The table was wrong.
Too long. Too many candles. No bread yet. And worse — no seat cards.
Tarn stood outside the long barrack hall's eastern flap, boots cleaned, blade oiled, hands raw from trench scouring. He wore his best — which meant the same jerkin, only brushed, and his father's pendant turned backward beneath the collar.
Inside, voices curled like smoke — laughter that bent instead of broke. Political laughter. Controlled, edged, purpose-slick.
"Enter when called," said the steward, eyes like cut slate.
Tarn waited. Rikk had offered to walk with him. Veiss had offered to announce him. He'd declined both.
When the flap finally pulled aside, he stepped in alone.
The room quieted.
Not silent — not insulted — just quiet. Like it had heard something unsanctioned enter.
There were four tables. One long, central, with command officers and quarter-nobles. Flanked by two shorter ones for battle-signed and support. At the far end: Veiss, seated not at the center, but just off it — deliberately ambiguous.
Calder sat across him.
Tarn paused.
No one gestured.
"Where do I—"
"You may serve from the trench," Calder said, lifting his cup.
A few chuckles. Too practiced.
Helgar tapped twice on the table. "He led a trench crew into Dog's Hollow. Returned with six."
"Only six?" someone murmured.
"More than the last three squads," Veiss said, smiling without teeth.
Calder gestured toward a space — not next to Veiss. Not near the command. Far right. No bench. No chair. Just an empty place where a seat should have been.
"If he earns a chair," Calder said, "he may keep it. Until then, let him find one."
Tarn didn't move.
Helgar leaned back. "All seating is a test, lad. You can stand. You can steal. Or you can speak."
Tarn's jaw ticked.
Then he turned — calmly — walked past the food-laden tables, through the watch of every minor knight and banner-son, and toward the wall.
There, just past the wine rack, sat a broken bench — too short, leg split.
He lifted it.
Carried it.
Brought it forward.
And set it down where Calder had gestured — without permission, but without defiance.
He sat.
The silence was long. Uneasy. Then Jael — seated lower — gave a single, sharp tap of his fork to the table edge.
Others followed.
Three taps.
Four.
A quiet rhythm of acknowledgment.
Tarn began to eat. Slowly. Precisely.
He knew better than to speak.
And yet—
Calder finally said, "The trench bled for you. But now you must bleed for the table."
"I already did," Tarn said, voice even. "Ask the Hollow."