Chương 271: 54. Three Rivers Fortress 2

The first few days at Three Rivers Fortress taught me one thing very quickly. If you want to survive with some dignity intact in a place that's neither enemy territory nor home, you'd better figure out fast what you have the most surplus of. The answer isn't prestige. It isn't rank. And it's definitely not "I'm someone important sent from up top"—a line that earns you nothing but eye-rolls the moment your back is turned. The answer is: legs. Yes. Legs.

Because in a place like Three Rivers Fortress, if you're not the official making the calls, not the mage-engineer racing a deadline, and not something like Ignicia—capable of silencing half a street by simply existing—your most practical function is to walk more, watch more, carry things, and stay out of the way as much as possible. So that's mostly what I did over those first few days: run back and forth between the inner city and the outer camp.

Sometimes it meant a trip to the inner keep for a fresh batch of hot flatbread. Sometimes hauling a steaming bucket of soup from the outer storehouses. Sometimes a run to the makeshift riverside market for dried fruit, salted meat, and bitter tea leaves strong enough to shock a soul awake. And a few times, it meant going to the fortress kitchens to "politely negotiate" a few extra baskets of freshly baked hardtack.

Translated into plain language, "politely negotiate" meant this: I stood there, doing my level best not to look like the representative of a foreign army come to loot the pantry, while the staff on the other side worked equally hard not to look like they expected a dragon to burst through the ceiling the second they said no. The whole exchange was extremely civilized. And extremely delicate.

"These are today's additional rations," the clerk said one morning—tall, thin, middle-aged, ledger tucked under one arm, voice pitched so carefully neutral it seemed afraid that any stray emotion might set off an international incident.

"Two baskets of hot bread, one bucket of bean soup, one sack of smoked meat, and—" he double-checked the board, "—two small jugs of strong malt liquor." I nodded.

"Much appreciated." He nodded back.

"Think nothing of it." Then we just stood there, looking at each other for half a second. In that half-second, the air felt like a string pulled tight enough to snap. Not because either of us was about to lose our temper. Because we both knew this perfectly ordinary exchange was quietly weighed down by a mountain of things neither of us had any reason to say aloud. He was probably thinking: How much longer are these Dragon Kingdom people going to be camped here?

And I was thinking: Trust me, I'd love to know that too. In the end, he looked away first, closing the ledger with a snap.

"If you require further additions tomorrow, please give half a day's notice."

"I'll remember that." I gathered the bread and the jugs and turned to go. No hostility followed me out. No muttered curses through gritted teeth. Just two entirely ordinary looks that said, as clearly as words: We see you. We're keeping track. Please, please don't do anything here that gets us all killed. Honestly, it was a perfectly reasonable reaction.

If our positions were reversed—if I were the one garrisoned in my own kingdom's fortress, and a foreign allied force suddenly moved in with dragons, unfamiliar banners, and a princess who casually hopped the walls in the shape of an actual dragon—I'd probably double-lock the warehouse first and worry about believing they were here to help second. So I didn't take it personally. Or rather, I didn't have the spare bandwidth to.

Because by the time I made it back to the outer camp with my arms full, Lei Lian's six hundred elite dragoons had usually already cranked the place up into a very lively kind of chaos. My first impression of them had been simple: disciplined, sharp, lethal. A few days in, I had to amend that. Disciplined, sharp, lethal—all still true. But there was one more essential trait to add: they were vicious. Vocally. The specific kind of vicious that only exists in a group built on deep familiarity and a high survival rate.

You couldn't really call it mean-spirited. Because they were exactly as vicious with each other. One afternoon, I walked in carrying two baskets of hot bread and had barely reached the edge of the dragoon tents when someone inside bellowed:"Who used my flight strap as a pot-holder!?" Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"You left it by the fire yourself yesterday."

"Leaving it by the fire doesn't mean you get to put a hot pot on it!"

"Then don't store your freshly washed gear next to the kitchen rags."

"That wasn't a rag, that was my spare lining!"

"Ah. So that explains why you always dress like a saddle." I stopped just outside the tent flap and took a moment to process.... Right. This unit had a lot more domestic texture than I'd given it credit for. I lifted the edge of the flap and poked my head in.

"If I come in right now, am I going to get used as a pot-holder too?" The tent went quiet for a beat. Then someone laughed.

"What did Lord Cedric bring today?" It was the veteran with the scar through her left eyebrow. She'd apparently long since accepted I wasn't getting kicked out of their orbit anytime soon, because her tone had lost most of the stiffness from our first meeting.

"Hot bread, bean soup, and two jugs of ale." I set everything down, and I could feel the mood in the tent brighten a notch—not the way you'd react to some rare treasure, but something simpler: oh good, he actually delivers. One of the younger riders, halfway through unbuckling a bracer, let out a whistle.

"Keep this up, my lord, and you'll spoil us rotten." I pushed the basket toward her.

"Relax. None of you look like the type that spoils easily."

"Wow, he talks back now."

"If I don't talk back, you'll eat me as a snack."

"Depends," another put in, still holding half a saddle-cloth.

"Depends whether what you brought today is good enough."

"And if it's not?"

"Then we start with you." The tent dissolved into laughter. I crossed my arms and gave the matter genuine consideration.

"I think I finally understand why Lei Lian always looks like she's aged ten years." The words had barely left my mouth when a cold voice cut in from just outside.

"Because I command six hundred dragoons with far too much to say for themselves." Everyone inside froze at once. I turned. Lei Lian stood in the entrance, arms crossed, expression perfectly level—the kind of level that looks a lot like the sea right before a storm breaks. Someone coughed. Someone else suddenly became very absorbed in polishing gear they'd apparently been polishing this whole time. I blinked at her, the picture of innocence.

"I was just complimenting them on their high spirits." Lei Lian looked at me for two long seconds, then stepped in and calmly relieved me of one of the ale jugs.

"Consider this your tuition."

"Hey."

"Watch more. Learn more. Talk less." She added it flatly, then swept her gaze across the tent.

"Once you're done eating, Second Squad, run tomorrow's river-patrol roster past me again. Third Squad, check the claw-guards later—two pairs wore through too fast yesterday. And—" She paused, eyes cutting toward me.

"This man is not your mess-hall runner. Don't get used to ordering him around." More muffled laughter broke out. The scar-browed veteran had the hardest time keeping a straight face, corners of her mouth twitching upward despite her best efforts. I looked at Lei Lian.

"Was that you sticking up for me, or reminding them how useful I am?"

"Both." Of course. Classic Lei Lian—tie you down first, then let you know exactly which blade she's about to use on you. But it was through exactly this kind of back-and-forth that I slowly started getting to know them. Not some instant camaraderie. Definitely not the lazy "the protagonist's charm wins everyone over in one scene" shortcut. More like—little by little, letting them get used to the fact that I'd show up. That I'd bring something. That I'd sit by the fire.

That I'd listen to them complain about which stretch of wind was the worst, which dragon had the foulest mood lately, which recruit had nearly put her pauldron on backward the day before. That I'd take a joke, and give one back. That when it mattered, I'd help haul a bucket of water, carry a crate of arrows, or run a bundle of calming herbs out to the roost for Yozora. Over time, they stopped treating me like something fragile that needed to be kept on a shelf and handled with care.

Instead, I became something else: someone who could talk like a person, but was still under observation. By their standards, that was already high praise. Better, at least, than "walking disaster of indeterminate lifespan." The first time I really felt like I'd earned a foothold in their circle was the evening of the sixth day. The wind was stronger than usual, snapping at the straw covers over the roost. A few dragons, freshly fed, sprawled lazily in the last of the sunset.

A handful of riders had gathered around a wooden frame, bone needles and heavy thread in hand, patching the edge of a flight cloak. I was just passing through with a bag of roasted beans. One of them, without even looking up, tossed out: "My lord, why are you standing all the way up there? Come sit." I blinked. The tone was too natural—not the way you'd address a semi-supervised, semi-honored guest from a foreign power. More like calling out to someone familiar who happened to be walking by empty-handed.

"You sure I won't end up drafted into sewing duty if I sit down?" I asked, walking over anyway.

"Depends how steady your hands are."

"And if they're not?"

"The cloak comes out crooked."

"And then?"

"Lei Lian goes looking for someone to make an example of." I was quiet for two seconds. Then handed the bean bag over without further argument.

"In that case, I'll provide moral support." They laughed. Not the testing, half-guarded laugh from before. A looser, easier sound—the kind reserved for people who've already been counted into the circle. The scarred veteran sat on the outer edge, stitching without looking up.

"You've been quite industrious these past few days, my lord."

"Should I take that as praise?"

"Half of it."

"And the other half?"

"The other half is all of us trying to work out exactly what you're fishing for." I nearly choked on my own spit.

"Do I look like that kind of person to you?" Her eyebrows didn't so much as twitch.

"No."

"Well, there you go."

"You look like the kind of person with zero self-awareness who still somehow manages to wander in deeper and deeper anyway."... That one landed. And the worst part was, I couldn't immediately think of a rebuttal. A younger rider nearby, thread caught between her teeth, chimed in.

"I don't think our lord's thinking that far ahead, honestly."

"Why not?"

"Because every time he brings something over, his face just says, 'well, might as well eat—I don't know what else I'm supposed to be doing anyway.'" The whole circle burst out laughing. I stood there and felt my dignity as a functioning adult get dissected with surgical precision.

"... Couldn't you point that observational talent at the enemy instead?"

"No thanks. I'd rather keep an eye on you."

"That sentence sounds dangerous."

"Relax, my lord." She grinned, taking the bean bag from my hand.

"If we actually meant to do something to you, we wouldn't pick a moment when your hands are full of snacks."

"Thanks. That did absolutely nothing to relax me." The most interesting thing about Lei Lian's six hundred, though, only really revealed itself in these small, stupid moments. They were an all-female unit. But the genuinely interesting part wasn't the bare fact of that—it was the particular atmosphere it produced. They'd crouch in a row outside the tents, polishing armor plates, arguing over whose dried meat some dragon had stolen this time.

They'd help each other tie shoulder straps before morning muster, tossing in a casual "you were drinking again last night, weren't you." They'd sit around the fire, betting on who could call tomorrow's wind direction first—loser scrubs saddles for the whole squad. Some kept a knife tucked outside their boot. Some tied a charm at the small of their back. Some carved their names, secretly, into the underside of their saddles.

One had stitched a nearly invisible thread of red into the hem of her cloak, insisting it made the air currents run smoother. None of it stood out much on its own. But because there was so much of it, the unit never felt like just "six hundred elites." It felt like six hundred living, breathing people, all being driven forward under one unyielding discipline, each of them still quietly holding on to some small piece of themselves they refused to give up.

The more I watched, the more I found myself wanting to keep watching.