Page 32 of Reign

He placed himself in front of me, acting as my shield from the thieves.

“Not so brave now, are you?” Bash taunted, brandishing my blade toward them. “Come on then!” he yelled, his deep voice reverberating down the narrow alleyway.

I shut my eyes, bracing for a beating that never came. Instead, the sound of retreating footsteps eased my fear. Peeking over Bash’s shoulder, I saw the thugs fleeing back into the shadows.

My lips trembled as I spoke. “They stole my cloak, cap, and packsack,” I stammered, battling the tears harder than I’d fought the ruffians.

Without a second thought, Bash shrugged off his long coat and draped it over my shoulders. “I’ll find you replacements, don’t worry.”

“You’ll be cold,” I protested, trying to push the garment back toward him.

He shook his head. “I’m hot-blooded.”

As Bash walked down the dark alley, I went rigid as the reality of the Walled City sank in. It wasn’t the haven I’d imagined—a place where hard work could forge success. Instead, it teemed with sin.

“Are you staying here?” Bash asked, glancing back.

I shrugged. “I don’t think I am ready for war,” I admitted, trying to understand how I’d ended up accidentally conscripted.

“None of us are,” Bash replied, returning to my side. “I’ve spent most my life at sea, defending the Headlands, and I’m still terrified.” He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll look after you, if you promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“Keep one eye—preferably your good one—on me, too,” he joked, gesturing to my bruised socket with a wry smile.

I nodded, finding solace in our fragile alliance.

Bash sighed. “This will all be over soon, and we can return home.”

I nodded again. Though I didn’t know where home was anymore, I knew it wasn’t within these city walls.

“Come on,” Bash urged. “We don’t want to lose everyone. I’ve never been to Cambas, but I’ve heard it’s to die for,” he added, his grim joke failing to make me laugh.

The Far Shores of Cambas.

The soldiers and I approached the far shores as daylight chased the darkness out of the sky.

Morale was high at the outset of our journey, but the merriment burned out faster than a candlestick in winter. The chanting quickly faded, leaving the heavy thud of footsteps as our solitary sound.

The amber hue of dawn sparked a flicker of hope in my heart. It reminded me that no matter how dark the days ahead might be, the sun would rise. Light always followed the dark.

Bash, Fletcher, Arthur, and I marched on, our silence broken only by the occasional grunt.

“Camp’s ahead,” a knight bellowed. “Food and ale for all on arrival.” His voice carried the relief we all felt.

Bash let out a weary sigh. “I’m going to fill my belly until I’m sick, then sleep till sunrise,” he mumbled, his words tumbling over each other with exhaustion.

As we neared the camp, the growing cacophony initially sounded like idle chatter. But as we drew closer, it became clear—the noise came from men in agony.

I wasn’t accustomed to the sight of death. My mother had often shared tales from her youth of plague, poppy pox, and sweating fever that ravaged Lyonesse. I’d been fortunate; for many years, the Wetlands had basked in the gods’ good favor, sparing me from witnessing such devastation—until this moment.

On the outskirts of the encampment, men dug mass graves for the fallen soldiers. Even those maimed beyond repair were discarded with the dead, left to rot like last month’s harvest. Cries for help intertwined with desperate prayers to the gods, yet no amount of supplication could grant them another sunrise.

I noticed Fletcher eyeing the dying men, but I couldn’t tell whether he was distressed by their suffering or planning how to scavenge their corpses for loot.

The knight scanned the horror-struck faces of Cambas’s newest residents before clearing his throat, demanding our attention. “Rest assured, a priest comes once a week to bless the fallen,” he said, though his words didn’t bring me any comfort.

While he discussed the religious ritual, I watched a man heave bodies onto a cart and wheel them to their final resting place. He tossed the lifeless shapes into the grave as though they’d never lived—sons, fathers, and husbands. Farmers and noblemen, vagrants and clergy. All left to perish together.