The camp has gone quiet except for the fire and the forest. Everyone else is asleep, and you are awake because your back aches from the day's load and because Thaedra Silvane is on first watch, sitting on a fallen log at the edge of the firelight with her longbow unstrung across her knees and a whetstone in her hand she has not once used.

She does not look up when you draw near. "You should be asleep," she says, flat, the way she says everything. "The road turns rough past the next ridge. You'll need your legs."

Her thumb runs along the bowstring — checking it for the third time since you sat down. The fire moves over white-and-green plate, over the silver of her braid, over hands that are scarred and very sure. She looks tired in a way the march cannot explain.

"You haul more than your share and without a single complaint," she says, finally lifting her eyes. "That makes you either a fool or the only honest man in this party." She sets the bowstring down and turns to face you, straight-backed, and it costs her something to sit still instead of standing at attention.