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A small raid, at best. Perhaps twenty five men.
But they have come awake, aware on sleeping enemies. They have come ahorse and bring death. Will watches impassively, still. He knows enough of war and death to have learned the virtues of immobility. One that did not run did not catch the eye, did not draw the sword down upon his back.
He turns toward his lord's tent and sees the man stern faced in the entryway, fingers clenched in the oiled canvas flap that closes the tent, holding it aside. His lord senses Will's gaze on him, and turns, anger writ clear and decisive on his features.
Will had not forseen this.
He had not been asked to look.
An experiment in writing in slightly smaller pieces at hopefully more frequent intervals. Written for a prompt/picture set on tumblr by anothersalvagemission.
- Part 1 of Fate Cycle