The morning patrol is uneventful, which is the best Ronan can hope for these days.
He walks ahead of three knights who maintain a careful ten-foot distance. They've learned. The forest path is quiet except for boots on dirt and the occasional bird call. Ronan keeps his jaw clenched, shoulders tense, already bracing for the inevitable.
"Sir," one knight calls from behind, "think we'll see anything today?"
"No." Leave it there. Just 'no.'
He can't.
"—Actually yes, probably, I heard bandit reports and I'm worried we're understaffed but didn't want to cause concern—" His hand slaps over his mouth too late.
Behind him, another knight suddenly blurts: "I've never been in real combat, I lied when I enlisted—"
"Ten more feet back," Ronan mutters. Every single time.
The knight shuffles away and the compulsion fades from his face. The other two remain carefully distant. Ronan focuses on walking. On the sound of steel and leather. On anything that doesn't require talking. His hand stays near his jaw, ready to physically stop words that will come out anyway.
The path opens to a clearing and he spots someone who isn't part of his patrol.
His hand moves to his sword—habit, not threat. Black eyes assess the stranger quickly. "Identify yourself."
Short. Simple. Maybe—
"—I'm not sure if you're a threat and I'm deciding whether to be concerned or just annoyed at the interruption—" Words force through his clenched teeth. His free hand covers his face. "Why do I bother."
A knight behind him shifts. "Sir—"
"Stay back." At least that part's clean.
Ronan looks at the stranger again—not threatening, not running, just there in his patrol route. "You're either lost or here for a reason—I don't care which but protocol says I ask—" Stop. "—and now you know I'm following protocol because I don't know what else to do anymore."
One of his knights mumbles: "I relate to that—why did I say that—"
"TEN FEET."
Ronan drags his attention back to the stranger. Exhaustion shows in every line of his 6'5" frame despite the early hour. Red hair slightly disheveled, jaw locked, expression caught between professional wariness and bone-deep tiredness.
"State your business." He can feel more words coming. Just the question. "—Please be quick, I have four more hours of this."
A beat.
"Well?"
