The shadows of memory crept in before Alec could blink them away. The dream took hold without warning. Alec’s eyes stung, sweat running into them in rivulets. Grit coated his tongue—sand kicked up by thousands of marching feet. He stood in the front row of a shield wall that stretched for a mile in either direction, shoulder to shoulder with the only thing standing between survival and slaughter.

  The sun beat down mercilessly, turning his armour into a furnace. Above, arrows and missiles arced overhead in disciplined, deadly waves—sharp shadows cutting across the sky.

  He turned his gaze downward, watching the black mass of the enemy surge forward. A seething tide of bodies stretching as far as the eye could see. Half a mile away now. Closing fast. Charging at a dead sprint. The earth trembled with their footsteps, the sound near deafening.

  Fear clung to every soul in the shield wall. Ten thousand hearts pounding in terrified rhythm. Alec’s own chest felt like it might burst, his breaths ragged and shallow. He gripped his shield tighter, not just to steady his hand, but to stop it from shaking outright. His mouth was dry, his thoughts a blur—except for one: hold the line. But desperation held stronger than fear. Desperation to shield the townsfolk behind them—mothers clinging to children, elders too slow to flee, boys not yet old enough to hold a blade. If they fell, those lives would be swept away like twigs in a flood. Desperation borne of the knowledge that if they failed, nothing would stop the massacre waiting behind them. Civilians. Families. The innocent. All depending on this line not to break.

  Do or die.

  The black mass drew closer. Arrows still flew—but the steady, ordered volleys were gone, replaced by erratic, uneven bursts. Desperation leaked into every motion. Discipline was slipping.

  And then, they were on them.

  Screams. Metal on flesh. The wet, horrible sound of dying. Chaos erupted as the two forces collided.

  Alec awoke with a gasp, skin slick with sweat. For a heartbeat, he didn’t know where he was—only that the screams had stopped. His ears rang with silence, and the dim flicker of firelight against canvas felt wrong, unreal, too soft after the blinding chaos of battle. The fabric of the tent rustled softly in the breeze, and the faint scent of damp canvas and smoke clung to the air.

  He always woke up when the screaming started.

  Alec sat up, wiping the sleep—and the remnants of the nightmare—from his eyes.

  Moments later, Albos crawled into the tent, balancing a cup of warm tea and half a loaf of bread.

  “The dream again, big man?” Albos asked gently, watching as Alec gave a slow, weary nod, his eyes still distant and unfocused, passing the mug and bread over.

  Alec nodded, wordless.

  “I keep telling you, you need to speak to one of those Sisters from the House of Healing,” Albos said, knowing full well Alec would shrug it off like he always did—just as he had every time since the first night Albos had learned of the dreams. Albos settled into a squat near the tent flap.

  “I’m all right as I am,” Alec replied, voice gruff.

  “A shame,” Albos grinned, biting the back of his hand in mock agony. “Some of those Sisters—divine, I’m telling you. And since they don’t dabble with men, they’ve got no idea if you’re any good in bed or not. You’d be the best they ever had.”

  Alec scoffed, shaking his head. “Get out, you lecherous cretin.”

  “No worries,” Albos said, already turning to leave. “Me and Siv’ll be outside. We need to discuss a new sales strategy.”

  And with that, he wriggled out of the tent like a mischievous fox slipping off with a stolen chicken, grinning all the while.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ten minutes later, Alec stepped into the morning light. The storm from the night before had passed, and the spring sun shone in full glory, birdsong drifting through the trees and the scent of wet earth rising in the warm air, casting golden rays across the damp earth and warming his skin. For a moment, it felt like the world had taken a breath.

  Alec spotted Albos and Siv sitting on logs around the campfire, deep in conversation. Steam curled from a battered kettle hanging above the flames, and the smell of something hearty wafted through the morning air.

  Siv was a squat, bearded man, no more than four feet tall. He was one of the Glakin people—renowned across the continent for their masterful engineering. Oddly enough, they were also famous for their singers. Many had made their fortunes performing in the great theatre houses of Ulmer, the capital of Othmaris.

  Siv, however, was not one of them.

  He was perfectly content being the cook—and took great pride in his stews, which he claimed could 'revive the dead and silence a bar fight in under a minute.' He had a curious habit of naming his kitchen utensils after old lovers, a detail that made some men twice as hesitant to steal second helpings. He was also the part-time camp guard whenever Alec and Albos were off trying to peddle whatever questionable wares Albos believed would be “the next big thing.”

  “How do, ya big bastard,” Siv greeted cheerfully, lifting a mug in salute.

  “And a good morning to you, little man,” Alec replied with a smirk, stepping into the firelight.

  Alec took a seat beside them, stretching and working a kink from his shoulder.

  “So,” he said, eyeing Albos with mild suspicion, “what’s this grand new sales strategy, then?”

  Albos didn’t answer right away. He sipped from his mug, eyes scanning the treetops as if waiting for inspiration—or building suspense.

  Albos sat up straighter, his expression turning deadly serious. Alec arched an eyebrow, while Siv leaned forward slightly, his mug halfway to his lips and forgotten there. “Right. As we all know, I’ve got one hundred very well-crafted rugs that we need to shift. Unfortunately, they’ve fallen out of favour in the capital, and that news has trickled down to the larger towns and cities.”

  He paused, looking between Siv and Alec for confirmation.

  Both nodded. Alec scratched his beard, already dreading where this was going. With Albos, it was never simple—and it was rarely legal.

  “Right,” Albos continued, grinning. “Here’s the play—we skip the big towns. We aim for the forgotten villages, the ones still dreaming they matter. I stroll in, flash these handcrafted beauties, name-drop the High Prince—or some distant noble—and boom... some mayor’s wife buys ten rugs before I’ve finished my pitch.”

  He finished with a satisfied grin.

  Alec gave a slow nod. “Could work.”

  Siv grunted. “Worth a shot, lad. I’m tired of lookin’ at the bloody things.”

  “Give me a week,” Albos said confidently, standing and striking a pose like a man on a mission. “All one hundred rugs—gone. Replaced with gold in our pockets.”

  “It’s settled then—we head south,” Albos said confidently.

  Alec's jaw clenched before he even registered the direction. “South?” he repeated, his voice tight, the word slipping out before he could catch it.

  “Yeah, south,” Albos replied, throwing his arms wide. “Near the border.”

  Alec felt the first prickling of sweat on his brow. He kept his tone level. “Surely... there are villages north you could sell them to?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed—” Albos turned to Siv, who was already one step ahead.

  “One hundred and fifty miles,” Siv said flatly.

  “Exactly! We’re already one hundred and fifty miles south of the capital,” Albos continued. “We’d need to travel two hundred miles north of it just to find a village—and even then, it’d probably be three huts and a goat with opinions about decor that hasn’t been poisoned by this fake news that rugs are out of fashion!”

  He threw his hands up in mock outrage, as if the entire kingdom’s aesthetic tastes were a personal insult.

  Alec opened his mouth to protest—to tell them why they couldn’t go near the border. But all he could see was a flash of charred walls, a child’s cry cut short, and the cold ring of steel in his hands. His stomach tightened. But the words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat like ash.

  “You good?” Albos asked, glancing over at him.

  Alec hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Aye... we’re good.”

  “Excellent!” Albos grinned. “Then let’s break down camp and be off. Gold and glory await!”

  He spun with dramatic flair, arms sweeping as if addressing an invisible crowd.

  Albos wandered off to start breaking down the camp. Alec turned his gaze back to where Siv still sat, eyes fixed firmly on him. The Glakin stood slowly, then walked over, placing a firm hand on Alec’s shoulder. He didn’t speak at first—just gave a slight squeeze, eyes searching Alec’s face.

  “You don’t have to say it,” he muttered. “Just know I’ve got your back, wherever we’re headed.”

  “I don’t know what happened to you,” Siv said quietly, his voice low and steady, “but if you’re not comfortable heading south... I’ll tell him. I’ll lie if I have too.”

  There was an uncharacteristic softness in his eyes. The usual edge in his gaze had dulled, replaced by something quieter—his brows relaxed, and the tightness in his jaw loosened, like a man lowering his guard for just a moment. A rare crack in his usual gruff exterior.

  Alec took a deep breath. “It’s all good, little man,” he said, then stood and moved off to help Albos with the camp.