The God of Patience was not on his side.

He bounced his foot off the rock that marked the end of the tour he had to patrol, then paced back along the mountainside, momentarily distracted by a murmuring sob coming from one of the ironbound cells. His breath echoed through his full body armour as he yelled, "Be quiet! If you think crying will help, think differently."

The woman, pale and thin, and bound by no less than five chains, retreated deeper into the cave. Her whimpering softened but didn't disappear. 

He quickly walked away from the magician. It wasn't her fault he had wasted two sunsets and as many sunrises since Adam had offered to help him in his mission to free George. Other than the occasional whisper that he had convinced another man, they had made little progress.

Yesterday he had planned for the group to gather, but that had been without Lieutenant Raymond following him wherever he went; the man had popped up behind the stable, inside the barrack that looked like it was about to collapse. Even the midnight meeting outside the base had been disturbed by half a dozen officers blocking their path to beat up a prisoner.

Today the cell was empty.

Sebastian made two more rounds, deep in thought, pondering over his options. If only he knew how many men he had and what they were worth, he could take actions. He could place the men in strategic positions. Distract the officers with an emergency, then use the chaos to put George on a horse and gallop down the hill.

Save George the way he hadn't been able to save Abby.

He stood still, his muscles tense as he gazed at the barrack where they kept George hostage. Gods, if he wasn't already too late. If only he could peek through George's window, to check on him, to assure him help was coming, to not give up yet. But there were too many eyes on his back, too many trigger-happy men who wouldn't question him if the officers ordered his death.

Being Lord Sebastian had advantages that being Cadet Ian did not have. Still, he did not want to draw that card yet. A hundred leagues from Sundale, less than a mile from the border, and surrounded by magicians (albeit tied up) was not the place to test just how loyal these people were to the crown.

But what if he had no other choice?

"Hey." Metal clattered against metal as an iron hand touched his arm.

Sebastian turned towards the soldier. He hardly had to look up. "Hey?"

"You're Ian, aren't you?" said the low voice from behind the closed visor. "Adam sent me. My name is Reg."

"Did Adam say anything else?"

"He said you could change the way things are done around here, that you have the power to get me out of here. You're important."

"I'm a nobody," Sebastian snapped. He bit the insides of his cheek—Adam shouldn't have said so much. "What can you do?"

"I don't know. Adam said you would."

Sebastian breathed out through his nose, a snort of frustration but not defeat. Having Reg here was better than doing this on his own. "Fine." He waited for two guards to pass, then edged closer to Reg. "I need a horse, saddled and ready to go. Can you arrange that?"

"Well..." The man averted his gaze. His posture stooped. "I don't know."

"How do you mean—you don't know?" Sebastian's voice shifted to a squeak. He cursed inwardly, hated sounding like a Muttonhead.

"It's a big base. I can't just walk into the stable and saddle a horse without getting questions."

"Then come up with an excuse—lie if you must. There must be one of the officers who regularly goes out to ride."

"Erm... not really. I'm sorry. It was a mistake speaking to you—I don't think I can help after all."

Before Reg managed to turn, Sebastian grabbed him by the end of his gauntlet. "Please."

The man shrugged him off. "A please won't buy me my freedom. You're just a boy—what can you do? I'd rather live slaving at this base than die for an uncertain outcome."

"It's not uncertain. I can do this."

"If you can, then you don't need me. Have a good day, Ian. I'll tell Adam I'm out."

Sebastian stomped his foot on the ground. Another pointless conversation that had led to nothing but wasted time. He continued his rounds until deep in the afternoon. The same tour, the same people, those same bloody magicians who deserved a fate far better than wasting away in a dark cave. He wanted to give them that, in Ice, but for that he first needed to rescue George and overthrow this base.

A headache crept up on his neck and spread across his head like a second helmet. He was sick of the constant guard in front of George's barrack, and the unwillingness of Adam to come with a plan. Dan and Eric only briefly managed to whisper something to him; twice he received the message to lay low.

It was the God of Pride talking, but he couldn't. If he wanted to save George, he had to act now. Without Adam, without Dan, without Eric. He didn't need them. He was Crown Prince Sebastian; the future King. Despite all specialists and self-proclaimed experts, there were times when Greenlander Kings sat high and alone on the obsidian throne, needing to make difficult decisions without any assistance.

After Serjeant Hopkin had told him his patrolling shift had ended, he returned to the barrack to remove his armour. Hidden behind a shelf filled with shields, he stripped down to his naked chest, then put his chainmail on again. His uniform on top of it.

"Are you coming, Ian?" Serjeant Hopkin asked.

"Yeah," Sebastian said as he slipped a knife into his left boot. "I'll be there in a heartbeat. Don't wait up."

The Serjeant appeared around the corner, his brow twisted into a frown. "What in the Heavenly Halls are you doing?"

"Nothing." Sebastian pretended to pull up his boots.

Hopkin tilted his head. "Yeah, and now the truth."

"The magicians scare me, alright," Sebastian scoffed. His answer rehearsed. "I want to be prepared when they escape."

"When they escape." Hopkin laughed broadly. "Tough lad ain't so tough now."

"Yeah...so? Why do you care?"

"You're right—I don't. If hard chains poking your skin nurse you to sleep, then fine." He held his hands up. "Do whatever you want."

Sebastian hid a smile. That was what he had counted on.

He didn't follow his patrol to an early dinner before bed. Instead, he hung around the stable, hand feeding the feeble-looking mare dried barley. He brushed her dark manes with his fingers, then cleaned the dirt between her hooves with the knife from his boot. This hadn't been done in weeks or moons; he couldn't tell. Perhaps Nick had been the last to groom these animals. Nick who was now far into Silvermark territory, further and further away from him.

A phantom lick brushed against his cheek. Bear. He hoped his pup and Nick were faring well. That they could give each other the friendship he wasn't able to give.

Sebastian rummaged through the shelves. Stuffed behind empty baskets, he found a smelly and damp saddle blanket. As he laid it on her, the mare breathed out in a huff and stomped her foot. Whoever had been her previous rider, she hadn't liked him.

He patted her neck. "It's fine. I won't hurt you, but I might need you later."

She snorted and turned away from his touch.

"You'll be the bravest horse in all of The Greenlands," he tried.

She wouldn't listen, backed away to the corner of the stable, whinnying. The other horse, a stallion who looked even worse for wear, flinched, a stagger not far away.

"Then not," he grumbled. These horses weren't part Scorian like old Billy had been. Billy who he had...

Unable to finish that though, he stuffed the knife between his belt and chainmail, his jacket covering the weapon. Not only the Gods but also the horses had abandoned him. He was all alone. No patrol, no Nick, no Bear.

The loneley knight against the world.

Outside, the evening fog was descending from the mountain. A thin layer now, yet soon the mist would turn into a cloud that shrouded the base, then lowered to the valley. He had wasted the previous evenings trying to gather an army of his own, but now he only depended on himself. 

A third of the base was eating in the kitchen barrack, another third was either sleeping or entertaining themselves in the sleeping quarters. The rest were either on patrol or fulfilling another duty the officers had assigned them.

As the sun sunk behind Whitepeak, the one guard pacing around George's barrack was replaced by another. With his shoulders back, his chest out and chin held high, he took his chance.

"I was told to empty the prisoner's chamberpot," he said to the guard.

The man immediately pointed his lance at him. "No, you don't."

"I actually do," Sebastian said casually. "I wish I didn't, but I'm new here so I have the honour."

"The chamberpot has never been emptied."

He scrunched his nose. "Explains why this place smells so badly."

"It didn't smell until you came."

"Come on, you're not gonna make this more difficult for me than it already is. All I need to do is pop in, fetch that bucket, throw it out, and return. It'll take me a minute, tops."

The man closed an eye. "Who gave the orders?"

"One of the Lieutenants." Sebastian gesticulated. "Like I said—I'm new here. It's hard to remember all those names."

"But I do remember you. You're the lad who wanted more food and got into a fight. You're trouble."

"I was thrown to the ground for being a Muttonhead, and I deserved it. Please, I just want to do my duty." Sebastian darted a quick look over his shoulder. He hadn't expected this part to take so much time. Far easier to attack a man from behind than in face-to-face combat.

"Uneasy, are we?" The iron tip of the spear pressed against his chest.

"I just want to get this over with."

"You know what." The man pushed harder. Though he wanted to, Sebastian didn't even wince. "I don't think you're supposed to be here. I know who's dying behind this door. You think you can win your freedom by getting out of here with him? I'll give you some news, lad. Sundale doesn't give a rat's golden turd about what happens to us. We're outcasts. If we die, then we die. Then the fat Lords can keep stuffing themselves with cakes, drink wine, and dance to the fiddle's tunes."

Sebastian moved his arms behind his back. His posture straight, unyielding, even though his calm face was a facade for the war going on in his chest. "But what if you're wrong? What if Sundale does care?"

"Then why are they not here?"

"Who says they aren't."

Sebastian curled around his fingers around the knife as he kicked the lance from the guard's hand. Less than a heartbeat later, he held the sharp blade at the man's throat. A mistake to not have him armoured.

"Let me in," Sebastian said. "If not for His Majesty the King or your own General, then for your own pathetic life."

"You won't get far."

"I don't need to get far," he whispered. Power coursed through his veins. "I'm Prince Sebastian, and I'm taking over this base. You either obey or you die."

The guard froze, his eyes widened. "You're not. You cannot be. He's still so young. He's..."

"... barely eleven, I know. I'm tall for my age."

"No."

As the man ducked, the knife slipped down his neck. Drops of blood dripped to the ground as he ran. Where to, Sebastian did not know. Grabbing the lance, he couldn't spare a moment to ponder. He dashed inside, to George.

Instantly, his facade of smugness crumbled down, replaced by a clenching in his chest as the smell of corruption took away his breath. The General laid flat on his back, his eyes closed. 

He kneeled by the General's bed, his hands neither leaving neither knife nor lance.

"George?" he murmured. "Can you hear me? I'm here to take you home, so you can tell Uncle Tom he's a coward, and I'm not. Come on, George. Be alive. Do it for me."

The eerie stillness gave room to flashes of Abby's mangled corpse. The immense loneliness and desperation he had felt all those moons ago pounded down on him. The sleepless nights suddenly weighted double.

He couldn't have failed. Not again.