloured cloak, her arms crossed tight and her boot tapping on the wood. Jentry Hound-Hearth had her hair tied back into a shard braid, a half-eaten fig in her hand, and a permanent look of near-impatience on her face. She barely glanced up as his boots hit the planks beside her.
"Can you believe he tried to sell me these withered tulips for sixteen Lunes?" Jentry said without turning, holding up the half-bitten remains of the fig in her hand like evidence at a trial. "Told me they'd 'bloom again in water'. I asked him if he thought I was born yesterday."
The flower vendor grumbled before turning his back to them both. He started to hurriedly pack the frail, sparse stems into his crate before he marched to the end of the cart and lifted it onto its wheels, pushing it away from the woman he had just lost a fight to. Garren watched him huff away in amusement.
"You eat breakfast before scaring him off?" he asked.
"This was breakfast." She bit the rest of the fig, chewed, and grimaced. "Tastes like it fell down the wrong end of a cart."
Garren chuckled in reply. Jentry choked down the fig before turning to him, brushing a crumb from the side of her mouth.
"Took your time."
"I'm retired, Jen. I think I deserve a break."
She tossed the fig stem into a nearby barrel before giving him a once-over. "You look like shit. Couldn't wait to get out?"
"Just a bad night. Thank god it was the last time in a cot that hates me."
They started walking side by side, the plankway creaking beneath them.
"You packed light?" Garren asked.
Jentry nodded. "Don't plan on staying there long. Didn't bring much the first time I came here, and what I didn't bring, I thought I'd be back for sooner. Then things happened." She shrugged. "I met Lotheridge, as you know. Got a plan. Brandonoak's great if you're tired and content. Not so great if you're young and reckless."
"Your fiancé still working with the architects' guild?"
"She is, yeah. There's a new canal expansion going south. She's got blueprints stacked high as me. Talks about them in her sleep."
"That sounds like love."
"It's something." She smirked. "But it's good. She's good—hell, she's great. We've got a place near the old city wall. It's a little cramped, but the landlord's only half crooked. Better than I expected.”
They came to the carriage, dark wood and thick canvas, waiting like a quiet sentry on the edge of the street. Two sturdy mules stamped their hooves against the wet cobblestones, the driver's wide-brimmed hat a shadow against the low light of morning. He gave a polite nod, his face stoic as he flicked his wrist toward the step.
Jentry gestured grandly. "After you, Captain."
"Just Garren now, actually.”
"Sure, Captain. I'll call you that once you start acting like a man off-duty."
He climbed in without answering. The interior smelled like leather and oiled wood. As he entered, Garren unsigned his bag and placed it on the floor. Jentry followed, tossing a small satchel that was strapped onto the back of her waist onto the bench beside her. The driver clucked, the reins snapped, and the carriage rocked into motion, wheels sloshing through thin puddles as they left the market behind. For a while, neither spoke. The city passed by in layers—stone archways, draped laundry, kids running errands barefoot. Then the old walls came into view, black with age and moss, and the gate beyond them slowly opened to the road south. Jentry leaned back, arms folded, watching Garren from the corner of her eye.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"No."
"You should be. Brandenoak's changed since you last visited. How long ago was that? Six–eight years ago?" she replied.
"Nine. And if you're talking about ghosts, I've met worse."
Jentry scoffed a short, bitter sound. "They don't always stay buried."
Garren gave her a look, but she'd already turned to the window, her reflection flickering in the rattling glass. Her voice came softer then but no gentler.
"You know what it is about that place? It remembers the version of you it liked best. And if you changed too much, if you grew teeth or found your voice or fell in love with someone inconvenient… it acts like you're the problem."
"Brandenoak's just a village, Jentry."
"Yeah. And a village doesn't forgive—not unless you die or apologise. And I'm not in the mood for either."
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It hung there, close and stiff. Jentry seemed to feel it, too. She rolled her neck, cracked a knuckle, then muttered, "Forget it, Captain."
Garren didn't answer. He shifted his position so that he leaned slightly to the side, his body relaxing into the motion of the ride. The road stretched out ahead of them, narrowing as they left the city's bustle behind. The air shifted, no longer thick with mist and wind but with the earthy smell of wet grass and the dampness of early spring. The clouds of condensation that clung to the fields ahead seemed almost alive as they swirled in tendrils above the green.
Brandenoak wasn't far—not by distance. The winding road would take them there in a few hours. The trees would grow denser, and the air would grow cooler. The sky would break open in parts, streaks of pale blue cutting through the grey. Out past the hedgerows, lambs would nose along the edges of the fields, their coats still patchy from the cold season. The land would wake up, slow and soft.
A crow flew overhead, black wings outstretched like some silent watchman. Garren tracked it with his eyes until it vanished into the treeline ahead. The carriage rolled on, creaking and swaying with the rhythm of the road. Garren kept one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, fingers curled loose around the leather wrap, just resting it there out of habit.
His eyelids fell heavier with each jostle of the cart. His body didn't loosen—training had burned that out of him long ago—but his chest slowed. His jaw unclenched.
Outside, the sky split open, a thin streak of sunlight cutting across the wet earth like the edge of a blade.
His hand stayed on the hilt as he drifted off.
And so, Garren slept.