The wind changed with dusk. Thick and wet, carrying the scent of rain and woodsmoke, and something older. Garran felt it in his teeth, a sharp bite that meant a storm wasn't far behind.
The march had slowed to a crawl as the road narrowed between gnarled trees. Old gallows posts stood on either side of the path, crooked, the nooses long rotted through. A cold, ugly place — the kind where names stuck to your bones long after your blood dried.
"Saint's breath, I hate this road," Haim muttered, shivering in his cloak. "Last time I passed here, a man hanged himself from that post for a relic charm worth less than a copper."
"You didn't stop him?" Garran asked.
"Wasn't worth the trouble," Haim grinned. "Besides, he cheated at dice."
A few nearby soldiers laughed, though it came out tight. No one liked marching through the old roads after dark. They all knew the stories.
Ahead, Orlec rode up alongside the file. The old knight's face looked like it had been carved from old oak, deep lines and a scowl for company.
"Keep your tongues low," Orlec barked. "Bad ground here. Rebels used to ambush supply carts in these woods. Half a dozen men bled out in this mud last season."
Haim scoffed. "Half a dozen? I heard it was forty."
"Then you heard wrong, dice-rat. But it'll be forty if you lot don't shut your mouths and march straight."
A muttered curse, a few grins behind hands, but the column kept moving. The rain began again, thin at first, pattering against worn helms and patched cloaks.
As the line rounded a bend, a pair of riders appeared ahead. One wore Rowe's crimson cloak, the other was a scraggly man on a shaggy mare, hood low.
"Messenger," Garran guessed.
Orlec pulled his mare up, waving them forward.
The crimson-cloaked rider called out. "Lord Rowe summons his captains to council before duskfall. At the broken watch hill."
"Already heard," Orlec grunted.
The rider leaned in lower, voice dropping. "Calrow's Ford won't open their gates. Word is the highborn there holds an old blood oath against Rowe's line. Varnholt's war, from years back."
At that, Garran's pulse stuttered.
He kept his face still.
"Didn't think those debts still lingered," Orlec muttered.
"They do," the messenger said. "There'll be blood before the dawn."
He turned his horse and rode on. The ragged man followed, leaving mud spattered behind them.
Orlec spat into the dirt. "Varnholt's war. Saints keep us."
"What was that?" Haim asked, falling in beside Garran.
"Old blood feud," Orlec said. "Before your time. Varnholt and Rowe near razed this stretch of land to dust. Nothing's been clean since."
Haim grunted. "No one tells the dice men these things."
"Because you wouldn't remember it sober."
They rode on in silence for a while, the rain thickening. Garran's mind chewed the name like a rusted nail.
Varnholt's war.His father's war.
A voice broke the dark. "Crow-mark," Orlec called back. "You're with me at council. Rowe asks for you by name."
That earned a few looks. No lowborn was summoned to a war council unless his sword or his tongue had made too much noise.
Garran reined in beside him. "By your leave."
Haim grinned. "Look at you. A bastard with coin and a voice."
"Watch your purse," Garran warned. "I'll be back for it."
The council gathered on a muddy rise where an old stone ring stood, half toppled. A relic of the old kings' border wars. Rowe and his captains ringed a fire, crimson cloaks blending with the mist.
Rowe's voice carried sharp over the wind. "Calrow's Ford refuses parley. The old bastard inside claims blood feud and won't open his gates. He means to bleed us out if we siege."
A few men muttered curses. One heavy-set captain spat.
"No coin to be made in waiting," Orlec grunted.
Rowe's gaze found Garran. "Crow-mark. You fought well at Stonegrave. Speak plain — how would you crack the Ford's walls?"
It wasn't a question. It was a test.
Garran kept his tone level. "They're near starved already, my lord. Cut the grain routes east. Burn their barley fields. Let their own men sell them out before frost."
A beat of silence. Rowe's face didn't move, but Halden, standing behind him, gave a small, sharp nod.
"A cold plan," Rowe said. "Good. We ride at first light."
The meeting broke. Garran stepped back toward Orlec.
"You spoke bold," the old knight murmured.
"He asked."
Orlec's crooked smile showed cracked teeth. "Careful. The March remembers bold men. And it buries them faster."
The wind picked up, and somewhere in the dark a crow cawed once. A bad omen, but Garran welcomed it.
Better the night curse him now than the dawn.