By the end of the first full day, the tent had shrunk. It was the same canvas, the same stakes, the same ropes. But with four men, four bedrolls, four sets of damp gear and the storm chewing at the world outside, it felt as if the walls had decided to lean in and listen.

  The rain never stopped. It only changed its mind about how to fall. Sometimes it hammered straight down, hard enough that the poles gave the faintest protesting creak. Sometimes it slashed sideways, rattling one wall and then the other as the wind hunted angles. Once, in the middle of what Toby thought might be afternoon, it went fine and mist-like, a whisper against the canvas that made him hope for a break—only for the next wave to come in twice as heavy.

  They went outside only when they had to. To check the horses. To piss. To make sure the tent lines hadn’t loosened enough to send them all sliding downhill in their sleep. Each time, the world met them with cold sheets of water and mud that sucked at boots and tried to claim them. Skin never quite dried. Clothes steamed against bodies and went clammy again in the same breath. They dealt with it. There wasn’t another option.

  They ate smoked meat and oat mash that was more cold paste than porridge, made with water that Toby scooped from the shallow basin the rain had carved at the base of the fang. They checked their gear twice a day, laying out what little they could under the faint draft near the tent peak. They took watches in shorter turns so no one went too long without stretching.

  And when there was nothing left to check and no one left to kick awake, they played. The dice came out whenever Zak’s hands weren’t busy. Twins. Fast Five. Little games with names Toby hadn’t heard before—Soldier’s Mercy, Tower Tumble, Gray Lady—all riffs on the same simple truths: chance, patience, and the way Zak could turn numbers into excuses to talk.

  Maxwell kept winning. Not every game, but enough that patterns started to feel personal. He had a knack for timing—coming from behind in the last few throws, pulling the right doubles after a run of nothing, avoiding the kind of backwards slips that seemed to stalk Zak like a curse. The old knight never crowed, never needled them, just accepted each win with the same mild nod. Toby kept an ear out for the Art and found nothing but breath and bone-tired nerves.

  On the second night of being shut in, the tent smelled of wet wool, old smoke, damp leather, and men who hadn’t had more than a splash-wash in too long. The floor was a patchwork of footprints that had never quite dried. The storm outside had settled into a steady, muscular roar that made Toby’s thoughts feel frayed at the edges.

  Zak shook the dice for what felt like the hundredth time, squinting at them as if suspicion alone might change their fall. They hit the canvas between them with a soft clatter. Two, three, six. Zak groaned and let himself flop backward, shoulders thumping against his rolled blanket.

  “I’m glad we’re not playing for coin,” he said. “At this rate, Maxwell would own everything I have. Boots. Socks. Probably even my chores.”

  Reece snorted, pulling his own blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You don’t have enough coin to make it worth his while. He’d take your dignity instead.”

  “Joke’s on you,” Zak said, without opening his eyes. “I lost that in Braith’s classroom years ago.”

  Maxwell sat with his back to one of the poles, cloak draped around him, one knee up so he could rest his forearm on it. He eyed Zak’s bare feet sticking out from the bedroll.

  “Even without boots,” Maxwell said, “I’d still make you complete your chores.”

  Zak cracked an eye open. “That’s not reassuring, Ser.”

  “It isn’t meant to be,” Maxwell said.

  Toby huffed a laugh. The sound came out thinner than he liked; boredom had its own kind of weight. He rolled his shoulders, feeling every hour of stillness in them. His body was used to work—fields, training yards, long days in the saddle. Being penned in made his muscles twitch hungrily.

  “Here,” Reece said, picking up the dice and rolling them between his fingers. “We could always have Maxwell roll for all of us. Save time. Let him win in one go.”

  “Blasphemy,” Zak said, sitting up again. “Half the fun is watching you suffer on the way down.”

  “You’re the one falling,” Reece pointed out.

  Zak pointed at the roof, where a new burst of rain rattled down. “I’m not the only one. Listen to that.”

  The canvas thrummed under the fresh assault, the poles shivering with it. For a moment, the noise swallowed their small circle entirely, turning their words into the barest shapes. Toby glanced at the packs near the entrance, mentally counting what remained. Oats: enough for a handful more meals if they stretched them thin. Smoked meat: dwindling to strips and scraps. The bison had given them more than any beast he’d ever seen; between hornets, weather, and time, it would still vanish faster than felt right.

  “Food will hold,” Maxwell said, as if he’d heard the count running in Toby’s head. “If the rain breaks tomorrow, we’ll go for another hunt. If it doesn’t—”

  “We eat slower,” Reece finished. “And argue less so we don’t burn through it with talking.”

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  Zak made an offended noise. “If we argue less, I’ll die of boredom before hunger.”

  “You won’t,” Maxwell said. “You’ll complain about both until the sun comes out.”

  He said it without edge, just a blunt certainty that made Toby’s mouth twitch. Zak, to his credit, took it as intended.

  “Then I’d better not disappoint you,” Zak said. He scooped up the dice again. “All right. One more game. If I win, you admit your luck is unfairly blessed. If I lose, I admit the saints prefer old men.”

  “The saints don’t prefer anyone,” Maxwell said. “They just watch to see who keeps standing.”

  “Then they’re in for a dull show,” Zak said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  He tossed the dice. Unimpressed with the result, he glanced up at the low, canvas roof with a long-suffering sigh. “You know what would make all this losing easier to bear?” he asked. “A bigger tent. We’re knights now. Surely that earns us enough canvas to sit up without head-butting the saints.”

  Reece shifted his elbow off Toby’s ribs. “I’d settle for enough room not to share your toes.”

  “My toes are a blessing,” Zak said. “But that’s not the point. Look at us. Four knights, crammed in like spare boots. We should have a pavilion tent. Painted blue and white, with a giant falcon—oh, and chairs.”

  “And packhorses,” Toby said. “And pages to curse while they carried it all.”

  Zak brightened. “Exactly. See? Toby understands.”

  Maxwell didn’t look up from the strap he was checking, but his mouth twitched. “Sure. If we were on errantry,” he said, “you might have your painted canvas and boys to haul it. We’re not. We’re scouting.”

  Zak made a face. “Scouting could still have chairs.”

  “Scouting,” Maxwell went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, “means moving light, quiet, and fast. A bigger tent needs more horses. More horses need more feed. More feed means slower days. And pages?” He shook his head once. “Pages dream big and panic first when things go wrong. I’m not dragging unblooded boys into uncharted country where we don’t know what listens.”

  Reece nodded, expression sobering. “He’s right. You’d only try to trade your chores to them anyway.”

  “I would succeed,” Zak said. “Eventually.”

  “Not while I’m alive,” Maxwell said. “You want more space, earn it by getting us home. Then you can sleep under all the painted cloth you like.”

  Zak sighed dramatically as he passed the dice to Toby. “Fine. Cramped and damp it is. When I’m an old knight, I’m retelling this story with a much bigger tent.”

  “Old knights,” Reece said, “don’t complain about canvas. They complain about their knees.”

  Zak perked up. “Good. I’m ahead on something, then. Throw, Toby. If I win, we at least talk about a bigger tent.”

  Maxwell gave him a flat look, then picked up the dice from Toby’s unfortunate attempt and gave them a toss. Outside, the rain kept pounding, the storm still king over the plains. Inside the tent, four men hunched over a patch of canvas and three little blocks of carved wood, holding their ground against the waiting.

  Zak’s hand thumped Toby’s shoulder. “Up,” he muttered. “Your turn to be miserable.”

  Toby surfaced from sleep slowly, the way a man dragged through mud might surface from a ditch. For a moment he couldn’t place where he was. Canvas above. The faint sour of wet wool. Someone’s boot pressed against his shin. The air warm and close, thick with moisture. And silence.

  No—not silence. His ears still rang with it, that memory-roar the storm had carved into him. But when he strained past it, there was no fresh hammering. No endless slap of water on cloth and stone. The rain had stopped. He blinked and pushed himself up on one elbow. Zak, already half in his own bedroll, jerked his chin toward the flap.

  “Go stretch your legs,” Zak said. “While the sky’s feeling kind.”

  Toby crawled toward the entrance, careful not to step on Reece’s feet, and lifted the flap. Cool air breathed in, touched his face like a hand. The world outside had been scrubbed. Water still dripped from every edge—from the fang, from the twisted grass and reeds, from the raw bones of the bison. Little rivulets ran in new paths downslope, glittering where they caught the moonlight. But overhead, the sky had opened.

  Stars burned in their thousands, sharp as fresh-cut glass. A white river of them spilled from horizon to horizon, the star-bridge he’d stared at more nights than he could count. Near its heart, the full moon hung fat and bright, turning the fang of stone into a pale spear driven up through the dark. Toby ducked out fully and stood, legs unsteady from too long cramped in one spot. He rolled his shoulders, feeling every complaint pop and creak, then stretched his arms until the tendons in his chest pulled.

  Mud sucked at his boots, wetter near the tent, tacky and half-set further up the slope. The air smelled of wet earth and fresh stone, with a faint iron tang from what remained of the bison. Behind him, the canvas rustled. Toby reached for his belt—the hair on his back went up when he realized his sword was inside the tent. Zak stuck his head out just far enough to squint up at the sky.

  “Good and dry, aye?” he asked.

  Toby blew out air, looked around at everything still dripping wet, and nodded. “For now.”

  Zak nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then you can enjoy it for me.” He yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, then tossed Falreth to him. “Wake us if the moon comes down to eat you.”

  Toby caught the sword by the scabbard and hooked it into the loop on his belt, settling its weight at his hip. His hand rested on the pommel, but before he could answer, Zak had already retreated back inside. The tent flap fell shut. Toby stayed where he was, alone with the dripping and the stars.

  The fang gleamed under the moon, its side slick and silvered. In the aftermath of the storm it looked less like a wall and more like a blade—something sharpened by weather and time, waiting for hands that knew how to wield it. He flexed his sore fingers and watched it, letting the cool air soak into skin that had been wrinkled and damp for far too long. Somewhere beyond that bright curve, the plains ran on into dark and distance.

  He kept his watch. The creeks whispered lower now, still swollen but no longer raging. He wondered when they’d find the elves. The night that sounded like nights used to, before fire and red eyes and fog. By the time gray smudged the horizon and the stars began to thin, his muscles ached with a different kind of tired. But his chest felt clearer than it had in days.

  The storm was done—for now.