Dust rose in low, constant clouds beneath hundreds of boots, coating cloaks, armor, and the inside of Marcus’ mouth. It wasn’t something he had thought about, back when he…or, rather, she had been leading companies in circles in the Reach. If he ever was in command again, he’d remember what it was like to be in the back of the formation on these long treks. Maybe rotate the companies so the same people weren’t at the back all the time.

 

Ahead, banners snapped in the wind: blue and white; bear and axe. Stormcloak colors, bright and proud against the dull rocky hills. Marcus stared at them without feeling much of anything.

 

He hadn’t carried much personal love for the Stormcloaks as an ideal, even last time, unless “kill as many Imperials as possible” counted as an ideal, and this second time in their ranks had only eroded what feelings for it he might once have held. What remained was a thin, stubborn desire for the war to simply be finished so he could stop walking, stop listening, stop being told where to stand and when to breathe.

 

Divines, this had been such a mistake.

 

The army stretched far ahead and farther behind, a long, uneven serpent crawling toward Whiterun’s walls. It was far too soon for this -- they don’t have enough men to take a fortified city, especially with the leader at the head of the column.

 

Jaunty rode as if the army his back was literally his. Or, rather, Dragonstomper rode that way.

 

It had been a week since Jaunty’s promotion and the name still sounded ridiculous. He’d been Benrad Gray‑Mane once, a soft‑handed officer with polished boots and a voice trained for speeches rather than commands. Now he was Dragonstomper, elevated by a victory he’d had nothing to do with, strutting atop a borrowed legend like it was his birthright.

 

As before, Marcus refused to acknowledge the new name.

 

The promotion had not improved Marcus’ life in the slightest. If anything, it had made things worse. Jaunty’s replacement at the company level – Dragonslicer, nee Privy -- had been selected not for competence, courage, or experience, but for devotion. He followed Jaunty’s words like scripture and enforced them with the zeal of a convert desperate to prove himself worthy.

 

Dragonslicer had decided Marcus was a “stability asset.” Which meant Marcus was always on supply duty or perimeter duty or latrine duty. No initiative. No deviation. No opinions. Marcus suspected the man saw him less as a soldier and more as a particularly useful piece of furniture.

 

He sighed and drifted sideways until he was closer to Bent, who had earned his own promotion and had an even stupider name.

 

Slammer marched with the same easy, heavy stride he always had, warhammer slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. The new name hadn’t changed the man, just the way others looked at him. Soldiers gave Slammer more space now, watched him out of the corners of their eyes. Promotion did that.

 

Marcus leaned slightly closer. “Still hate it.”

 

Bent didn’t look over. “Hate what?”

 

“That name. Slammer. Sounds like something you’d call a tavern door.”

 

Bent snorted. “Aye, well, it could have been worse. At least it’s sort of fitting. The two others who got promoted are Rockface and Bonehugger.”

 

Marcus laughed. “These stupid names are hard to come up with, it is true.”

 

They marched in silence for a few steps, the familiar comfort of shared irritation settling between them. Bent had been one of the few constants in Marcus’s time with the Stormcloaks. Names changed. Officers came and went. Bent was still Bent, even if the army insisted on calling him something else.

 

Marcus craned his neck to look behind them at the soldier trudging along. “You think this is enough?”

 

Bent’s eyes flicked toward him, then forward again. “Enough for what?”

 

Marcus didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

 

Bent exhaled through his nose. “Depends how you define ‘enough.’ Enough to die on the plains? Sure. Enough to scare the city? Maybe. Enough to take it clean?” He shook his head once.

 

Marcus nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

 

They fell quiet as Dragonslicer passed down the line, inspecting with exaggerated care. His gaze slid over Marcus without lingering. Satisfied. The stability asset was exactly where he’d been ordered to be.

 

When Dragonslicer moved on, Marcus spoke again. “I don’t even care anymore. That’s the worst part. Used to lie awake thinking about tactics, wondering how we’d win. Now I just want it done. Win, lose, burn the whole place down -- I don’t care.”

 

Bent grunted. “Careful. That kind of talk gets you a night in chains.”

 

Marcus shrugged. “Let them try. Maybe I’d get a decent sleep.”

 

Bent huffed a laugh, short and humorless.

 

Whiterun was the heart of Skyrim, a fist gripping the province’s lifeblood. Take Whiterun and the war tipped. Fail, and it dragged on until there was nothing left but bones and banners. They had barely managed to take it last time. This time, they were much less prepared.

 

Jaunty called a halt.

 

The column slowed, compressed, then stopped entirely. Marcus planted his feet and welcomed the stillness, even as his legs protested. Ahead, officers clustered, pointing, gesturing. Orders passed forward, then back.

 

Bent leaned closer. “You notice something?”

 

Marcus followed his gaze and saw Jaunty had dismounted. That alone was unusual – the fop preferred to be seen above the men, literally and figuratively. Now he stood with his officers, hands on his hips, staring toward the horizon like a man trying to look decisive.

 

Marcus squinted. “He’s about to give a speech.”

 

Bent grimaced. “Divines help us.”

 

Sure enough, moments later a horn sounded and voices called for attention. The army shifted, ranks straightening. Marcus fixed his gaze somewhere safely neutral and prepared to endure it.

 

He needn’t have bothered. They were close enough to the front to see Jaunty but, mercifully, far enough back to hear only the wind and the murmur of the others around them.

 

“Trust Jaunty to stop an army in middle of a march and give a speech no one can hear,” he muttered. Bent snorted in response.

 

When the speech ended, a cheer went up from the front and was repeated down the line, even from those who could not have heard it. Marcus did not join in.

 

 

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