Chapter 21: Sparks

  The military camp sprawled across the high ridge like a second village born of sweat and discipline. Morning mist still clung to the eaves of the low wooden barracks, their roofs dark with dew. Smoke curled from cookfires. Rough-hewn buildings—half-stable, half-armory—flanked a wide parade ground packed hard with trampled dirt and boot prints.

  Men moved in shifting knots—recruits, levees, and hardened soldiers alike—some in faded tunics, others in bits of old leather or sun-dulled chainmail. No two suits of armor matched. Buckles clattered, straps creaked, and half the men wore no helmets at all, only wool caps or makeshift wraps against the cold.

  Across the training yard, poles were driven into the ground for spear practice—some fresh and green, others splintered and scarred from days of beating. A small wooden frame bristled with straw dummies, their painted faces already worn away by strikes. Further off, a row of half-buried logs marked a throwing range where axes and weighted spears thudded into targets—or missed entirely and sailed into the mud.

  At the center of it all stood Sergeant Thom Rell.

  He didn’t shout. Not yet. He didn’t need to. The curve of his scarred jaw, the squared stance of his legs, the stillness of his eyes—those were louder than any voice. He stood like a nailed post while the camp whirled around him, one boot planted in the mud, the other resting on a supply crate as if claiming it by law.

  A horn blew once—a muddled call.

  “Form on the line!” Rell barked, finally.

  The noise cracked—murmurs hushed, boots shuffled, bodies moved. Levees from the northern valleys, young and wide-eyed, scrambled to shoulder borrowed spears. Older soldiers, those half-retired and re-drafted by coin or guilt, grunted and rolled shoulders stiff with the memory of older wars.

  “Line. Means straight!” Rell barked again. “Your grandmother's braid better than this mess!”

  He moved down the row like a man walking through crops—tugging a shoulder here, slapping a spear butt straight there, pulling one man’s elbow into proper guard.

  “You hold a weapon like that in a fight, your arm’s coming off before your courage does,” he muttered to a lanky lad. “And yours”—he pointed at another—“that’s a rake, not a pike. You came to thresh wheat or spill blood?”

  The man flushed. Rell moved on.

  “Where’s my hammer line? Throwers, to the east pitch! If you’ve got good arms or bad tempers, you’re mine for the hour.”

  Axes clanged on shields in the distance as sparring partners tested stances.

  And still, at the center of it, Sergeant Thom Rell was the axle on which the camp turned. Everything that came next—the discipline, the drills, the breaking of peasants into soldiers—would start with him.

  And it would start today.

  The rhythmic chaos was broken when the creak of distant hooves met the air. Sergeant Rell turned his head toward the lane.

  “Stand at ease,” he barked. “Eyes forward.”

  Through the main gate came riders—half a dozen armored figures, the front two unmistakable. Lord Eldric, his blue coat catching the breeze, and beside him, his eldest son Aldric. Their small honor guard followed, banners fluttering low.

  The camp stilled. Even the birds quieted.

  Sergeant Rell straightened. “Dress the line! On your feet, you dung-fed bastards. That's the Lord of the House, not your neighbor’s goat!”

  The line constricted. Spear butts thudded into the ground. Men clenched their jaws and tried to look like soldiers.

  From the line, voices buzzed.

  “What’s the Lord doing here?” one levee whispered.

  “Is it war? You think it’s war?” said another.

  “Reckon someone pissed in the river and now we’re all for it.”

  A recruit, barely old enough to shave, stared wide-eyed. “That’s him? That’s the Lord?”

  “Aye,” a grizzled veteran grunted beside him. He squinted, chewing the stem of a pipe he hadn’t lit in years. “That’s Lord Eldric. And if he’s come down from his keep, keep your yap shut. We’ll know soon enough what he wants.” He spat onto the earth and folded his arms.

  Captain Kellis emerged from the command hall, his gloved hand resting on the hilt of his saber. His eyes locked with the Lord’s. With a brisk stride, he approached and offered a formal bow.

  “Captain,” Lord Eldric said in his gravelled voice. “Assemble your men.”

  The Captain nodded and turned sharply. “Sergeant!”

  “Sir!” Rell snapped, already moving.

  “Form the company. All present. Practice yard.”

  Rell spun to the field. “All right, you layabouts! Front and center! Anyone still polishing weapons and armor in the barracks, best move before I drag you out! Lord Eldric himself summons you!”

  The men filed into a wide half-circle. Some hurried, while others moved slowly with dread. Backs straightened. Breath caught.

  Lord Eldric stepped up onto a pair of stacked crates at the edge of the field. The light caught the fine silver etching of his chestplate, the midnight blue coat sweeping back with each breeze. His hair was combed, his beard trimmed to a thin, sharp line along his jaw. His eyes, a steel gray, scanned every face before him with the same weight he gave to men on a battlefield.

  Aldric stood behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

  The Lord raised one hand for silence—not that he needed to. The air held still.

  “Men,” Lord Eldric said, voice carrying like a stone tossed in still water. “You’ve trained hard these last weeks. And it is time we spoke clearly about what comes next.

  You earned your title at the Hollow. You stood your ground and held the line when others would have broken. You did more than survive—you proved yourselves. You are soldiers now. As of today, you are an official company of the domain.

  You are my soldiers. You are now an official company of House Avalon.”

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  He paused. The men stood a little taller.

  “In honor of your valor, and of the banner you rallied behind on that ridge, I have given your company a name.”

  Aldric stepped forward and raised a fresh banner. It was white as bone, clean and bold against the morning light. The same banner that turned at the Hollow.

  “You are the White Company.”

  Cheers erupted. Spears beat against shields. Boots stamped. The sound rolled through the valley like thunder.

  When the noise died down, Eldric raised his hand again.

  “And I have more news. Good news. My son—your commander—is recovering. He is eager to rejoin you. And he will stand beside you again, in the days to come.

  Long live the White Company.”

  …

  Spes Nova (New Hope) Hamlet

  Aldric approached Spes Nova on horseback, the animal’s hooves soft against the packed earth of the winding path. The village was small—no more than twenty people, nestled between trees like a breath being held. The old abandoned ground had been transformed. What was once a camp of old huts and a barn now bore the signs of fragile permanence: clay chimneys, smoke curling thinly, rows of garden beds in careful straight lines.

  Ahead, beneath a timber-framed shed covered with patchwork canvas, a cluster of villagers stood in the slanting light. A forge glowed low in one corner, an anvil nearby. Beside it sat a table cluttered with woodworking tools—chisels, braces, a half-carved wheel, and something that looked almost like a twisted measuring tool or bent protractor.

  Voices rose, heated, clustered around a strange wooden frame held upright by ropes and wedges. It was part bench, part cart, and wholly confusing. The villagers surrounded it in tense debate.

  “It’ll break if the axle’s too skinny,” Rowen warned, drumming the frame’s edge with the flat of his chisel.

  “But if it’s to dam thick, it won’t turn,” Petyr shot back, his small, calloused hands cutting the air. “It needs torque. The whole point is for it to move.”

  Bran crossed his arms with a grunt. “That is why I say, why bother with wood at all? Forge a frame of iron. Metal’s sturdy, lasting.”

  “And it will be twice as heavy,” snapped Mirelle. “Do you want it to sink the first time it hits soft ground?”

  “Or snap in two when it crests a hill,” muttered Delia, eyes scanning the slope of the seat.

  “None of us knows the terrain it’s meant for,” Tamsen interjected, fingers stained with dye and glue. “Nor the weight it’s meant to bear. And what if it has to move on its own? Push itself?”

  Aldric dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. They didn’t notice him at first, lost in their argument. But he watched—working, debating, imagining. It wasn’t just carpentry or smithing. It was hope, shaped and tested with every stroke.

  When they finally noticed him, he raised a hand and said, “Oh. This is more… You’re further along than I expected.”

  The group turned in unison. Mirelle narrowed her eyes, not offering even the courtesy of a nod.

  “Oh,” she said coldly. “I didn’t hear you. Where’s your guard? Where’s your banner?”

  Aldric gave a small, tired smile. “I didn’t bring them. This… this is meant to be an in-the-shadows activity.” Once again, he thanked he stars that he brought these people here. They could be tasked without his father or steward knowing.

  Mirelle crossed her arms. “So. Is this your work?”

  “No. I just brought the slates.”

  “This is the best we can do with half-guesswork,” said Petyr. “Half from those etchings, and half from whatever dreams we’ve got left.”

  “They show the shape,” Mirelle said, stepping closer to the frame. “But not the weight. Not the strain it should endure. We don’t know if it’s meant to carry a child, a man, or someone broken at the spine.”

  “And the measurements are off,” Rowen added. “Some lines don’t match the angles. Is the seat fixed—or floating? Are the wheels meant to pivot? And why in the world is there rope where iron belongs?”

  Delia quietly said, “And if it’s meant to go far, how do we stop it?”

  Petyr gave a small laugh. “Maybe we don’t. Maybe it’s meant to be unstoppable.”

  Aldric stepped closer. “You’re right. The designs are incomplete. They were drawn… intuitively. The one who made them could have been guessing too.” Aldric was still wondering where his brother got this idea.

  Mirelle tilted her head. “Then we need to speak to them. We’ve taken this as far as we can with secondhand scratches.”

  A pause.

  “The one who drew them,” Aldric said slowly, “is in the manor.”

  That set them off. “Who?” Tamsen asked.

  “Your father?” Bran said.

  “Your mother?” Kael growled.

  “The steward? A servant?

  “None of that matters,” said Mirelle sharply. “Let us meet them.”

  Aldric hesitated. “That’s… not possible.”

  “Why not?” snapped Petyr.

  “Because they’re not someone I can just bring here. And I can’t bring you into the manor.”

  “If you can’t bring us through the front door,” Tamsen said calmly, “then sneak us in.”

  Aldric blinked. “You want me to sneak you into the manor? Past my mother?” “You have no clue what she’s capable of.”

  Mirelle’s voice was even. “You don’t know what we’ve survived. We can move quietly. We’ve dwelt in the background our whole lives. We’ll not speak. We’ll not noticed. But we must talk to the one who made this intriguing thing! We can’t build something that might fail the one it’s meant for.”

  Aldric looked at them—scarred hands, soot-streaked faces, eyes too tired for their age—and saw no room for refusal.

  He exhaled. “Fine.”

  He turned toward the trees, pointing to the edge of the hill. “Be near the south hedgerow at nightfall. There’s a garden path behind the smokehouse. If you don’t trip over the thyme pots—or the cat—you’ll be fine.”

  Mirelle nodded. “Then I’ll go. With Tamsen, Petyr… and Kael.”

  Kael’s eyes glittered in the fading sun.

  “I have no idea if this is going to work,” Aldric said. “So be prepared.”

  “We’re always prepared,” Mirelle replied.

  As Aldric mounted his horse again, a hush fell over Spes Nova. The forge still glowed, the strange contraption still stood incomplete, but something had been set in motion.

  Something that would not wait in the shadows much longer.

  ….

  Lisette

  Lisette sat curled in the armchair near his bed, legs tucked under her, a blanket across her lap. She watched him from over the rim of a chipped mug, steam rising faintly from the tea she’d forgotten to drink.

  He was hunched over a slate, tongue between his teeth, drawing something complicated. Wheels again. Angles and strange, jointed limbs. A bench with ropes? She couldn’t tell anymore. The lines made sense to him, but to her, they looked like tangled possibilities.

  “You’re not stronger,” she said, not unkindly. Just… observing.

  He didn’t answer. He kept drawing. She leaned a little closer. “You do all this thinking. All this sketching. But your arms are still twigs.”

  He blinked at her, his expression looked more puzzled than offended.

  She rubbed her hands together, the warmth of the room attaching to her skin. “You know,” she murmured, “I never feel cold in here with you. Not like in the rest of the house. It’s as if you carry a small sun in your chest, even when you’re half asleep.”

  The boy smiled faintly, not looking up, and said, “Lisette, Sun.”

  Lisette leaned forward, squinting at the shapes he was drawing. Then she blinked, sat back, stared at his hands.

  No change. Still thin.

  And suddenly, it came to her.

  Her mouth opened. Her eyes widened.

  “Oh!” she gasped, slapping her palms down on the arms of the chair. “That’s it!”

  The boy looked up, startled.

  “Stay right there!” she said, already halfway to the door, socks skimming across the rug. “Don’t move an inch!”

  And then she was gone—in a flurry of curls, a fluttering blanket, and a trail of forgotten tea—out the door and down the hallway, already constructing a new training regimen in her head.

  He stared after her for a long moment… then calmly returned to his drawing.