The march to the frontlines took them five days despite minimal rest, and even when they passed Fort Algar, which only had a few men on its walls now, Rayne decided not to stay long. He knew his party wanted a night's rest in their rooms, but they had been late with the supply quest already.

  Fortunately, all of them seemed to understand it.

  None of the monsters bothered them this time, and they kept to the army road. His map was handy, but more than that, there were a lot of footsteps, and they simply followed the trail.

  Rayne gave rest to each of his men every few hours. With the wagon full of supplies, there was only room for one. For the first three days, Nate occupied it, still healing from the stab wound.

  Once his wound had healed substantially, they started a rotating system. Only Jason wasn't able to make use of it, as the mule wasn’t able to pull the wagon well with his weight. The burly man grumbled about the mule being weak quite often.

  Once they were finally on the uphill road leading up to the frontline camp, the atmosphere became much more cheerful. Everyone was sick of marching all day, including Rayne.

  But as they grew closer and the camp finally came into view, their faces fell and their noses wrinkled.

  Even from afar, the smell hit them—burnt oil, sweat, rot, blood, and cheap alcohol. Bran might have called it the scent of war, but to him and his party, it was simply disgusting.

  They didn't have the option to turn around. So, they took careful steps on the beaten-down road. Their wagon rolled along it, groaning under the weight of crates, grain sacks, and iron-bound barrels.

  The mule’s hooves kicked up plumes of dust that clung to their clothes, and every bump on the road rattled the worn wheels like bones knocking together. The animal let out a huff of exhaustion every minute, and Rayne regretted not having an apple or two for it.

  It really deserved a snack.

  “Are we sure this is the frontline camp? I’ve seen bandit camps looking far better,” Jason muttered with a frown.

  Rayne agreed with him completely. The walls of the camp seemed to be hammered together from broken wagons and shields, and even as they watched, a few soldiers were moving around with cracked wood, repairing things.

  On the side, all the camp waste was just thrown out, making his stomach turn just by the sight of it.

  Even the sentries that stared at them when they stopped in front of the gates looked exhausted and pale. They didn't even bother with identification once Rayne said they had the supply wagon and opened up the gate to wave them inside.

  He almost wished they hadn’t. As they stepped foot in the camp, the stench was far worse.

  The place reeked of exhaustion. Soldiers trudged across the open ground in clusters, mud caking their greaves and blood staining their tunics. Smiths worked on bent armor under tattered tents, the rhythmic clang of hammer and steel echoing across the field.

  Tents were arranged in no clear order, trenches dug haphazardly between them. The air buzzed with spitting, shouting, cursing, and the clatter of weapons. Banners hung everywhere, showing different noble insignias, and were probably the only things clean in the camp.

  Jason whistled low beside him. “Looks like home sweet home.”

  Kesh scoffed, wiping his brow. “Home smells better.”

  Rayne didn’t answer. His eyes swept the landscape, taking in the tattered tents and soldiers slumped against carts and sitting on the ground.

  This wasn’t what he’d imagined when he had heard people speak of the frontlines. This wasn’t an army conquering dungeons. It was one surviving them.

  The wagon rolled through the muddy streets as they reached deeper into the camp. Chaos deepened at the center of it.

  Orders barked from every direction. Soldiers carried wounded men past them on stretchers, bandages soaked through with crimson. On the side, a soldier sat on a rock, mixing water with his healing potion before drinking it to heal a bleeding shoulder.

  “Gods,” Nate muttered. “And I thought Fort Algar was shit.”

  They guided the wagon through the center of the street until the crowd thinned near the bigger and cleaner tents. A few soldiers milled around there, looking like deputies wearing far better armor.

  Rayne pulled the mule to a stop and wondered where he would find Axel or Captain Edran. The camp had at least five times the number of soldiers as Fort Algar, and he hadn’t seen anyone from his squad or warband yet.

  Maybe they were out on a dungeon run?

  “Wait here. I’ll ask for directions,” he said to his party, who nodded.

  He scanned the area for an approachable soldier and noticed one carrying around a ledger. The man was short and wore only basic leather armor. Just by the atmosphere around him, Rayne could guess he was a clerk or quartermaster.

  Rayne walked toward him, giving a small salute. “Excuse me, soldier. I’m looking for Captain Edran. Where can I find him?”

  The man flinched before turning toward him. His eyes landed on his armor that was caked with dust and dried sweat, and he frowned before asking, “Why are you looking for him?”

  “I’m coming back with the supply wagon from Bricksall and have to report to him.” He pointed at the wagon.

  The soldier’s eyes glinted. “Finally! The camp’s been waiting for more supplies. Captain Edran is in the main command tent. You’ll see it at the edge of the camp. His warband is near it. You’ll see the flag of House Sinclair there.” He gestured toward the road curving up, then his eyes flicked back to Rayne’s armor.

  They sharpened at once as he noticed the chained raven crest, one that identified him as a Forsaken.

  “What’s your name?” His tone changed suddenly. “Forsakens aren’t usually allowed to lead supply quests.”

  “There were circumstances, and Captain Edran trusted me,” he replied, not wanting to continue the conversation any longer. “Thank you for your help.”

  He took a step back, but the man held his shoulder. “You didn’t answer my question. I’m Squad Leader Shawn under the command of Captain Clark Dolaris. I’m asking again—what is your name?”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Rayne barely kept his expression blank, giving a glance back to his party. He hadn’t expected to approach a squad leader, and he had no way of rejecting the command of his name.

  The man was higher in rank.

  Hence, he gritted his teeth and said, “Rayne… Frayser.”

  There was a brief pause. Recognition flashed in Shawn’s eyes, followed by disgust. He stepped back slightly, his lip curling. “Frayser?” he repeated. “You mean that Frayser?”

  Rayne’s jaw tightened. “If you mean from the fallen Duke house, then yes.”

  The man let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Hah. Didn’t expect to see you crawling around the camp. Heard news of you being under Captain Edran, but I expected you to be killed, not given a supply quest. Guess the devils in the hells didn’t want you either.”

  His party walked up to him just then. Jason and Nate took a step toward the squad leader.

  He ignored them, sneering at Rayne. “We’ve got enough trouble without cursed blood walking through the camp. We have a lot of people from noble houses here. You’d do well to stay out of their sight, especially of House Dolaris.”

  “I just asked for directions,” Rayne said evenly, though his voice was hard now.

  “Then take them and leave alongside my warning,” the man snapped. “Don’t waste my time any longer.”

  For a moment, Rayne just stood there, his fists tightening at his sides. A few nearby soldiers had stopped to glance at the exchange, curiosity glinting in their tired eyes. One whispered something under his breath, and another chuckled.

  He wanted to say something, to fire back at Shawn, but he wasn’t an ordinary soldier. Squad leaders had power, and he didn’t. So, even as Jason looked at him for a sign to punch the man, he simply shook his head.

  Rayne took a slow breath and forced his hands to unclench. “Appreciate the help,” he said flatly, turning on his heel.

  Shawn muttered something behind him—something that sounded like “traitor’s spawn”—but Rayne didn’t rise to it. He walked back to the wagon, boots crunching on gravel, his expression unreadable.

  Kesh leaned close when he patted the mule to start moving. “You should’ve hit him.”

  Rayne gave a small shake of his head. “Not worth it. He’s higher in rank. I don’t want a flogging.”

  “Still would’ve felt good,” Jason said from the back, resting his axe against his shoulder.

  “It would have,” Rayne muttered. “But we shouldn’t delay any longer. No point in making more enemies when we have supplies to deliver.”

  Quinn chuckled. “I believe anyone who hears your name is already an enemy.”

  The mule snorted, and the wagon creaked forward again. More soldiers gave them a glance, but they kept moving. Rayne wanted to avoid any conversation. Though, he knew that by the end of the day, most of the camp would know that he had entered.

  Shawn didn’t seem like the type to keep things to himself.

  He’d worked hard to gain respect from his squad, and most soldiers had stopped bothering him in Fort Algar, but with so many people here, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

  At least he was strong enough not to get bullied.

  Rayne’s thoughts halted when they crept closer to the command tent. This part of the camp looked nothing like the rest. Here, the mud was tamped flat and the tents were bigger, reinforced with wooden frames, and each soldier looked like they could hold their weight.

  Flags hung from poles around different tents, the sigils of the noble houses leading the charge in the Pascar Plains. He noted each of them down until he finally saw the sigil of House Sinclair.

  But there were no soldiers around it, and hence, they kept moving.

  Rayne and his party only slowed their wagon near the largest tent, a structure big enough to hold twenty men inside. The banner above it bore the symbol of two lions. From his knowledge, it was the house symbol of House Grander, one of the Counts of the kingdom.

  They stopped right in front, and he and Nate moved ahead to approach the two men standing in front of it.

  “State your business!” one of them said, voice curt.

  “Supply transport from Bricksall,” Rayne replied, lifting a folded order sealed in wax. “We need to report to Captain Edran.”

  The man took the parchment, scanned it briefly, then looked up again. “Captain Edran is in council with the other captains and the commander. Wait here!”

  The man turned and entered the tent while the other soldier kept standing, looking straight ahead.

  Nate leaned against him as they waited. “I wonder how all the nobles inside will react to hearing your name,” he whispered. “You should really tell people your name is, I don’t know, Rayne Not-Frayser.”

  Rayne chuckled. “I wish.”

  The soldier returned after a few minutes, holding the tent flap open. “You may enter. The captain has been expecting you.”

  Rayne gestured for Nate to stay put, but he shook his head and stepped forward. He didn’t mind it. Having someone with him inside would probably be better to corroborate what had happened in Bricksall.

  Inside, the air was warmer from the brazier burning near the center. The ground was lined with fur mats, and the scent of ink and parchment filled the space.

  A round table dominated the middle of the room, covered with a big map of the plains marked with various spots in red. Around it sat a few men in armor, swords resting at their sides. There was only one woman among them, wrinkled with gray hair.

  Captain Edran was unmistakable, sitting on the left of the table. His eyes looked at him as soon as they entered and saluted the table.

  “Rayne,” he said. “You’re alive. I was getting worried since you should have been here three days back. What happened?”

  Rayne inclined his head as every pair of eyes turned toward him. “We were held back in Bricksall. They had a problem with deserters, and they were after the supplies. Hence, we were delayed fighting them. Their leader, Marcus, was a spellsword, so it took longer than we expected.”

  That name immediately drew attention.

  The woman spoke first. “Marcus? He was in Bricksall?”

  Rayne nodded. “Yes, he had taken over a barn and killed farmers. He even threatened Captain Baker of the Bricksall Garrison to cooperate with them, and when the captain sent runners to inform others, Marcus and his group killed them.”

  “How did you deal with him? No one you brought on the supply quest is strong enough to deal with a spellsword. And I don’t think there’s one in the Bricksall Garrison either,” Captain Edran said, and two men nodded.

  “There isn’t, but we used tricks that fortunately worked. We had prepared a report already,” Rayne replied, taking out the document from under his robes and sliding it toward Captain Edran.

  But before he could read it, the man at the head of the table spoke in a gruff voice. “Let me read it, Edran.”

  “Yes, Commander Evans.”

  The commander picked up the report and opened it up to read. He was old, probably older than most here, but looked to be as big as Jason. His hair was blonde, and if not for the wrinkles on his face, it would have been hard to guess his age.

  As the man read, Captain Edran turned toward him.

  “Did you have any casualties?” he asked, glancing at Nate.

  “No,” Rayne replied. “But Nate did get stabbed in the chest.”

  Nate grinned. “All good, captain. Nothing a potion, rest, and jerky couldn’t heal.”

  Captain Edran nodded, and his face scrunched up before he sighed. “That’s good. I didn’t know how I would have taken more soldiers dying.”

  Rayne grew confused. Had they lost soldiers recently? Was that the reason he hadn’t seen anyone familiar on the way here?

  “What do you mean, sir?” Rayne asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

  It wasn’t Captain Edran who replied. Instead, Commander Evans tapped the table, taking everyone’s attention, and looked straight at Rayne.

  He raised his eyes from the report and said, “He means that a full squad under him with a mage went on a dungeon dive six days ago, and not one of them has returned. I believe that was your squad. All of them are presumably dead.”

  ***