The children are developing their favourites. Matthias's youthful energy is inevitably a draw, as are Barrow's stories. Marcus, a quiet presence who prefers to keep his own company far forward of the group in the interests of guaranteeing safe passage, is not one of them.

But nor has he avoided his duties in guardianship. Before sundown, he shepherds his allotted group of children to his tent, inspects their hands and their faces to check that they've cleaned up after supper, cancelled appeals to stay up a little later with quiet, stern instruction, and for the most part, even the most precocious of urchin is disinclined to disobey.

It's very late when one of them is caught whispering.

Then, a few moments later, Marcus emerges from his tent, followed by a skinny boy of the younger end of the spectrum, who is wide eyed and reluctant to leave the warmth of the tent. "Come along," Marcus says, keeping his voice hushed. "Here, take my hand." There's enough patience there to sound like kindness, and so, the boy does as asked, and follows along with tentative feet as they move to the edges of the camp, past quiet tents and extinguished and cooled firepits.

And in his other hand, Marcus carries his mage staff, bladed and ornate and catching the moonlight oddly where precious metals and stone embed in polished wood. Marcus himself is not exactly prepared for battle, boots unlaced and coat left behind. The cold in the air is bracing, and the child soon shivering as they go.

"Good evening," he says, to the person on watch, headed their way.