The road east of camp wasn't a road. Not really. It was the memory of a road—broken cart ruts, hoof-pocked sludge, and a trickle of ash-flecked water that might once have been a stream. The trees here didn't look like trees anymore, either. Gnarled bark twisted upward like something caught mid-scream. Tarn's horse, Brae, snorted every fifth step as if to spit out the cold.
Tarn hadn't spoken since he left. There was no one to speak to. The writ pressed tight against his ribs, sweat-wet even in this freeze. He'd unwrapped and read it twice already, despite not understanding half of it. The sigil ink had bled through in places. One red. One black. One grey.
He knew what that meant.
It wasn't just a writ. It was a test.
The Barrow man—Darrick Veiss, if the rumors still held—wasn't a lord, but he wasn't less than one either. A soldier turned tax-warden, turned quarter-holder, turned self-sworn barrow-thane. A man who held land not by bloodline, but because no one else wanted it badly enough to dispute his claim.
Tarn didn't know what to expect. Only what to fear.
The sun dipped lower, bleeding out behind the trees. Brae stumbled on a root knot and whinnied once, sharp and offended. Tarn rubbed her neck and whispered something wordless—an old word, maybe, something his father muttered before gutting chickens. Brae calmed. The wind didn't.
He passed two shrines on the way. One burned. One had a jawbone nailed to its door.
The first was a shrine to the Grain-Saint, blackened and abandoned. The second… he didn't know. Its symbol was a hollow circle inside a spoked ring. Not any proper faith he recognized, but someone had left stew bones in offering. He didn't touch them.
By nightfall, the trees thinned. The land broke into rises. Mud gave way to frost-laced gravel. A wide clearing opened between two boulders — not natural. Cut once. Split long ago. And beyond them stood the Stone Barrow.
It wasn't a building so much as a wound in the earth. Round, low, partially sunken into the hill. Moss-covered. Slab-faced. A dozen rusted spearshafts leaned against a stone circle nearby, like grave-markers or warnings. No banners flew. No lights burned.
But someone had cleared the path recently.
Tarn dismounted. Brae huffed, refusing to step closer.
He walked the last dozen yards alone.
A low whistle broke the silence. Then another. Then a voice, older than stone and half as welcoming.
"Camp rat. You're bold, or dead already."
Tarn turned toward the voice. A man stepped out from behind one of the leaning spears. Broad shoulders. Fur cloak. Face full of lines carved by cold and war. He held a lantern made from an old helm with slits cut into the side.
"Writ," Tarn said. "From Helgar's camp."
"No torch?" the man asked.
Tarn shook his head. "Didn't want to light something I couldn't put out."
The man grunted. "Smart. Or lucky. Depends what you stepped in back near the second shrine. That circle mark means cursed watch. Step on the bones, and your kin start coughing blood."
"I didn't."
"Good. I'm Darrick Veiss. You're not who I expected."
"I never am."
Tarn offered the writ. Veiss took it, broke the seal, and read without a word. His eyes didn't move much. He wasn't really reading—he was weighing. Judging what the ink didn't say.
Finally, he looked up. "They're offering grain rights and a claim of name-seating. In exchange for oath-loyalty, and a tithe cut."
Tarn nodded. "And fealty to House Errel, in proxy through Helgar."
"I heard the Mirehold knight spat in your pot."
"Stew," Tarn said. "Not mine. But yes."
Veiss handed back the writ, unsigned. "Camp rats aren't supposed to stop knights."
Tarn didn't reply. He held his ground. Mud still clung to his boots, dry now, cracked like dried blood.
Veiss stepped closer. "You think this writ is about loyalty?"
"No. It's about leverage."
Veiss smiled — only his mouth. "Good. Then you'll understand why I'll sign it... tomorrow."
"Why tomorrow?"
"Because if you sleep in the barrow and live, it means you're worth tying name to."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I wasn't wrong."
The cold deepened. The stone at Tarn's feet suddenly felt far older than he could grasp. The doorway yawned behind him—dark, cracked, and waiting.
"Inside," Veiss said. "You'll know the way."
Tarn didn't answer.
He walked into the barrow.