Contentment always spreads its wings within Sarielle when the camp looms into view, wherever it resides that night. Whether pitched upon the lowlands stretching endlessly beyond the horizon, crouched at the banks of the racing Oscei, or nestled here amongst the snowy crests of mountains, the humble little tents are stitched with a homely comfort. They're what holds the team together.

The sight of them means she's survived another day. Another restless night awaits her, before she awakes again, ready to gamble her life on each daylight hour once more.

At least today has been a touch different than the rest.

A bramble blocks the path ahead. Carefully teasing it aside, she holds it, gesturing for Nathan to slip past. She takes the opportunity to steal another glance of him. Black hair glistening damp, like a crow's feathers ruffled by a downpour. The miniature forest of his eyes appears framed by dirtied snow.

She can't look at him for more than a moment. Maybe that's why she didn't notice the mask at first, sitting tight over his face, only a shade paler than his skin. He's like a flicker of light that vanishes with too long a blink. If she isn't careful, she's sure she will lose him in the crowd. Yet her gaze won't linger, as if afraid to examine too long and be blinded by whatever torch placed him there.

Despite all that, she finds herself casting him a second, brief look. Tentative steps, forward and back. Intrigue pulling her in, uncertainty waving her away.

With a sigh, she forces her focus to settle on the crossing branches above, the last evening rays trickling through. She edges past the bramble and finds there is no-one behind to pass it too. She and Nathan have somehow fallen to the back.

"Come on," she says, brushing his arm to grab his attention. He jerks, eyes wild, only settling when they rest on her. His step has faltered, and so has hers without realising it. Why does simply looking at him require so much energy?

Pieces of him slot together oddly in her mind. Perhaps it's familiarity. A faint sense that she's seen him before, in another life, another world. Is it possible? Someone like him can't possibly have gone anywhere near the castle, least of all a noble's daughter. If she knows him, she must have come across him before in her journeys alongside her fellow soldiers. Maybe a pair of eyes she's met in a crowd before, a smile she's exchanged in passing on a backstreet. Something insignificant that lingered somehow. That would explain why she can't place him.

"We better hurry up," she adds, shaking away the thought before it can overtake her. "Dalton hates it when we lag behind."

His pace picks up immediately at that. She dodges behind him and follows, ducking under a low-hanging bough as the trees fall away around the camp. It's easier looking at the back of his head. She can avoid the nag of that familiar spark in his eyes.

Her attention drifts to his clothes instead, immediately creasing her brows into a frown. The castle's influence lingers enough for her to recognise quality fabric when she sees it. Sleek, gentle swathes of black material, and yet the seam running up his sleeves is far too obvious, wisps of torn thread dangling out. A tunic that was once made for importance, but has quickly fallen to wear.

Maybe she does know him from the castle. But wouldn't she remember him if he is someone higher born? And why is he here now, ragged and dirty, far from anywhere associated with wealth?

When you're taking in a first impression of someone, examine their posture. Her father's lessons echo from somewhere deep. It says a lot about a person. Where they're from, how they're feeling, who they consider themself to be in comparison to you. Sarielle tilts her head, studying Nathan.

All she finds in him is nerves. Coiled tension ready to release, a tremor in his twitching fingers that must easily shudder into his bones. Hard to place.

She sighs to herself, shaking her head. Familiar. So strangely familiar, but wrong.

The regiment halts as they reach the first tent. Dalton steps away and spins, the others automatically fanning out around him in a wobbly semi-circle. Sarielle guides Nathan to its end. He visibly swallows. She gives his shoulder a reassuring pat, resisting the urge to run a finger over the frayed seam.

"We move at first light," Dalton says, his tone slipping easily into command. Or so it appears. Sarielle knows by now that there is bundled courage dragged to the surface every time he speaks like this. To most, his straightened stance is a sign of confidence, but it is a little too straight, stiff and forced, and he is fully aware of it. An imposter, a boy pretending to be a man.

Posture. She casts another glance at Nathan. They're similar, in a way: false boldness, forever tense, thoughts simmering just beneath a tight cloak. But not the same. Dalton may be secretly unsure, but he isn't scared.

"Get as much rest as you can," Dalton continues. "Skyla and Beckett, fetch the rabbits you killed this morning. Averil, get a fire started."

"I can start a fire," Nathan says quickly. Sarielle jolts towards him, and feels the others do the same. He shrinks under their stares.

"You'll go with Harper," Dalton says, clearly casting aside the notion. "He can find you some fresh clothes. Something less black." Bitterness brushes over the words, and Sarielle feels her fist curl. Black isn't silver, but it is still a colour of Neyaibet, and to wear it at an Oscensi army camp is asking for misfortune.

Nathan dips his head. "Thank you, Dalton. But surely that won't take long? I'm happy to help--"

"Take as long as you need." Kind but firm, Dalton's default tone recently. Admittedly, Sarielle does miss the time when he could speak with a lighter note. "Harper will show you to your own tent as well."

Nathan's eyes light. His hands clasp in front of him. "Will I be allowed some time alone?"

For a moment, Dalton appears stunned. "Of course." He stares at Nathan a second more before shaking his head and turning to the others. "The rest of you, ensure all preparations are made for setting off quickly in the morning, in case the trace we left behind in Katamen is picked up on. Dismissed."

The regiment collectively nods and breaks apart, all heading to their respective tasks. Sarielle lingers, caught between watching Dalton as he frowns up at the sky and Nathan, scuffing his boots in the dirt.

Thankfully, Harper appears before she has to consider any sort of decision. He bobs his head towards Nathan. Harper is all jerks and bows, hasty ducks when he stands beside someone taller, the hunched form of one used to being a follower and excelling at it. "If you'll come with me, Nathaniel," he says, gesturing a path through the tents.

Nodding, Nathan looks back at Sarielle. He really does stand like Dalton then, eyes steeled with more surety than truly lurks below. "See you later?"

She smiles. "See you later, Nathan."

Harper takes the time to shoot her an amused glance before leading onward, Nathan trailing behind him. She watches them both go. A nagging feeling taps at her temples, making them ache with the test of memory.

It's Nathan's voice, too. The pitch of it, the barest scrape it carries. But instead of slotting into a scene, its echo reverberates in a void, empty, all else slipping from her grasp.

"My, my, Sarielle. I've never known you stare at someone so much."

Sarielle nearly jumps out of her skin. She spins on her heels, quickly finding Carlin's teasing smile. Tight, brunette curls twine into the braid she twirls around her finger, letting it drop as her hand leaps to smother a giggle instead.

Meeting her twinkling gaze with a glare, Sarielle folds her arms. "I wasn't staring."

"You totally were." Carlin nudges her in the side, between the straps of her armour. "I was watching you. I saw the way your eyes kept jumping to him."

Sarielle jabs her friend back with enough force to push her away. All it elicits is the chime of a second laugh. "I find him interesting," she protests.

Smirking, Carlin tosses her twin braids to her back. "You find him cute."

"I do not," Sarielle snaps, aiming a kick that Carlin dodges. Still, her eyes drift in the direction of the tents. She catches a flash of black before Nathan vanishes into the billowing white folds, crow-feather hair stirred by the wind. "Well, maybe a little."

Carlin isn't quite tall enough to drape an arm over Sarielle's shoulders, but she makes up for it by leaning heavily into her side. "So you admit you were checking him out."

"I sincerely hope not, Sarie," Dalton calls. He is perched on a slanted tree stump, halfway through peeling his breastplate off. His sword sheath has already been discarded at his side. Sarielle notes the droop in his soldiers, the natural curve to his smile, and allows relief to rise to the surface. She jogs over.

"Don't worry," she says as she approaches. "Carlin's just messing about."

Carlin snorts. "Oh, she was checking him out, Dalton." She plops down in the grass beside him, hands braced behind her and head turned up towards him. "But you've nothing to concern yourself with. There's a difference between a cute boy and someone as handsome as yourself."

Dalton lets out a surprised chuckle. "Carlin, sometimes it's hard to tell whether you're aiming to compliment me or make me feel uncomfortable."

"Compliment, always, Captain." She winks.

Shaking her head, Sarielle takes a seat in the driest patch of grass she can find, bending around a protruding thistle. She reaches for the smoothed edge of her breastplate, curling her fingers around the dull metal, and heaves upwards. The stream was enough to wash off the specks of blood, but the dent her palm fits into is another matter. But it's all they have. She sighs as she lifts it over her head, then sets it down beside her. "We're making the right choice in taking in Nathan," she says, moving onto the vambrace. "He's better off with us, and he truly wants to help."

"You're already at Nathan, huh?" Carlin ducks under Sarielle's glance, pretending to study the white patch of her sleeve, but her eyes spark.

"He asked me to call him that." His name is the one part that doesn't niggle with her. Yet that could easily just be her forgetting. She's never been fantastic with names, as hard as her father tried to nail in her recall. A good advisor should remember every name of every royal, of every nobleman, of every servant in the castle if she wanted the people with her.

She grips her sheath's strap too tightly. Her father's lessons mean nothing if there is no castle standing, no king left to advise.

"He wants to help, does he?"

Her head snaps up, the grief swept away before it can take its crushing thought. She can always count on Nash to hone her emotions into one spike of irritation. The buckle comes apart in her hands as her eyes find him, standing leant against a tree with head tilted in her direction. "Anyone can say they want to help," he drawls on. "But will he actually aid our cause at all?"

She meets his eyes, part of her wishing she could snatch the thread from his healer kit and sew his lips shut with it. Instead she looks down and rubs at the hilt of her sword. "He'll fight beside us if needed. We saw that in Katamen. Isn't that enough?"

"Oh, sure." Nash snaps a needle from the branch beside him and twists it over his fingers. "If he can actually fight."

"I can teach him." She sets the sheathed sword down carefully, giving its crescent curve a parting stroke, then snatches her hand away before she can do anything too impulsive.

He scoffs, but it isn't him who speaks next. Over his shoulder, the telltale blonde stripe of Valora's hair catches the light, accompanied a moment later by her crystal-shard eyes. "How quickly?" she asks. "Will we be dragging him around like baggage until then?"

Sarielle is standing before she's even thought about it. She opens her mouth, fists clenching at her sides. It's probably a saving grace that Dalton cuts in before she can say anything.

"I won't have any more of this." He sits upright on the stump, sweeping all three of them up in his stare. "I made the decision to let Nathaniel travel with us, and it's final."

Nodding, Carlin jabs a finger in Dalton's direction. "He's your captain, people. You listen to him."

"Yes." Dalton sighs, rubbing at his temples. "Yes, I'm your captain." Sarielle winces at the tiredness in his tone. A large part of her wants to take him by the arm and drag him away from everyone else, tell him that she'll handle it, and wrap him in as many blankets as she can gather. But she knows that won't help anything. "Look," he continues, lifting his gaze again. "We're soldiers. We're here to protect the innocent, and that includes him."

"And protecting him means dragging him along with us?" Nash exchanges a glance with Valora, who sniggers. Sarielle forces herself not to reach for her sword.

"If that's what it takes." Dalton glances back at the tents, then drops his voice. "He clearly has nowhere else to go. I hate to say it, but for him, travelling with us might be safer than alone."

Sarielle nods, briefly catching his eye. She sits down slowly, turning her attention back to her sword.

"But... is it safe for us?"

This voice is quieter, less demanding than Nash or Valora. Sarielle's head jolts up. Averil has appeared by Valora's side, hair the colour of smouldering flame tumbling over one shoulder. They're both carrying firewood, though she is carrying considerably more than Valora. It figures. Sarielle has known them for years. They're both noble's daughters, like her, born and bred in the castle.

It's more noticeable in Valora. She holds herself with everlasting conviction, nose turned up, Harper's polar opposite. Averil averts her gaze more, huddling into herself. But her roots become apparent when she has something to say. Her stance widens, her eyes raising to Dalton's.

"What do you mean?" he asks. He's already leaning forward, head tipped in genuine curiosity. Nash and Valora are prone to grumbling. Averil actually has the smarts to back her points.

"I just mean..." She shrugs. "Doesn't it seem a little odd? If he's fifteen, he should have been drafted in at the call last month."

"Maybe he's a draft dodger," Valora mutters.

Dalton nods, gaze turned downward in thought. "That would explain him being alone. But then why would he be so desperate to join us?"

"Guilt?" Sarielle offers. "Maybe he was told to run but never really wanted to. Or--" She cuts herself off before she can say anything more. The memory of her own draft call twines with the thought, several painful subjects knotted like points of a thistle.

Avoiding the draft is far easier for those of highest status. Often, they don't even have to hide. It's all about knowing the right people. But she knows the gnaw of guilt, the tether of loyalty, applies to everyone no matter the weight of coins in their pockets. Its ties can never truly be broken.

"Or money." Nash's input merges with her own thought train. His gaze rests not-so-subtly on Dalton. "Does that happen, Captain? Poor boys thinking they can run from the draft, until they realise they need the soldier benefits?"

Tension slices the air. Sarielle's muscles grow taut, her fingers itching to grasp her sword again. She bites her tongue, flitting between them.

Slowly, Dalton raises his gaze. He looks about to rise, but only sits straighter on the stump. "I wouldn't know, Nash," he says. "I'm sure money is the only motivation for some."

"Hm." Nash flicks the tree needle from one hand to the other. Sarielle prays he'll prick himself with it.

Much to her relief, Averil clears her throat. "I, erm. I actually have another theory."

"Please, Averil, let's hear it," Sarielle says quickly, shooting Nash a poisonous glare. He lets out another huff and examines his needle.

Crossing to a circle of grass less thick and tangled, Averil sets down her firewood. When she rises, her eyes are dark. "He's dressed all in black."

Dalton startles upright. "You don't think..."

"Isn't it the perfect cover?" She shrugs again, sweeping her fiery hair back. "Maybe. I don't know." But she fails to hide a knowing smile, the brief spark in her eyes giving away how pleased she is to have their attention.

Valora strides over to her. She drops her own firewood and folds her arms, tailored in her own smugness. "He's Neyaibet," she says loudly, giving Averil an exaggerated nod. "A spy. An innocent they knew we'd take pity on, only for him to lead the entire army right to us."

"What a shame. We'll have to kick him out." Mock sadness drips from Nash's voice. He pushes off the tree, letting go of the needle. "Would you like me to--"

"You'll do nothing," Dalton says sharply. "You make a good point, Averil. It will pay to be wary. But I will not act on mere suspicion."

"A wise choice, Captain," Carlin crows. Their eyes all snap to her. Sarielle had managed to forget she was present. "See what a good guy our Dalton is? Kind but practical? I don't know about all of you, but I fully support this decision."

Sarielle gives a firm nod. Reluctantly, Valora adds, "Me too," and swiftly bends over the firewood with her back to them. Crouched opposite, Averil shoots them a smile.

Nash leaves a pause before sighing and contributing a nod of his own. "The moment he steps out of line, he goes."

"But until then, he stays," Sarielle counters, meeting his hard stare. The healer grumbles something under his breath and spins on his heels, marching into the mess of tents, boots hitting the earth a little harder than is natural.

The moment he's gone, she exhales, running a hand through her hair. She notices Dalton deflate in a similar manner. He looks over at Carlin. "Do you have any input on the matter?"

She dusts her tunic. "Only that I think you're right."

"I'm sure if I told you all to jump off a cliff, you'd agree with me."

"But you wouldn't do that." She leans back. "Unless you had a logical reason for it, and in which case, no, I wouldn't argue." When he shakes his head, she jumps to her feet, skipping over to nudge his shoulder. "You're a good captain. You deserve a personal cheerleader." Her smile twitches. "And an Anti-Nash. I'll go make sure my fellow healer doesn't stab anyone while he's having a tantrum."

Dalton returns her pat. "Thanks, Carlin."

She tugs at the hem of her tunic, chin stuck up proudly, before she hurries off after Nash. Dalton returns to staring downwards. Slotting her breastplate under her arm, Sarielle rises.

"You want to retreat to our tent?" she asks.

He chuckles, already getting up. "Please."

They gather up their armour and leave the remaining soldiers to their duty at the campfire. Valora is sitting back on her heels, muttering something about damp wood, while Averil is repeatedly striking a flint. Sarielle tears her gaze from them before she can get drawn in. She'll only end up arguing with Valora or getting frustrated by her own ineptitude, and right now, Dalton needs her more than they do.

She bumps up against his shoulder to grab his attention, shooting him a bright grin. He pretends not to notice the intention behind her eyes, but he's hiding a smile, and his pace decidedly quickens as they curve past the healer's tent. No raises voices. Carlin is doing a sterling job.

The moment they cross through the scratching white folds of their own tent, the flap flicking shut behind them, their arms open in sync. Metal clangs to the earth as she grabs him and lets him yank her into the tents side, their lips crushing against one another.

She nestles into the curve of his body, pressing the kiss deeper until she feels the air between them wither away to nothing. With it, all its heavy tension disintegrates. There is nothing but the caress of his skin on hers.

This is the Dalton she knows. Bathed in warmth, tasting of sunshine. It's all too easy to escape into his firm embrace.

He pulls away first, though gradually, his arms still laced around her middle. "I needed that," he breathes, a light chuckle hanging off the words.

She traces his collarbone. "So did I."

His smile droops. He sighs, clutching her tighter. "What am I going to do, Sarie?"

Reaching up, she grabs his chin, tilting it so their eyes meet. "What you always do," she tells him. "Keep going."

He nods, but his frown remains. Grip loosening, he slides away from her, the rough weave of his shirt slipping from her fingers. His focus has turned inward. "Am I a fool to take in Nathaniel?"

"You're certainly no fool." So forgetting all about the day's events might not happen after all, but Sarielle will conform to this role, too. They both need to talk this through. "But the others do have a point. I think he's running from something, be it the draft or another beast entirely." That level of shakiness comes from a boy who believes he's about to be found out any second. What there is to find, she isn't sure, but it's lurking beneath the surface.

"I agree. But a spy?" Staggering around, he sits down heavily amongst their bedding, swiping a hand over his forehead. "Do you believe that?"

Arms slowly falling to her sides, Sarielle chews her lip. The image of Nathan, folded in on himself, wrapped in silken black, tickles the back of her mind. Her hands itch. She flexes them, then bends down, reaching for their discarded armour.

"His clothes aren't any commoner's wear," she starts carefully. "They've been tailored for him special, I'm sure of it." She sighs, coarse metal rubbing under her fingers. The other thought tingles on her tongue. The tentative one, the one she's afraid to let loose lest it prove the point she doesn't want to believe.

"Go on, Sarie," Dalton coaxes. She spares him a glance.

She rests the breastplates overlapping one another and slots the vambraces in beside them. A neat pile, useless, but it helps sort out her thoughts. "His sleeves are frayed. Like the thread that held them together has been ripped away, purposefully. Together with the black..." She adjusts a breastplate, keeping her eyes fixed on the smudge of a reflection it gives of her face.

"You think the thread was silver?" He speaks it as hesitantly as she offers the idea. But it lingers, suspended in the tent's condensed air.

Her fingers curl over his sheath. She shoves it into position beside the armour. "Oscensi nobility don't wear black. Anyone that does wouldn't decorate it. It's not definite, but..." She forces herself to let go of the sheath, place her own beside it, and rise. "The signs are there."

Dalton nods, toying with the corner of a blanket. The light outside is growing dim enough to give his skin a faint greyish hue. "There's evidence, but I'm not asking for that." He meets her eyes. "Do you believe it?"

Pausing, Sarielle searches his gaze. A river shimmering with dust, a sea reflecting stormy skies. Her heart twists.

To believe it is to hint that the flicker of recognition she finds in Nathan is not the brief eye contact of a passerby, but the harsh pierce of a gaze across a battlefield. She might have seen that inky hair speckled with blood. Perhaps that is why her skin crawls with wrongness when his forest eyes brush soft. Can it all be an act?

She finds her head shaking before she's considered it. A glare doesn't suit those eyes. She can't even picture it. Wherever she knows him from, if he truly is familiar at all, it is nothing hostile.

"No," she says, the word's steel surprising her. "There must be another explanation."

Dalton smiles weakly. "I didn't think so." Letting out a tight sigh, he stares down at the scrap of blanket intertwined with his fingers. "Now to find that explanation. A wealthy boy running from the draft might fit." Amusement quirks his lips. "Though I could believe he's lying about his age to seem tougher."

"But that wouldn't benefit a spy," she says quickly.

"Exactly." He drops the blanket and leans back, resting the back of his head against the tent's linen. "I believe he's innocent, but I also trust my team. Sarie, I'm relying on you to watch him."

She gives a swift nod. "I will." Not just because Dalton needs her to. Her own intrigue twines with her heartstrings, the persistent tug of a thread guiding her mind back to him. She needs to nail down that familiarity. If she doesn't, it'll drive her mad.

"We should go and see if they're ready with the campfire," she adds.

Without looking up, Dalton nods absently. "You go ahead. I need to think for a while."

Mouth open, she hesitates. Part of her wants to rush to his side, smother his doubts in another kiss. But it only delays the problem. Besides, she knows Dalton hates having to rely on these moments of safety, of loneliness, to keep himself going. He has to dig himself out of the habit without her.

So, instead of moving forward, she steps over her sheath on the ground and backs towards the exit. "I'll go via Nathan's tent to check if he wants to join us." And perhaps ask him a few questions, sift through her own debate.

"It would be useful if he would." Dalton lifts his head, his slouch briefly diminishing. "I'd like to talk with him, and I think it would help the others to see more of him, as well. Let him feel part of the team."

"I think he'd like that, too." Sarielle turns away.

Just as she clasps the flap, he calls again. "Sarie?"

She glances over her shoulder. "Yes?"

He shuffles, leg bouncing on the blankets, uncertainty clouding his eyes. He looks so much more like the Dalton she was first introduced to. Still searching for his bolder side, still convinced he was nothing but a lowly farm boy who didn't deserve the weight of their stares.

"What would Captain Strudwright have done?" he asks.

That question again. She'd begun to think he'd gotten used to swallowing it, but now its barb resurfaces.

"Captain Strudwright is gone," she says softly. "He doesn't matter now."

"I know. But..." He catches himself, looking down. "I know."

She doubts he'd let himself appear so broken in front of anyone else. Even before her, she can see the shame that writhes beneath at it, but he can't hide this from her. Taking in a breath, she summons the fiercest smile she can gather from the dregs of hope deep in her chest.

"It'll be alright," she tells him. It sounds so true she can almost believe it.

At his responding silence, she lifts open the flap and slides under it, emerging into the descending dusk. She yanks her thoughts ahead, to Nathan.

From one lost boy to another. The world seems packed with them at the moment.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun Fact: Dalton really changed a lot from my original outline. He was a lot less likeable when I first designed him. But when I started writing him... it just didn't suit him? I think the more negative aspects of his personality all got handed to Nash. Now he's just a tired boi who needs a hug. Or, according to Sarielle, a kiss--

Sarielle's PoV is fun but also way less easy that Nathan. I don't know if I'm mastering her voice yet. But I am enjoying finally developing the regiment and putting names and faces to these blurs of characters that have been living in my brain for ages xD

Also who relates to Sarielle's memory struggles because I definitely do--

- Pup