Smoke clung to Stonegrave's yard like a shroud. The fires had been smothered, but the stink of scorched wood and meat hung thick in the rain. Garran stepped over bodies, the mud beneath them slick with blood.
"Bleeding gods," Haim muttered, kicking aside a severed hand. "Smells like the inside of a plague pit."
Garran grunted. His muscles ached, his cloak was heavy with water and gore. The courtyard was scattered with corpses, some stripped of coin, others left to rot where they fell. Bleak Company men picked through the dead, pulling rings from fingers, cutting purses from belts.
"Careful," Orlec called from the steps of the inner keep. "Loot's claimed by Morrick's men. Thieves lose fingers."
Haim spat into the mud. "Vultures."
"Fought for it same as us," Garran said.
"Fought dirtier."
"That's how it works."
A pair of Bleak soldiers passed, dragging a rebel who still gasped for breath. One made a quick gesture to an outlaw god, then slit the man's throat. Neither looked at Garran.
The inner keep's gate lay broken. Within, Rowe's crimson-cloaked men had already set a table in the ruined hall. Lord Rowe sat at its head, clean as if he hadn't swung a blade all night, a cup of wine in his hand.
Garran felt the tight coil in his gut. These lords claimed victories others bled for.
"Crow-mark!" Orlec's voice barked. "Inside."
Garran followed the old knight past broken doors and blood-dark walls. The keep stank of damp stone, iron, and old wood.
Inside, Morrick stood by the fire, his helm off, his pale face streaked with rain. His eyes found Garran as he entered.
"You fought well," Morrick said.
"I fought," Garran answered.
A flicker of amusement crossed the captain's face. "And killed Harren of the Gate."
Garran's pulse quickened. "Didn't know his name."
"You do now." Morrick looked to Rowe. "The boy's blade earned coin."
Rowe gave a small nod. "You'll have your share. Don't squander it on dice and whores."
"I've worse vices."
That won him a sharp grin from Orlec.
"A new day comes," Morrick said, his voice carrying. "Stonegrave is claimed. The March shifts."
The men in the hall muttered agreement. Garran caught Haim's eye by the doorway. The dice rat raised two fingers in a mock salute.
"Coin to be settled," Rowe added. "Claims staked. Lands divided."
And blood remembered, Garran thought.
He stepped back as the talks began. Lords bickered over fields they hadn't seen, men quarreled over spoils yet to be counted. The Bleak Company stood silent, dark shapes at the edge of firelight.
Garran left them to it. Outside, the camp smoldered. The rain hissed against embers.
Haim joined him at the broken wall.
"You'll be a captain one day," Haim said. "Or dead."
"Maybe both."
"Come on. I stole a bottle off a dead man. Warm enough to burn."
Garran nodded. He took one last look at the keep — the blackened stone, the tattered banners, the empty windows.
Another lord gone. Another name bled out.
And still his own name, buried under a bastard's cloak.
They walked toward the campfires, the night stretching long before them.