The night sky stretched wide and black above the Rebel camp, a velvet tapestry pricked with a thousand cold-burning stars.
No moon rose to soften the darkness—just the glitter of constellations indifferent to the troubles of men. The distant hum of the camp, muffled fires, the low bray of horses, and the rustle of canvas was the only company for the two soldiers patrolling the outer ring.
Their boots crunched against frost-stiff grass, the air crisp enough to bite through their cloaks. A weak lantern swayed on a staff between them, casting a jaundiced glow across their armor and the dirt path.
"By the gods," muttered the younger of the two, a lanky lad with a crooked nose and a sharp tongue, "if that was supposed to be dinner, then I'd rather chew on my damn boot."
The older one, stockier, with a helmet that never quite sat straight, snorted. "That was your boot. Cook just boiled it first and called it 'stew.'"
