Chương 266: 52. High-Altitude March 3

By the time the camp had fully taken shape, night had properly fallen. Fires bloomed one by one along the outer perimeter, forming, from a distance, a breathing ring of orange light around the highland. Inside, tents were arranged with precision by unit and function — Dragon Cavalry near the roost, archers and spellcasters set a little further back, logistics and the kitchens pressed close against the wagon line.

The air carried a mixture of sea wind, dry grass, dragon-breath, hot oil, simmering broth, and burning wood — not exactly pleasant, but carrying the unmistakable, steadying comfort of everyone made it through today, at least. I'd expected dinner to be rough. What actually reached my hands was considerably better than expected — a thick stew with shredded jerky, root vegetables, beans, and a trace of herb, alongside a flatbread baked slightly hard.

Nothing you'd call elegant, but after a full day of sea wind in your face, that first waft of heat off the bowl was enough to produce something close to genuine gratitude toward the entire concept of civilization. I carried my wooden bowl over and found a spot near a fire where a few Dragon Cavalry riders were talking.

"You think Three Rivers Fortress is really that bad?"

"If it wasn't, Her Highness wouldn't be leading this herself."

"Fair point."

"And she brought him along, too." The word him was delivered with real discretion. Several pairs of eyes nonetheless drifted my way in perfect unison. A very specific sense of foreboding crawled up my spine. Sure enough, the next line landed.

"Seriously, though — how is he even still alive?"

"My guess is luck."

"My guess is Her Highness has been in a decent mood today."

"My guess is he's easy enough on the eyes that she just hasn't gotten around to swatting him yet." I stood there, bowl in hand, and paused.... These people were discussing me without the slightest concern for the fact that I was, in fact, a person, standing right there. I walked over and sat down in the open space by the fire.

"If you're going to debate the reasons behind my continued survival, the least you could do is upgrade your assessment of me a little while I'm within earshot." They exchanged glances — not a trace of embarrassment at being caught — and laughed instead. The oldest among them, a woman with a scar through her left eyebrow, spoke first.

"Fine, revised answer. Besides luck, maybe you've got a bit of nerve."

"Just a bit?"

"Any more wouldn't suit you." She looked at me, the corner of her mouth curling slightly.

"People with too much nerve usually die on the first day — killed by their own mouths." Laughter rolled around the fire. I laughed too. Snide as it sounded, the truth was simpler than that: the fact they were even willing to share a fire with us at all was already its own kind of stamp of approval. One of the younger dragoons tore off a bite of her hardtack and jerked her chin toward the massive cage sitting a short distance away.

"Still, the one who had it worst today has got to be that thing."

"Can't argue with that." I nodded, dead serious.

"I'd say half of Jessi's soul is still stranded somewhere back along the flight path."

"Only half?" someone cut in.

"I'd put it at seventy percent, easy."

"Well, the thirty percent that made it back is still remarkably gifted at cursing people out." Laughter rippled around the fire again. Right on cue, Jessi shuffled past, bundled tight in a blanket. The second she caught her own name, she froze mid-step.

"Are you all talking trash about me again?" The dragoon with the scar through her left eyebrow answered without missing a beat, perfectly deadpan.

"Not at all. We were just debating whether your screaming could double as an official coastal warning siren." Jessi drew one long, slow breath.

"…Cedric. Whose side are you on?" I cradled my soup bowl and gave the question all the gravity it deserved — roughly one second's worth.

"I'm on the side that's statistically less likely to bite me." You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"You traitor!"

"I prefer 'survival instinct.'" She shot me a look that screamed I really should have left you tied to the outside of that cage, then settled for a single withering huff, pulled her blanket tighter, and shuffled off toward Yozora. One of the dragoons watched her go and shook her head, almost fondly.

"Still got the energy to curse people out. She's recovering fine."

"Means she can fly again tomorrow."

"No," I corrected.

"It means she can keep hating me tomorrow."

"Same difference." … Right. The collective logic around this fire was truly something to behold. After supper, the camp settled into a different rhythm — smaller, messier, more real. Someone was sharpening a blade. Someone else was stitching a torn strap. People took turns hauling water up from the creek. A second pot was already boiling at the cook station, its contents rationed out to whoever had taken on too much cold or too many wounds.

Most of the dragons had settled down for the night, though a few of the livelier ones still prowled the roosting line, occasionally butting their riders with their heads as if to hurry the grooming along. I'd meant to check the outer picket line. I made it about halfway before I spotted Ignicia. She was standing at the edge of the roost, a dry cloth in hand, wiping the crusted salt spray from the wing-root of a big rust-red dragon.

The beast was massive — anyone else standing beside it would've looked like a snack waiting to be swallowed whole. But with Ignicia there, the picture held no wrongness at all. If anything— it looked exactly right. Like she'd simply always known how to touch a dragon, how to read one, how to make something that dangerous go still and quiet in front of her. I stood there and watched for a couple of seconds. Long enough, apparently — because she spoke without turning her head.

"Keep staring and I'll assume you've got nothing better to do."

"I'm observing the rare sight of you not looking like you want to kill someone." Her hand paused. She turned her head just enough for one red eye to cut toward me, cold and unhurried.

"Do you have some deeply rude fixed opinion of me you'd like to share?"

"Not fixed. It's a consensus built on an extensive body of evidence."

"Wonderful. Sounds like you've still got energy to spare for dying tonight." She said it, but she didn't chase me off. She just tossed the cloth to a nearby handler and gave the dragon's neck a single firm pat. The motion was easy — almost like comfort. I walked over and stopped beside her.

"You checking this one personally?"

"It took too much salt spray on the headwind stretch today. Leave it, and the wing-root seizes up by morning."

"…I always figured dragons just needed to fly, breathe fire, and bite things."

"Is your whole understanding of dragons built on children's picture books?"

"The picture books I grew up with never covered wing-root maintenance. I feel cheated, honestly." She let out a quiet, dismissive snort.

"Then consider this your education." I watched the dragon lower its massive head under her hand, docile as anything, and for a moment it struck me as genuinely strange. Ignicia had approximately zero patience for people as a rule — especially the kind who made a habit of walking straight into trouble. But the moment dragons entered the picture, her whole rhythm shifted. Not softer, exactly. Deeper. Steadier. Like something carved into her bones long before she ever had to think about it.

It made her look more like herself than usual. And a lot less like the princess who could freeze me solid with a single glare. I only got to hold onto that thought for about half a second before she spoke again.

"Your hand."

"Hm?"

"Give it here." I blinked.

"Coming from you, that sentence does not exactly inspire confidence."

"Less talking." I held out my left hand anyway. She caught my wrist and looked down at the faint scale-shaped mark on the back of my hand. Her fingers were a little cool, her grip steady; when her thumb pressed along the edge of the pattern, something in my shoulders pulled tight without asking my permission. Not pain. More like a place that had been burned once, recognizing a different kind of heat pressing in from outside. She noticed. Her eyes lifted to mine.

"Why are you tense?"

"…You might want to ask yourself whether the position you've currently got me in makes that a fair question." She frowned — clearly not following at first. Then it clicked, and her expression dropped another degree toward frost.

"If you've still got spare capacity in that head of yours to think about that kind of nonsense, it means this thing isn't about to go out of control."

"Should I be grateful this is your idea of a diagnostic method?"

"Grateful or not, you'll live with it." She let go, voice still hard as ever.

"The heat's more stable than yesterday. No alcohol tonight. Don't go drawing on that power unless you absolutely have to. Have Yozora check it again before you sleep."

"Yes, Your Highness." I dragged the honorific out a little longer than necessary. She narrowed her eyes, looking for all the world like she was weighing whether to just kick me over into Jessi's tent for the night. In the end, she just turned and started back toward the main camp. Two steps out, she seemed to remember something and tossed it back over her shoulder.

"One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"If you go anywhere near the dragoons tonight and say anything resembling 'Ignicia's actually gentle with dragons,' I'll have you strung up outside that cage by morning." I blinked.

"So you do know how much gap-moe potential this whole thing has." She didn't look back.

"Shut up." … Good. Same recipe as always. And yet I stood there, watching her silhouette dissolve into the crisscrossing light of fire and tent-shadow, and something about it felt just slightly different than usual. Maybe it was only because out here — far from palace walls and council chambers, far from invisible eyes and unspoken rules — this other side of her was easier to see. Not the princess. Not the weapon. Not the sheer pressure of a crimson dragon made flesh.

Just someone who carried an entire army on her shoulders and still made time, after a full sweep of the camp, to personally check whether a dragon's wing-root had gone stiff. Someone who'd reach out, almost without thinking, and take hold of my hand just to make sure an unstable patch of scale wasn't going to cause trouble in the night. Stupid, in a way. The kind of stupid so quietly, thoroughly reliable that it was genuinely hard to look away from.

Later, back at the inner fire, Yozora was adjusting a healing technique for a couple of soldiers who'd caught too much wind during the day. Jessi had recovered enough to drink hot soup and list my moral failings in the same breath. Alvira sat with a rough sketch of the coastline, working through tomorrow's fog-watch rotations with two of her archers in case the sea mist rolled in. The whole camp was still awake. But it already felt like night. Firelight jumped and settled.

Somewhere in the distance, dragon-breath rumbled low and steady. The tide pushed in from the dark, one wave at a time. Someone laughed. Someone yawned. Someone kept working on their gear. Someone else had already fallen asleep sitting up, arms wrapped around a blade, back against a crate. It wasn't peace. It wasn't carelessness either. Just a breath borrowed before whatever tomorrow decided to ask of us.

I sat down with the second bowl of soup Yozora had all but forced on me, and a plain, ordinary thought surfaced in my head. I hope tomorrow's camp goes just as smoothly as this one did.