Rain lingered through the dawn. The siege yard stank worse than the night before — damp ash, old blood, and the sick-sweet rot of bodies left too long. Garran sat by a half-dead fire, gnawing a strip of tough meat that might have once been rabbit, though it tasted more of boot leather.
Haim crouched nearby, scraping mud from a pair of dice with a bent dagger."Still breathing, Crow-mark," he muttered. "You've luck, or a curse on your side."
"Same thing most days," Garran answered.
The Bleak Company had already broken camp. Their black-cloaked riders had vanished with the mist, leaving only churned earth and a sour taste behind. Garran felt it like a weight. Men like that left marks deeper than sword wounds.
A shout rose from the direction of Lord Rowe's tent. Two crimson-clad guards dragged a man between them — a levy boy, face swollen, blood drying in the rain. The lad's head hung low.
"What's his crime?" Haim asked.
Garran didn't look away. "Didn't matter last night. Matters now."
Orlec approached from the line of tents, his limp more pronounced after the fight. He leaned on his spear, eyeing the scene.
"Stole from the dead," the old knight grunted. "A ring off one of Rowe's kin."
"Fool," Haim muttered.
"Desperate," Orlec corrected. "Same as all of us."
The boy was dragged before the reeve, Halden. The noble spoke with the cold, formal tone of a man dealing with a matter beneath his attention.
"This man is guilty of theft under arms, beneath banners sworn. By law of the March, he forfeits his coin, his hand, and his name."
No one spoke. Punishment was its own language.
The levy's scream was short, a wet sound under the thud of a hatchet. A severed hand hit the mud. The boy collapsed beside it.
"A lesson," Halden called, not to the boy but to the camp. "Spoils belong by claim, by order, by blood. Let no man forget it."
Orlec spat into the dirt. "Bloody lords and their lessons."
"Aren't you sworn to them?" Haim asked.
"I swore to coin, not pretty words."
He glanced at Garran.
"Word is you're summoned."
Garran stiffened. "To who?"
Orlec's brow lifted. "Lord Rowe. Through me. Formal like."
As it should be.
"What for?"
Orlec's grin was all teeth. "Recognition, boy. You spilled noble blood for him. And noble blood stinks the same, but it buys more silver."
Garran didn't argue. He stood, brushing rain from his cloak, sword at his hip. He followed Orlec through the mud toward the keep's shattered hall.
Rowe waited by the hearth, his cloak clean, his boots free of filth. Halden stood beside him, parchment in hand. When Garran entered, it was Orlec who spoke first, bowing low.
"My lord, Crow-mark, as summoned."
Rowe's sharp gaze flicked to Garran. "So. The man who struck Harren of the Gate."
Garran kept his eyes lowered, his reply clipped. "By your leave, my lord."
"You wear death well. Few men live to claim such a kill."
Garran held his tongue.
Rowe gestured. Halden stepped forward with a sealed pouch.
"Coin, as promised. And word carried to the March lords of a bastard's valor. Make no mistake — your name is mud, but mud can rise when tread upon."
"Aye, my lord."
"Or drown in it."
Rowe's gaze lingered. "Your captain says you hold discipline. Keep it. There'll be work yet."
The lord turned away, already finished with him.
Orlec gave a nod and led Garran out. Back into the cold, into the stink of the dying fire.
"Well," Haim called from the firepit. "Still breathing?"
"Just," Garran muttered, dropping the coin pouch beside him.
They sat in the muck, dice clacking, rain hissing against coals. Names were dead. Keeps burned. But coin still passed hands. That was the law of the March.
And Garran intended to rise by it, one bloody step at a time.