Quill sat frozen on his knees. The world moved slowly around him, stretching the moment until it felt like hours. Deckard knelt nearby, tense with focus, pressing a blood-soaked cloth to the wound. But it was too late. Quill looked down at his own hands, still slick with blood, still shaking from the fight. Then he looked at the man who had given his life to protect him.

Stevan’s face was lifeless, twisted in pain and fear. There was a gaping hole in his chest where a bone spear had torn through. A final Needlemaw had leapt from the shadows and claimed squad S-22’s first victim in this Crusade. The spearman was dead. And Quill wasn’t.
Deckard was breathing heavy, pressing hard in his futile attempt to save a dead man. Wil laid a hand on the priest’s shoulder.
“He’s gone, Deckard.”
Deckard stopped his hands and rose slowly to his feet. His jaw clenched in frustration. He glanced at Quill who felt the knot in his stomach tighten. The rest of the squad either stared at Stevan or kept watching the trees for signs of more Hallowbound.
But they all stole glances at Quill.
It was my fault.

Quill opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

Cross looked at the dead man, no a hint of shock or sorrow in his eyes.

"We need to keep moving." He waved a hand at Deckard. "Yellow."

Yellow smoke meant the threat had passed.

Deckard didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on Stevan before he finally reached into his pack and produced the signal tube.

"What about his body?" Wil asked quietly.

Cross turned and started walking, not bothering to look back. “Leave it.”

Vardok shook his head and grunted a curse before following the sergeant.

The rest of the squad followed, leaving Quill and Deckard alone beside Stevan’s body.

"I..." The word caught in Quill's throat.

Deckard stepped beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“He made his choice, Quill. Learn from it. Fight in his stead… it’s all we can do now.”

Quill took one last look at Stevan. The man hadn't gotten to say any last words. No heroic send off like in the stories he'd read. In a few minutes time the friendliest man in The Order had saved Quill's life twice over and now lay dead. Just gone. And the march continued leaving him to rot in a frozen forest far from home.

The squad moved in somber silence for the next hour. They had yet to see more Hallowbound, but green and yellow smoke signals still filled the sky every so often. 

Slim drifted closer to Quill during the march.

"Pack of Needlemaws was my first encounter too." He ran his finger along the scar on his face. "Got me good, just like you. Quick fuckers, aren't they?"

Quill put a hand to his ear. Deckard had bandaged it, but the dressing was already soaked through with blood. It hurt like hell, but still felt like a better fate than what the Weaver had given Stevan.

"I had held out some hope that this was all a ruse. Or some kind of group-wide delusion. That these monsters didn't exist... that they weren't so terrible." Quill shook his head. "How many of us will die do you think?"

Slim frowned, thinking hard for a moment. "Who knows? All that matters is we ain't dead yet. And we fight like hell to keep it that way."

Slim gave him a playful elbow. “How’s the ear? Not bad for a first battle scar.”

"Hurts."

"Still hear out of it?"

“Muffled and ringing, but I think it’s intact.”

"Good. We need every ear, eye, and nose we can get out here."

Slim clapped him gently on the back and dropped back in formation.

Quill noticed Deckard had removed the Codex from his bag and was carefully writing in it. 

"Unusual to see so many," the priest muttered. "One additional squad member shouldn't draw that many more..."

Deckard trailed off and continued to scribble in the Codex. But Quill couldn't help but feel even more guilt about Stevan.
Squads were usually limited to eight to avoid attracting too many Hallowbound at once.
Was his presence the reason they’d been attacked?
Had Stevan died saving the very thing that put them all in danger?

Night had begun to fall and without his Kindleroot, Quill was certain he'd have lost feeling in his extremities. The deepening darkness of the evening gave the forest an even more formidable appearance. Soon, the only light they'd have would be the dim glowing embers of their Kindleroot pipes. 

"We stop here," Cross said, eyeing a smoke signal rising from the center of the formation.

Vardok dropped his pack and rubbed his neck. "Odds or evens tonight, Sarge?" 

"Odds tonight. We go in tomorrow."

Quill looked to Wil, confused.

“Every other night, odd or even-numbered squads rotate into the center to rest and replenish supplies. The rest… stand watch out here.”

"No fires, attracts Hallowbound," Cross barked. "We take watch in turns—two men at a time. No one sleeps longer than two hours without Kindleroot. I don't need anyone freezing to death."

The men all laid out bedrolls and blankets, trying to find any amount of comfort on the frozen ground. Quill pulled out his manuscript, jotting down as much as he could about the day’s events before the last of the light vanished.

"Would it be alright if I took first watch, Sergeant?" he said.

Cross set his pack on the ground and took a seat in the snow. "You and me then, scribbler. Everyone else, rest while you can."

Soon, it was too dark to write, and Quill carefully tucked the manuscript back into his pack. He lit his pipe and looked across their small encampment at Sergeant Cross. He could barely make out the man’s face in the dark, only the occasional glow of embers lit his features as he took a drag from his pipe. As he had often found throughout his life, the silence weighed heavy on Quill and he felt the familiar urge to break it.

"Is it common for Hallowbound to attack at night?"

Cross shifted slightly in his seat, angling toward Quill. "Same as any other time. Always be ready. Never be surprised."

"Deckard said that it was unusual to see so many Needlemaws at once. Do you think it's because we had nine members in the squad instead of eight?"

"Maybe... maybe not. Reason doesn't matter. It happened. We dealt with them. We move on."

Silence again. The faces and screeches of the Needlemaws filled Quill’s mind. He couldn’t shake the image of Stevan’s lifeless face. Panic crept in. Would he survive another fight? Would they even hear the Hallowbound approaching in the dark? What if the other squads were already dead? What if the Crusade had already failed? He took a deep breath, attempting to steady his nerves.

"Sergeant... I don't think I should be here."

Cross replied by taking another drag on his pipe.

“I never should have come. I’m just a normal man. Not a soldier, not a knight. I’m no trained killer…”

Just a murderer.

"I want to leave. I think it'd be best for everyone. All I've done is get a man killed and nearly die myself. You're all stronger than I. You're all... special. And I'm not. Call me a coward if you must, but I can't stay."

Quill couldn't gauge Cross's reaction, his face shrouded in darkness. He braced for a tirade. Or for the Sergeant to draw steel and cut him down for desertion. But Cross only sat in the silent dark of the Frostwood.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't filled with anger or judgment. It sounded as it always did, cold and calm.

"You know Ser Braum of the Sutherlands?"

Ser Braum was perhaps the most legendary figure in history, a knight who became king through grit and steel, conquering most of the known world. There were more stories about him than even the Royal Library could hold.

"Of course I do. But what does that have to do with me?"

"The Order remembers Ser Braum not as a conqueror of men, but as the first to fight the Hallowbound."

The embers of Cross’s pipe lit his face just long enough for Quill to see his eyes fixed on him, deadly serious.

"It’s said he’s the only man to ever kill a Black Knight, the very monster waiting for us at the end of this Crusade. But his life? That doesn’t matter. He was a ‘special’ man, as you say. Of course he did great things. Slayed horrors. Saved the world."

Quill furrowed his brow. He still didn’t understand what any of this had to do with him.

"It’s his death that matters. They say he lived to one-forty, still fighting into his final years. On his deathbed, hundreds came to see him. There were wives, children, allies, even enemies, all wanting a final word from the man who had become larger than life.
He saw none of them."

"Why not? Surely every man wishes to see their loved ones at the end."

"Maybe he did wish to see them. But he chose instead to call for a young man off the streets. A beggar. A man who had nothing, not even a name. He was picked at random. No reason. Nothing special about him. But he was the only one to enter Ser Braum's chambers that day. No one knows what they discussed. The mightiest man in history left no final words behind for the world."

Cross paused to take another deep breath of Kindleroot smoke.

"When the boy exited Ser Braum's chambers, hundreds stood waiting for news. The boy spoke three simple words: 'He is dead.'  And in the days that followed, thousands mourned and celebrated alike. But not the boy. He had set to work. Ser Braum had given him coin, and more importantly, a purpose. That 'normal' man went on to become the Nameless Commander. Founder of The Order. He fought for many years. Led Crusades. Destroyed hundreds of Totems and Hallowbound."

Quill rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I... don't understand."

"Ser Braum knew that there would never be enough 'special' men to fight back against the evil of Hallowbound. But there'd be millions like that beggar. If a beggar with nothing—not even a name—could make the choice to fight the Hallowbound, then there was hope for humanity yet."

Cross let the silence linger.

"So go, if you must. No one will stop you. Only those who choose to stay can survive this world."

Quill spent the next hour of his watch quiet. Listening for threats and contemplating the story. The Order had let him join simply because he chose to be there. He'd made the choice, he shouldn't change his mind now. The Needlemaws were the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. No battle or siege could compare to the unnatural horrors The Order faced. This was bigger than him—bigger than any of them. If he stayed, he would surely die. He could leave and The Order would function the same without him. But what if every other man thought the same? What if every man ran from this threat? It wasn’t just that he was choosing to stay, it was that every man in The Order had made that same choice.

Cross stood and tapped out his pipe into the snow. "Let's change watch."

"I'm going to stay."

Cross didn't reply.

Wil and Trevin stepped up to take the next watch while Quill laid down, trying to rest.
But sleep did not come easy. How could any man rest in a place like this?
He drifted off a few times, but when it came time to rise for his next watch, he felt no better. If anything, worse.