The gnawing ache in Kael's bones lingered, a phantom echo of the skirmish that had claimed Private Renwick's life. Renwick. Gone. Just like that. The mud-caked trench, smelling of stale sweat and fear, offered little comfort. A thin, grey light struggled to pierce the perpetual shroud of the Rime, casting the world in muted tones of despair. Kael huddled with the remnants of his squad, their breath pluming white in the frigid air, their faces etched with the same weariness he felt. Sergeant Roric, a man whose face seemed permanently carved from granite and grit, watched them with an intensity that missed nothing. His eyes, the colour of deep winter ice, swept over each man, lingering a fraction too long on Kael. It was the same look he'd given Kael after the last engagement, a silent, scrutinizing gaze that made Kael’s skin prickle. He tried to appear nonchalant, cleaning the grime from his battered long-knife with a scrap of cloth, but the sergeant's scrutiny was a physical weight. “Ready yourselves,” Roric’s voice rumbled, low and gravelly, barely cutting through the distant, rhythmic boom of the siege engines. “Recon reports a probing party from the Bloodsworn just beyond the outer palisade. We’re to reinforce the western watchpoint. They’re getting bolder.” A collective groan, quickly stifled, passed through the men. ‘Bolder’ was an understatement. The barbarians had been a constant, ravenous presence for weeks, their war cries a soundtrack to the Empire’s slow demise. Each day, the line frayed a little more, the hope receding like the spring tide. The march to the western watchpoint was a slog through ankle-deep slush and frozen mud. The air grew colder, biting at exposed skin. Kael's uniform, stiff with dried blood and filth, chafed against him. He felt the familiar dull throb in his temples, a residual from… what? The chaos of battle? The near miss of that barbarian ax? He’d called it luck, then. But the feeling, a strange, profound emptiness that settled after such events, was harder to dismiss. It wasn't just exhaustion. They reached the watchpoint, a rickety wooden tower overlooking a stretch of devastated scrubland, just as the first screams echoed. Bloodsworn. Closer than expected. The air vibrated with their guttural battle-shouts, a chilling sound that spoke of unbridled ferocity. Kael gripped his spear, his knuckles white. Arrows began to rain down, wicked shafts tipped with chipped flint and scavenged iron. One thudded into the wooden railing just beside Kael’s head, making him flinch. Another whizzed past his ear, so close he felt the disturbed air. He saw a flash of movement below, a hulking barbarian with a jagged war-axe scrambling up a makeshift ladder. Panic flared, cold and sharp. “Hold the line!” Roric roared, his voice cutting through the din. “Don’t let them breach!” Kael braced himself, thrusting his spear blindly towards the climbing warrior. The barbarian roared, a guttural sound of challenge, and swung his axe. Kael saw the glint of steel, felt a surge of raw terror. It was too fast, too powerful. He was going to die. A flash of white-hot pain seared behind his eyes, a sensation like a vital part of him was being torn away, and then… The barbarian’s foot slipped. Just a fraction of an inch, a wet patch of mud on the rungs of the ladder, but it was enough. His balance wavered, his axe stroke went wide, glancing harmlessly off the wooden railing. Before he could recover, Private Jorgen, a gangly youth usually more prone to fumbling, lunged forward with unexpected precision, his spear finding the barbarian’s throat. The warrior gurgled, falling backwards with a sickening thump. Kael stumbled, leaning heavily against the palisade. His head pounded, a dizzying spiral of nausea washing over him. The world seemed to swim. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Jorgen, his eyes wide with shock and triumph, looked at Kael. “Did you see that, Kael? I got him! He just… slipped!” Kael nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. He felt weak, utterly drained, as if he’d run a full day’s march without rest. The cold seeped deeper into his bones, and a profound weariness pulled at him. It was more than just the adrenaline. Much more. He remembered the feeling from the last skirmish, the same sudden, inexplicable exhaustion. He cast a furtive glance around. Sergeant Roric was barking orders further down the line, his back to Kael. But Kael felt his gaze anyway, a phantom weight on his shoulders. He was certain Roric had seen *something*. The fighting continued for another agonizing hour. The Bloodsworn, though relentless, were eventually repelled, leaving behind a scattering of their dead and the stench of their wild, unwashed bodies. When the all-clear finally sounded, Kael felt as if every drop of energy had been leached from him. His limbs were leaden, his mind foggy. As the men regrouped, tending to their wounded, Roric approached Kael. He didn't speak immediately, simply stared, his eyes unwavering. Kael felt like a grub under a microscope. He tried to meet the gaze, but his own eyes kept wanting to drift away. He hated this, the unspoken question. “You’ve got a knack for being in the right place, Kael,” Roric finally said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Or maybe… the enemy has a knack for being in the wrong one, around you.” Kael swallowed hard. “Just luck, Sergeant. I suppose.” He tried to sound casual, but the words felt hollow, even to himself. Roric’s lips twitched, a faint, almost imperceptible movement that might have been a ghost of a smile, or a grimace. “Luck, aye. We all get a bit of it in the Rime. But yours… it’s a robust strain, isn’t it?” He paused, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Private Renwick. The skirmish before this one. That arrow, the one that missed you, struck him instead.” Kael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the biting wind. He remembered that moment vividly: the arrow veering inexplicably. He had dismissed it then, but now… the exhaustion, the dizziness, the precise timing of the barbarian’s slip. A pattern was forming, an unnerving, dangerous pattern. Renwick’s death had saved him. Had he done that too? Unconsciously? The thought was terrifying. “I… I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant,” Kael stammered, his voice hoarse. Roric simply looked at him, his gaze piercing. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Kael. Just… observing. In this war, a man learns to observe. And what I observe around you is… curious. Very curious.” He clapped Kael roughly on the shoulder, a gesture that was half camaraderie, half warning. “Just keep that ‘luck’ of yours focused on the enemy, lad. We’ll be needing it.” With that, Roric turned and walked away, leaving Kael standing alone amidst the fading echoes of battle. The sergeant’s words, a blend of suspicion and grim acceptance, rattled Kael to his core. It wasn't just luck. He knew it now, deep in his gut, where the exhaustion still coiled. There was something else, something forbidden and draining, that emanated from him. He had dismissed it, rationalized it, but Roric’s cold, knowing eyes had stripped away his denial. He felt a profound sense of isolation, a terrible weight settling upon him. The Rime Wars were brutal enough; now he had this new, incomprehensible burden. He was a weapon, perhaps, but one that consumed its wielder with every use. And he didn't even know how he wielded it. ---

Chapter 2: A Robust Strain