Osric had marched three days behind the ivory dragons and never once seen the general’s face — only the shape of him against the clouds, upright in a chariot pulled by four white beasts whose wings never seemed to tire, a purple banner snapping overhead like a held threat.
It was the winged soldiers who unsettled him more. They ran the whole march at his side, feet skimming just above the cloud-floor, faces set with a discipline Osric’s own tired legs couldn’t match. He’d asked once why they didn’t simply fly ahead and be done with it.
“Because he asked us to march,” one had answered, nodding toward the chariot, “not to fly past him.”
On the fourth night, the general finally called a halt and walked the column himself, dragons and all, stopping at every fire to ask each soldier’s name. When he reached Osric, he crouched — a general, in full ceremonial gold, crouching in the mud to look a footsoldier in the eye — and asked simply: “Tired?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Means you’re still paying attention.” He rose, and for just a moment the dragons behind him lowered their heads, four sets of ancient eyes following their rider’s gaze down to Osric with something that looked, absurdly, like the same question. “We’re not marching to a battle. We’re marching to a choice. I need men who are tired enough to still choose it honestly.”
He moved on before Osric could think of a reply worth giving. But he found, come morning, that his legs hurt less than they had in days — as if being seen, just once, by someone who could have flown past and hadn’t, was its own kind of rest.