Samaryn Ascension — Prelude III

The Edge of Reedglass

The ridge above Reedglass was never silent.

Even in winter it spoke—through the brittle hiss of wind moving across dry grass, through the distant groan of river ice shifting against stone, through the low murmur of soldiers who had learned to keep their fear disguised as humor.

Commander Aren Vale stood with one boot on a flat rock that overlooked the northern approach. His cloak was drawn close at the throat, though the sun had risen bright and clean. From here, the land opened like a map unrolled beneath his feet: the river cutting silver through frost, the trade road threading its patient line south toward Valen Cor, and beyond that, the broken shoulders of highland ridges—gray and stubborn and watchful.

Behind him, a small detachment of imperial soldiers tended a low fire, careful to keep smoke thin. They had been on this ridge for four days, rotating watches in pairs, eating cold rations more often than warm, and marking every distant flicker of movement as if it were scripture.

Aren lowered the spyglass from his eye and exhaled slowly.

“Anything?” asked a voice behind him.

Arth Vale approached without ceremony, as fathers do when they have never learned to see their sons as distant. He moved with the deliberate steadiness of a seasoned officer who had long ago stopped wasting motion. The lines on his face were deep but not severe. They were the lines of a man who had squinted into sun and smoke and decided both were tolerable.