The training yard had shrunk since autumn.
Snow piled high along the fences, and the southern post was missing two planks. The target dummies leaned to one side, half-frozen, their straw guts spilling from long-healed blade wounds. Still, drills continued — not for discipline, but for distraction.
Ten guards showed. It should have been twenty-five.
Most were too young, too old, or too green to matter in a real fight.
Maverick stood off to the side, watching as two of them sparred with dull spears and wooden shields. One slipped in the slush and fell flat. The other tripped over his own boots trying to help him up.
"Impressive," muttered Erwin beside him, leaning on his halberd.
"They're trying," Maverick said.
"They're going to die trying if that's all they've got."
Alric barked from across the yard. "Enough fooling. Voss—your turn."
Maverick didn't argue. He stepped into the circle, rolling his shoulders once. The cold had already stiffened his fingers.
His first opponent was Berem, a thick-shouldered, overconfident guardsman who smiled like he'd already won. He carried a shield and spear like someone taught by repetition, not instinct.
Maverick didn't meet his eyes. He just took position, spear low.
"Begin," Alric called.
Berem charged immediately.
Wide arc. Spear raised high.
Maverick angled left, letting the blow pass with an inch to spare. His spear came up at the same time — not to strike, but to catch. With a twist, he hooked behind Berem's leading elbow, then stepped in.
He stomped once behind Berem's knee.
The man collapsed.
Before he hit the ground, the tip of Maverick's spear was still and silent at his throat.
The whole thing took less than five seconds.
No words. Just breathing.
Maverick stepped back, extended a hand. Berem took it, red-faced and muttering.
The next bout was faster. A leaner recruit — clever footwork, poor control.
He moved in a circle, trying to find an angle. Maverick let him. Let him build rhythm.
Then cut it in half.
The recruit thrust low. Maverick knocked it aside, closing the gap with a short lunge. The shaft met the recruit's shoulder with a muted thump, and before he could react, the blade end was pressed lightly to his gut.
"Better balance," Maverick said.
The recruit just nodded.
Alric called for two.
The crowd shifted.
Maverick didn't.
They came at once — one from the side, one head-on. No plan. No coordination.
Maverick moved like water.
He parried the side attack with the shaft, twisted, and ducked beneath the second strike, sliding behind the second man's exposed back.
With a controlled sweep, he brought the shaft low and behind the knees — dropping one.
The other froze.
Maverick raised his spear and held it there.
"You done?"
The recruit backed away, lowering his weapon.
Alric rose from the bench, folding his arms.
"You ever consider teaching?"
Maverick shook his head. "Not my place."
"It will be soon."
After the drills, they walked together back toward the inner yard. The others lingered behind, still processing what they'd seen.
Alric handed him a half-creased parchment. The wax seal was broken.
"A letter from the outer capital. Arrived last night."
Maverick scanned it quickly.
"Effective immediately, all Eldenhold supply routes are to be suspended, pending review. Investigations into loyalty claims are ongoing."
"Suspended?" Maverick said. "They think we've turned?"
"No," Alric said. "They've stopped thinking about us at all."
Back at the barracks, Maverick sat on a low bench, running a whetstone along the spearhead out of habit more than need.
Outside, the others talked in hushed tones.
About missing wagons.
About desertion.
About patrols that didn't come back.
Two more names were crossed off the wall list. One was just gone — no note, no gear, no sign.
The other left behind a folded cloak and a bottle of thawed cider with the note:
"If this winter is watching, let it watch me go."
That night, Maverick sat by the fire. The twins played with wooden spoons, swordfighting over imaginary dragons.
"You should've flipped him," Rune said.
"Who?" Maverick asked.
"The first one. In training."
"I didn't need to."
"Yeah, but it would've looked cool," Ren added.
Torren muttered from the forge, "Cool gets you dead. Clean gets you home."
Maverick said nothing, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.