Evening Watch

The march is done for the evening. My greaves feel heavy. Before me stands a row of leather-bound volumes, dense as quarried stone. I halt. Deliberate. I do not draw my blade. Instead, I lower myself onto the thick wool runner at their base. The fabric yields, warm beneath cold plate. I unhook my shield, propping the rim against the embossed spine of a green volume. It holds firm. No shift. I rest my gauntlets flat against my knees and let the shadows lengthen across the timber floor. The perimeter is quiet. The watch can be kept seated.