Three and a half days after leaving the gilded gates of Sundale, they arrived at Whitepeak base. With the cold wind that blew through their cloaks and chilled the iron of their swords, they might as well have travelled three moons in time. Back home, farmers had been heeding the call of the planting moon. In the shadow of the Horseshoe Mountains, winter reigned supreme.

The place smelled of decay, of water that had sat still for far too long. The years of negligence were apparent. The army sent thousands of gold coins to Whitepeak each year, but the ruinous barracks revealed the money had been used for other purposes than to give the soldiers and officers a decent roof over their heads.

He resisted the urge to go exploring. Staying close to Bart, Sebastian inspected the handful of men patrolling the cells that had been carved into the mountain, the cells where the army kept the magicians. Everyone wore green uniforms, not grey. And even if George had abandoned the sacred tradition that a General should wear grey, none of the men walked with the same grace as he did.

From two houses, half-hidden in the low clouds, rose plumes of dark smoke. Could George be in either of these buildings?

A tall man with an unkempt beard and hair poking in every direction as though he had just woken up from a nap shouted at them from the wooden construction that resembled a stable. "We don't take visitors. Who are you lot?"

"Three new recruits, Lieutenant," Bart said calmly. "My Captain should have sent a pigeon to inform you of our arrival."

"Who is your Captain?" the man asked.

"Jonathan. We're from Sundale."

"I know who Jonathan is," he sneered. The Lieutenant muttered some profanities under his breath as he came closer. "I am not aware of any new recruits. But the more, the merrier, even when they look like they have just crawled out of their mother's womb. What did these bastards do to deserve a trip to our lovely base?"

"Dan and Eric." Bart pointed at the two soldiers. "They thought it funny to light a tent on fire with people sleeping inside. Nobody died but one Cadet had to leave the army on medical grounds. The Captain reckoned six moons at Whitepeak would teach them the lesson they deserve."

The Lieutenant grunted a nod. "And the other one?"

"Extreme disobedience and defiance," Bart said with a straight face. He turned towards the other man and whispered loud enough for Sebastian to hear. "He's the son of a wealthy trader. The Captain wanted to kick him out, but they came to...well... this arrangement."

"Six moons also?"

"Or as long as you see fit." Bart smiled. 

He played the role well. A tad too well for Sebastian's liking, even though he realised that their stories had to sound realistic and not suspicious. Army men were dropped off at Whitepeak on a regular basis, from all over the country; punishment for men who had stepped out of bounds, but not so much they were fired from the army. Having powerful relatives or valuable skills helped sway the Captain in charge as well. And then there were those who preferred a lifetime of servitude instead of death. Sebastian couldn't imagine staying at this base for the rest of his life.

He startled as two rough hands grabbed him and slammed him against the saddle of his mount. The stallion whinnied but stayed put. 

"Fresh meat." The man grinned beneath his heavy moustache. He had four sycamore leaves on his collar; he was Captain Frank. The Captain Frank. "Your strutting days are over, Cadet. I'll make you squeal and eat your food off the ground like the worthless pig you are." 

Sebastian let the words wash over him. He knew better than to think they were empty threats, but the worst day up here was still a better day than what he had seen in Laneby.

"Cool as the ice in your eyes." Captain Frank's head moved like that of a snake, scrutinising him. His eyes landed on the name tag just above his breast pocket. He squeezed Sebastian's face with his stubby fingers. "You think you're the man, don't you, Ian? Those long legs of yours sure help you to tower above the other Cadets at the Academy, but your cheeks are like a baby's butt. Soft yet with a bit of a rash. How old are you?"

"I'll turn twelve during the summer."

"So you're eleven." The Captain's disdainful look filled with mockery. "And I have bad news—summer skips this part of the country. You'll be eleven forever."

"It doesn't work that way."

"It doesn't work that way," The Captain mimicked him with a squeaky voice Sebastian hadn't had in moons. "Whitepeak works at the beat of my drum, Cadet Ian. I don't care who your papa is, you're at my mercy here. And I have none. Is that understood?"

Sebastian furrowed his brow. If only Frank knew who he really was, he wouldn't act this way. He would bow and peep falsehoods about being loyal to King and country. He was not. If anyone strutted around, it was Captain Frank. But the mountain was high, and the cliffs deep. His downfall would come soon, so very soon.

"Don't act like you don't have a tongue." The man squeezed him tighter. "I said—is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Very well." He released Sebastian. "Ray, give the lads a bed, show them around. Meanwhile, me and Lieutenant Bartholomew shall enjoy a meal in my office."

"I must politely decline," Bart said before the other Lieutenant could say anything. "My instructions were clear. Drop off the lads and return to Sundale."

"But you must be hungry and weary, Lieutenant. The horses too," Captain Frank tried.

"I'll eat and sleep at the inn down in the valley," Bart said.

"It's free up here. I have some fine Jade Islandic wine, confiscated it from a scoundrel trying to cross the mountains."

"I'm afraid I cannot drink while on duty." Bart remained calm and unyielding, all according to plan. "Except, I bring one question from Captain Jonathan. He hasn't received word from General George. Is he still here?"

"Left about a week ago to explore the route to Burnfirth-by-Sea. I'm sure he sent a pigeon south." Captain Frank touched his moustache, shaking his head. "The mist and the weather makes it hard for the birds—it wouldn't be the first letter that went missing. I'm sure our dearest General is on his way back by now."

"He went on his own?" Bart asked.

"Yes, he insisted."

"Thank you." Bart gave his braid a short but effective pull—their agreed signal to share that he believed Captain Frank was lying. 

Sebastian suspected it too. He knew George; the General would never travel on his own, especially not when he hadn't agreed with either Uncle Tom or Captain Jonathan to travel all the way west to Burnfirth.

"Before you leave, Lieutenant Bartholomew—" Captain Frank began.

Bart interrupted him, "Call me Bart, please."

"Bart, can I interest you at least in a cup of water, fresh from the mountains. You won't find any tastier water anywhere in the Greenlands."

As Bart agreed, Lieutenant Raymond took Bart's mare by its reins and beckoned Dan, Eric, and him to follow. 

A rotting, almost painful smell greeted him as he entered the building that was supposed to be a stable. In Master Dicky's stable, each horse had its own box. Dozens of stable boys worked from sunrise to sunset to muck out the boxes and bring fresh straw, hay, and food. The horses of those who either paid enough or were prominent enough were brought to the meadow to graze. If the horse was unwell, they would receive the private care of Master Dicky.

The horses at Whitepeak shared one room the size of two boxes back in Sundale. The animals were little more than skin and bones.  Flies buzzed around their ears. Out of the half-rotten piles of droppings crawled worms and maggots. The ground was barely covered in straw, save for one patch where the rotten smell was even stronger.

Sebastian was glad the horses would return to Sundale with Bart. He, however, lost the little appetite he had had.

Raymond made them carry buckets full of water for the horses, then tossed some dried grasses into the space that Sebastian refused to call a stable. While his stallion sniffed at the water, he unbuckled the bag Captain Jonathan had foreseen.

Lieutenant Raymond confiscated it immediately. "No personal belongings. Whitepeak will offer you everything you need."

"But..." Sebastian stammered. He swallowed the power of the God of Pride. "Fine."

"Fine, who?"

"Fine, Lieutenant."

"This was your last mistake."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Sebastian grumbled through his teeth.

With no possession but the uniform he was wearing and the standard short sword on his belt, Sebastian followed. He could obey, had to obey, even if he could feel the God of Wrath taking hold of him, urging him to make a scene.

As Dan and Eric joined by his side, the God released His grip. He wasn't here by himself; he had help, even if they were but two young soldiers. He wished Bart could have stayed. The Lieutenant was both clever and a good fighter. Still, he trusted Captain Jonathan's plan. 

At least that was what he told himself. Another voice in his head watched the sunset with growing dread.

A few candles lit up the sleeping accommodations. He didn't want to climb the wooden planks, one above the other, with a sack of sand on top a bed. At the foot of the construction laid a rolled-up woollen blanket that once upon a time must have been Greenlander green but had faded and stained to a brownish-grey. None of it seemed to bother the men occupying the planks; some of them sleeping with the dirty blanket wrapped around them. 

Phil, as Sebastian could read from the small metal plate attached to the foot end of the plank, opened an eye as they passed, then instantly buried his head in his folded army jacket that served as a pillow. Jack and Alf didn't as much as stir. Rick, a man with a pepper and salt beard and a sharp nose sat up and grinned. A light-haired man whose plate read Tim shuffled to the edge of the bed and crossed his arms.

Sebastian tried to breathe as little as possible. Though the place didn't smell as bad as the building where he had left the horses, and he surely had been spoiled with the bi-daily changing and washing of bed sheets at the castle, he couldn't remember his home in Laneby to ever reek so strong of nightly sweats and filled chamber pots. When did these people take a bath? Or clean?

"Nicky's farts are flowers compared to this," Dan said softly.

Eric stifled a laugh. "Don't ever tell him that."

Sebastian did laugh.

"What's so funny?" Raymond barked.

The two soldiers stiffened. "Nothing, Lieutenant."

"Nothing... Lieutenant," Sebastian repeated.

"The Goddess of Humility lives here," Raymond said. "She'll help you appreciate all the fine things you left behind at home. That's why you're here."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Eric and Dan said simultaneously.

Sebastian kept quiet. This wasn't why they were here at all. From the top planks, Rick and Tim spied at them, like vultures awaiting fresh prey.

"You." Raymond pointed at Dan, then at the nameless plank below Tim. The wood slanted down to the wet floor. "Here."

Dan stood next to the bed, looking worried.

Raymond then moved further to the back, to a bag with a hole in the middle. The plank above was empty, though it belonged to someone named Tristan. The Lieutenant gesticulated at Eric. "You'll sleep here."

Eric nodded.

Then the man walked all the way to the end of the room. Sebastian's heart skipped a beat as he passed the name plates of Alex and Harry. And of Bran and James. Like memories of home, his true home—Laneby—were calling.

Raymond stopped by the cracked window, by a plank that belonged to Max, a broad-shouldered man with a large gut who was snoring below. The Lieutenant knocked the wood of the empty top blank. "This will be yours."

Sebastian looked up. Raindrops hung from the ceiling, with occasionally one of them dripping down. He couldn't imagine George had ever slept in these conditions. Neither had he heard Nick complaining about this. The officers must sleep somewhere else. There he would find George.

If George were still alive.

"When it gets bad, you can always ask Max to share," Raymond guffawed. "If there's any space left."

Though Sebastian's insides churned with the growing power of the God of Wrath, he kept a stoic face. He'd rather sleep on the ground or not at all, than to crawl next to the sleeping lump of meat that was Max.

"First and most important rule," Raymond roared, not caring that he woke up the sleeping men. "Always carry a weapon. We capture and guard magicians here, some of them dangerous. Don't try and reason with them. If you feel threatened, you go for a kill. I'd rather inform your Captain back home that you slew a man than that we have to send your remains in a box. That is the only liberty you have. You eat when you are told to, sleep when you are told to, and piss and shit when you are told to. You never patrol by yourself, but remain in groups of two or three, depending on your shift. You remain at your post at all times. The first time you abandon your post, you lose a finger. The next, you lose your head. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," said Sebastian, Dan, and Eric.

"Secondly, Whitepeak knows no Sundays. You have but one free day per moon on which you shall bathe and receive your wages. You are encouraged to spend your coin down in the valley. The ale is sweet, the women more so. If you fail to return before sunset, you will be considered a deserter. You will lose your head. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," sang Sebastian and his choir of two soldiers.

More of the vultures were awake now and watching, sharing secret grins and snorts.

"Thirdly, don't ever venture into Silvermark territory. This side of the mountain belongs to His Majesty King Thomas, the other side to the Lion King. We guard the border and have no intention to start the war. If you do end up on the wrong path and kill a few Silvermarkers, take their bodies to the Greenlands. They always died here, trespassing. If we find out, you left the Silvermarkers to rot in Silvermark, you lose your head. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Eric and Dan said.

Sebastian hesitated. He scratched his throat and faked a cough. "Yes, Lieutenant. Of course."

He would remember all, and tell Uncle Tom.

"Rick," Raymond addressed the first vulture. "Your shift starts in half an hour. Prepare your men."

"Aye, Lieutenant," Rick said with a rough voice. He coughed, then yelled, "Wake up, you scoundrels. We have some magicians to entertain."

When exiting the sleeping quarters, Sebastian expected Raymond to show them the prison cells. Instead, he took them to a barrack that looked like it would collapse if someone were to give the walls a push. Inside, there were seven tables and fourteen benches. Here and there, buckets had been placed to catch the raindrops. Even on two of the tables.

Burning wood and boiling porridge obscured the otherwise rotten smell that seemed to follow Sebastian wherever he went.

"Sit. This is the last night you three will be dining together. Make it count," said Raymond.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Dan and Eric said before sitting down.

Sebastian was late with his reply. Too focused on Bart leaving the other barrack from where smoke was rising. Frank's office.

From afar, Bart looked at him, their eyes meeting. He rubbed his temples, his hand signalling the letter 'N'. No George. 

Sebastian scratched the tip of his nose. Understood.

"Yeah, lad. Now you're stuck here, with us." Raymond blocked his view, cackling. "Let the homesickness begin."

"I'm not homesick," Sebastian retorted.

"That'll come, arrogant brat. Sit down!" Raymond pushed him towards the table.

A low grumble started at the back of his throat. Sebastian couldn't help but look sternly.

"Ian." Dan touched his hand. "It's fine. It'll be fine."

Sebastian listened to the soldier.

Raymond placed his hands on Sebastian's shoulders and squeezed them. "I have seen many lads like you. The facade of bravery will crumble when you stand face to face with a magician. You'll cry out for your mother and father dear when your skin burns, your insides are crushed together, when the air escapes your lungs and you cannot breathe however much you draw for breath. If you're unlucky, it's their invisible water that chokes you. Yes, my lad, those who are in league with the Almighty Pride are always the first to fall." 

Raymond made a whistling, falling noise, then pushed Sebastian against the table. His nose smacked hard against the wood. Instantly, drops of blood dripped from his nose, onto the table and his uniform.

Sebastian clenched his teeth and gathered all his strength not to flinch. He thought of Bear and poppyseed, and how Uncle Tom would welcome him home a hero and George's saviour.

While they waited for food, Eric slipped him a handkerchief when Raymond wasn't looking.

"It doesn't look broken," he whispered.

"It doesn't feel broken," Sebastian said as he quickly cleaned his nose before Raymond would turn their way.

Men of various ages and sizes trickled in. Most didn't spare them a glance. Others rubbed their hands and gesticulated at each other. If Dan and Eric were distressed, they were good at hiding it.

Everything was made of iron. The plates, the cups, the spoon, even the large cauldron that was placed at the head of the first table. 

The men rushed towards the beefy but shabby-looking man with bits of crusted porridge plastered in his hair. The young were pushing the old, the slender the broad-shouldered. Not wanting to attract more attention, the three of them went to the back of the line.

When it was finally Sebastian's turn, the Porridge-Hair gave him less than a scoop of lumpy yet watery goo. The cauldron was little over half-full, plenty enough for him to get a larger portion.

"I would like some more," he said.

"Excuse me?" Porridge-Hair blinked his eyes.

"Ian, no," Dan said in a whisper.

"I said I wanted some more," Sebastian repeated himself. "Please. I'm not a mouse."

Around him, people stopped eating, stopped talking. The ones that sat with his back towards him, turned their head. 

Porridge-Hair began to laugh. It was a boisterous laugh as though Sebastian had just told the funniest story in the world. Sebastian didn't know what was so funny.

Then Porridge-Hair grabbed him by the collar of his neck and picked him up.

Sebastian squirmed. "Put me down! Don't touch me! I'm... I'm..."

"Yes?" Porridge-Hair brought him closer to his marble-shaped eyes that looked like they would pop out of his head at any given time.

"I'm... I'm..." Sebastian panicked. He couldn't tell he was Prince Sebastian . Their mission would be doomed, and moreover, his life and that of Dan and Eric would be in danger. "I'm... I'm... I'm innocent."

"Innocent," came to boisterous laugh a second time. "You wouldn't be here if you were innocent, lad." 

Porridge-Hair flung Sebastian towards the ground, where he landed butt-first, on nature's cushion as Uncle Tom would say. Sebastian could only watch in dread as his meagre and disgustingly looking dinner returned to the cauldron.

"Better luck tomorrow, lad," he said with a broad smile that Sebastian wanted to knock off his face.

Breathing in and out, he drove the God of Wrath out. For Dan. For Eric. For George. And that gnawing sensation that had started forming in the pit of his stomach. Hunger. He hadn't felt that in moons.