The sound of laughter and splashes echoed across the clearing, mingling with the gentle rush of the river as the men took their turn to bathe. Steam rose off their sun-warmed skin, and the smell of sweat, iron, and blood slowly gave way to something cleaner, earthier. The water ran dark for a while as grime and ash were scrubbed from skin and hair, but the current carried it away downstream, as if the battle itself was being washed from them.
Luke stood waist-deep in the river, rubbing at a patch of dried blood on his side that didn't even belong to him.
Around him, the knights—dozens of them—moved with quiet camaraderie. Though some bore wounds hastily stitched or bandaged, their bodies still spoke of their profession: hardened arms, broad chests, scars like badges earned through survival. Every man here was a veteran of something—whether of this battle or the dozen that came before it.
It was hard not to feel a little small among them.
