Cameron

"I burning told you to stay with him," Mackaroy said.

Both of the older shadow's hands gripped Cameron' shirt collar, pulling down hard enough that he wanted to kneel just to lighten the pressure on his neck. To anyone else, anyone else in the City, he might have lashed out by now, with fist or with knife.

But Mackaroy's normally averted gaze, endlessly fixed on the horrors of the old man's past, held Cameron in a grip quite a bit stronger than the grip on his collar.

"I wasn't allowed to remain," Cameron said, still unable to summon the courage to try and pry the older shadow's hands from his shirt.

"I don't give a speck of ash if it was the Lord Captain his burning self that told you off. They don't get to decide when a crafter needs to be supervised. You're supposed to be the one to make that call, which you can't do from all the way down here, you useless ash-bitten ingrate!"

Finally, Cameron managed to reach for Mackaroy's hands, and pull them off his shirt. "Throw yourself in the Spire, Mack. The kid's fine. He and the demolitions sergeant were talking shop like a couple of mechanics with too much free time on their hands."

Cameron felt the knife under his chin before he saw it. The blade pressed against his jaw, hard enough he raised his head to try and escape it. But even as he tilted back, the knife followed, until he was trapped with his head looking up at the morning light. He wondered, suddenly afraid, if this would be the last one he saw.

"That wasn't your call," Mackaroy growled, his face contorting in rage, an odd counterpoint to the deft control the older shadow had on his knife. "You needed to see him work. You needed to feel more than your petulant contempt for him, to know when you had to do your job."

The knife disappeared, and Mackaroy's coat fluttered in the still air. "Let's see if you can manage this one. Stay away from him, from here on out. I can't trust you to do more than hate him, and so I can't trust you to know when he needs to die."

"Fine," Cameron said, rubbing his chin with one hand, while the other twitched at his side, his fingers longing for the handle of his knife. "Kid's your problem. Don't think I won't write this up."

Mackaroy's gaze settled on that distant pain he always stared at, though he scowled at Cameron's response. But whatever he said next was interrupted, as someone stepped almost directly between them.

Sand-coloured hair over well-browned skin, white scarf, and brand-new master sergeant pips on his shoulder. Their young sergeant, Valen Redgrave. Still too young, and too awed by the white scarf around his neck to stand up for himself properly. And yet, Mackaroy not only treated him warily, but followed his orders.

Valen was, Cameron was willing to admit, a superb swordsman. And that gave his posture and mannerisms a sort of unspoken air of menace, even if he spoke and behaved like the gentlest person Cameron had ever met. And there was a certain strange sort of contempt in his eyes, about a second after Valen would look at him. Like the sergeant had judged him, and found him wanting.

"Everything all right, Mack?" Valen asked.

"Shadow thing," Mackaroy replied blandly. "It's sorted out."

"Good. We're mustering at the north end of town. There's smoke coming from the fields. Go make sure your group's ready to march," Valen said.

"We're going into the Gloam?" Mackaroy asked.

"Smoke means fire, and fire doesn't light itself."

Mack considered those words for a moment, and an odd smile broke his glowering gloom for the first time Cameron had known the man. "I'd hate to be out there alone."

"As would I." Valen stared off to the north as he spoke, and his hand moved over to his sword on its own accord. "Since we'll be missing Mister Hearthsward, your group will be attached to me. Our muster point is the eight-storey granite building at the northernmost point of the town. Gather them up, meet them there."

"Aye, sir," Mackaroy said, and left without a backwards glance.

Vincent turned around to face him then, with a frown that was halfway between curious and sympathetic. "Was that actually a shadow thing?"

Only then, did Cameron realize Valen had seen their altercation. Seen, and had stepped in. The kindness felt like a slap in the face. "It's a shadow thing," Cameron confirmed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "He seems to think there's a difference between a Crafter and a reject. There isn't. They lose themselves, they die."

"This concerns Vincent?" Valen asked. "Has he been showing signs of losing himself, like Crafter Saval did on the wall?"

"No. Or I'd still be with him," Cameron said curtly. He decided to end the conversation, and asked, "Where is my battle group leader, Aranhall?"

"Already at the muster point. Unless you have something pressing to do, go join them. Make sure you have food and water for a few hours," Valen said, the kindness disappearing.

Cameron turned to leave, and managed three steps before Valen stopped him with a question. "Is there anything I should know, about why you aren't with Vincent?"

"It's shadow business," Cameron said, without turning back. "Let's leave it at that."

The walk to the muster point took him a couple of minutes even without a detour, which left Cameron entirely too much time to think. And right now, all of this thoughts were dark. Thoughts of Vincent, on the wall, so glib and jovial as he held a ball of molten stone in his hand as if it were an over-ripe fruit. Or casually discussing feats of the Craft as if levelling a wall were just an over-exuberant accident.

Cameron hadn't appreciated it before now, but Vincent really was powerful. As much as the Crafters called the wall. As much as Saval.

And Mackaroy was comfortable letting an apprentice with that kind of power work without an evaluator. More to the point, the old shadow hadn't sent him to watch Vincent for the apprentice's sake, but for Cameron's.

With his attention lost in the gloam of his thoughts, Cameron was only half-aware he had found the rest of his battle group. Fauth was looking at a spring as large as his thumb, with a wire brush in his other hand. Hendricks was counting the Salamander shots in his pouch. And their Corporal, Gwendolyn Aranhall, was sitting on a supply crate with her hat tilted so far down it covered half of her face.

"How many shots do you have?" Gwendolyn asked. Cameron blinked, surprised not only by the question, but that the woman had noticed him with her hat covering both her eyes and nose.

Cameron reached into the pouch on the left side of his unfamiliar belt. "Uh, lots."

"Count them. If you don't have at least fifty, grab more from the ammo crate near Fauth," Gwnedolyn said. "And if you have an extra canteen or two, bring it. I might need it for irritating wounds."

"Can we spare all this effort, just for some poor bastards lost in the Gloam?" Cameron asked. To his surprise, that comment got a startling reaction from all three of them. Fauth looked like he'd been slapped, Hendricks frowned as if he had been insulted, and Gwendolyn tipped her hat up until he could cleanly see the rage on her face.

Cameron held up a hand, placatingly. "I'd hate to lose Barelybarrel because we were stretched too thin."

"Not up to any of us," Hendricks said, as he clipped his ammo pouch shut. "But the best burning soldier in the City seems to think we can do it."

"Thought shadows usually came with more of a spine," Gwendolyn said, stating at him with enough rage to remind Cameron of Mack. "Leave the scarf here and hide with the locals, if fighting for your home is too hard."

Cameron met her gaze, and refused to turn away. "Believe it or not, I'm looking forward to this. Actually knowing that whatever's on the edge of your blade deserves it, that's a luxury I haven't always had."

A hard moment passed between them. Gwendolyn didn't look away, didn't flinch, but eventually pointed to the ammo crate. "Check your supplies," she said, without quite the same rage as earlier.

Cameron grinned as he broke away, relieved to see his Corporal was willing to fight.

He managed to check over most of his equipment in silence, and was mostly ready when Mackaroy and his battle group joined them. They were followed by Redgrave, speaking with a small group of people that included two other sergeants, Lieutenant Volenski, and Captain Dremora. Behind them, walking in two long lines, two-dozen rangers.

"Third squad," Lieutenant Volenski called out. "Up front."

Gwendolyn tapped him on the shoulder, and Cameron followed her to line up in front of the approaching soldiers. He stopped, close to Hendricks and Fauth, with Mackaroy's group nearby.

"Third squad, my newest Rangers," Captain Dremora said, as Valen stepped between his squads and turned to face the captain. "We've spotted smoke in the distance, towards the next wall. It's fairly deep behind the Gloam, but as Sergeant Redgrave was quick to point out, the Gloam doesn't light fires. Which means, right now, there are people out there trying to stay alive. We are heading out there to help them."

"Third squad is ready, sir," Valen said.

Eager, if Cameron were asked. He could feel pulse, the rush of warmth to his arms and legs, the giddy lightheartedness that he hadn't felt in so long it felt like a stranger.

"You look appropriately kitted, that's good. And some of you have experience shepherding lost souls through the Gloam," Captain Dremora smiled as he looked from one face to another. "First platoon will be taking this mission. Lieutenant Volenski will be commanding first and second squads, as per usual. And while I will take overall command of this operation, I will be with third squad."

"Our order of battle is fairly straightforward. We move as a single unit. Valen has advised a tight group, surrounded by sparsely posted torchbearers. Once we encounter Gloamtaken, the closest torchbearers withdraw while the rest of us engage. Losing a torch could get us all killed, so even if it's just a single straggler, leave it for people who aren't carrying the only thing keeping the Gloam from strangling us."

"Now, once we find the people out there, our objective is twofold. Get them back here as quickly as possible, and get ourselves between them and the far wall," Captain Dremora continued. "Once we know we have everyone, we run around the fields like we're being offered lottery tokens to burn the place to the ground."

That order got an appreciative chuckle from most of the people around Cameron. In fact, asides from himself and Mackaroy, most of them seemed to appreciate the joke.

"First squad, you're on pyromania duty. Second squad, once we have the civilians, your job is to shuttle them back here. Third squad will assist whoever needs it most. Asides from regular kit, you are all to take four torches. Gather anything you need and get ready."

Cameron was barely able to restrain himself. His fingers twitched impatiently, and he couldn't keep from glancing over his shoulder, towards the north. Towards the Gloam.

As he glanced back one more time, he noticed Mackaroy was looking at him. He turned back to the older shadow and met his gaze. The older shadow quickly turned away, but stepped around Valen and drew close. "You afraid, kid?"

Cameron scoffed. "Furthest thing. You ever wished your job was clean and clear-cut? Where you didn't finish every day wondering if you had done the right thing?"

Macaroy turned away for a moment. When he spoke, it was so quiet Cameron could barely hear him. "No, kid. I'd never wish my job was easy."

And when Mackaroy turned back to face him, he looked like Cameron had broken what was left of his heart. "And the thing I hate most about my job, are the people who wish it was different."