Despite their long history as mentor and trainee, strange times had tilted the balance, elevating Sir Bradfrey to the greater of two equals. The shift lingered between them, unspoken yet undeniable, leaving Lord Hendricks unwilling—or perhaps unable—to confront it. Not even a full belly and late evening drinks by the fire could thaw the icy professionalism that now defined their bond.

  They sat in mirrored postures, two senior officers locked in hollow pleasantries, their minds waging silent battles over the parchments mapping Sir Bradfrey’s upcoming campaign.

  Chess pieces and wooden miniatures sprawled across the parchment battlefield, the product of hours of deliberation. Kings, knights, and pawns stood frozen, capturing the weight of the looming conflict, while flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows over each precarious decision.

  “Dividing an army is not without risk—dispersed strength, broken command... trust in your subordinates,” Lord Hendricks stressed, his gaze lingering pointedly on the map. He took a hasty gulp of his drink, droplets of mead spattering his sleeve. With a quick tug of his overcoat, he masked the stain, straightening as if to reassert control.

  Sir Bradfrey sat motionless, his sharp gaze locked on the maps. His brow furrowed at each vulnerability, his expression tightening, as though already outmaneuvered by an unseen opponent.

  “Numbers failed to catch Bjarke last time,” he muttered. “I’m not afraid of being outmanned. I’m afraid of being too slow. Too rigid.”

  “Then why have Amos lead the main contingent?” Hendricks asked.

  “Amos wants his crusade,” Bradfrey replied. “I want Bjarke’s warband caught at the river chokepoint while my knights round the mountain’s side to encircle Keesh before they can retreat. Winter be damned, they’ll not blame me for not trying.”

  Lord Hendricks leaned back, his gaze drifting to the black-and-white plaque mounted on the wall, where the name of Sir Bradfrey Sr. was etched alongside the crests of noble houses that had once served under him.

  “Don’t let pride lead you into an unnecessary battle,” Hendricks warned. “We are here to pacify the north and prevent future Viking raids. Keesh is the key—it controls the intersect between the Greater Northern Steppe, the eastern trade routes, and Rekinvale. Its strategic value can’t be overstated.”

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  “I know that. And so do they,” Bradfrey countered. “There’s no pacifying the north or capturing Bjarke without Keesh. The question is—can I lure them into open battle and avoid a prolonged siege?”

  Hendricks’s expression darkened as he leaned forward. “Then leave the girl here. She’ll only slow you down.”

  “Given your reception?” Sir Bradfrey said, his words edged with challenge. “Be honest. Why the hostility?”

  Lord Hendricks snickered, a flicker of guilt crossing his features. He leaned in, closing the distance between them as if about to confess a sin rather than a concern.

  “A wizard who goes by the Cross is one step from witchery and two steps past heresy to go unnoticed,” Hendricks said.

  Bradfrey’s stare didn’t waver. “Are you doubting her allegiance?”

  “No,” Hendricks replied bluntly. “I'm doubting yours.”

  Bradfrey stilled, the acrid taste of regurgitated mead rising bitterly in his throat. “My father died in the old crusades.”

  “I know. Left his little babbling smart-arse son to Castell. Who, to his credit, taught that little fusspot to say less than he thinks and do more than he says. And here you are.”

  “Then why the hostilities?”

  Hendricks took a long draught of his drink, the bitterness mirroring his distaste for what followed. “Try holding back the stench of defeat with the moral cause of the Cross against these bloody pagans and their Vikings. And then you throw a wizard into the mix.”

  “A fifth of our lands still practice pagan beliefs,” Bradfrey countered.

  “Aye,” Hendricks said, swirling the remnants of his drink. “But the wind's changing.”

  “Then it’s a question of how strong a lord’s backbone is,” Bradfrey said, his words sharper than intended. He refrained from eye contact, the weight of the insult settling between them.

  Hendricks, ever the seasoned war dog, brushed it aside with the pragmatism of a man who had survived far worse. He shifted, his tone softening—not to patronize, but to appeal to Bradfrey’s sense of duty.

  “I don’t have the luxury of picking my battles, Sir Bradfrey. But I’m still expected to win them.”

  The shift in Hendricks’s composure made Bradfrey nod, slowly. His lips tightened, his voice dimmed as the sting of his own insecurities settled in.

  “Respectfully, I can’t afford to have Anneliese under your protection.”

  “None taken,” Hendricks replied briskly, standing to signal the end of their discussion. “Trust is a two-way street. It’s time one of us clears the path forward.”

  As Hendricks reached out, his mead-stained sleeve slipped from beneath his overcoat as he rested a firm hand on Bradfrey’s tightly wound shoulder.

  “Bear a thought for the steppe tribes if they refuse to convert,” Bradfrey said.

  “As should you,” Hendricks replied, more eager to take his leave than endure Bradfrey’s grating presence. “For if Amos reaches Keesh first—or worse, Pragian next—may the Lord forgive you. May the Lord forgive all of us.”

  A silence settled between them, thick with the unsaid and unresolved. Two men, bound by duty yet divided by the path ahead, navigating a world where ideology and pragmatism warred beneath every decision.

  They were one and the same—yet different in ways neither could fully reconcile.