Sun crawls to its hard, white zenith, and with it the frost turns to needle-spray that stings the drill-yard air. A single low drumbeat—nothing like the earlier bell—calls the bodies back, servants and outer disciples both funneling toward the decree post beside the ration hall. The plank door there is scabbed with nail heads older than most of the living, yet each time a new parchment is hammered up the wood seems to flinch.
Ma Gok paces forward, scroll roll in one fist, iron cane clacking the cadence of judgment. He does not read this time; the names are already penned in muted slate. A junior scribe reaches over his shoulder and drives the first nail home. Thock. The grey ink vibrates under the blow, a pulse of colour and inevitability.
Heads crane. Jang finds a narrow gap between two forge boys and forces himself to breathe slowly, to let his eyes travel line by line instead of pouncing. "Auxiliary Servants—Exploratory March."
Choi Jun-bae, laundry—Kim Won-Il, stable feed—Hong Jisoo, inventory—Im Jang, coal annex—
The instant his gaze lands on his own name the yard noise twists: every surrounding word warps into tide roar, yet the single syllable of his surname tolls clear, an anvil note struck inside his chest. The ink is grey, not red. Grey means expendable—official language calls it auxiliary; everyone hears fodder.
Won-Il, two paces away, lets out a huff that is half-laugh, half-sob. "Should've bet against myself," he mutters. His joke fails to rise; worry drags it down like a stone dropped in thin ice.
A hiss of breath behind them. Jisoo has read her own line; knuckles blanch around the seam-ripper she forgot to pocket. Her lips move—no sound, just the bitter arithmetic of risk. He touches her elbow, briefly, a pulse of reassurance too small to owe explanation. She does not shrug him off, yet the tension in her shoulder warns how close the ledger of loyalties sits to breakage.
The crowd's rustle thickens as each servant does the tally: fifteen chosen, fifty-four spared. Relief smells of sweat and shame. A few nod thanks to empty sky. Others glance at those named and look quickly away, as if the mark might smear across distances.
Then the sea of bodies parts on its own: Seo Yun-tae is stroking through, a hawk slicing low over reeds. Sunlight rims the immaculate line of his topknot; the lacquered scabbard at his hip kisses stone with every stride.
He stops beside Jang as though noticing him only now, though his eyes gleam with deliberate arrival. "Rat's trading gutters for cliffs?" The question curls through a smile too sharp to be mistaken for kindness. His shoulder collides with Jang's—the motion too casual for Ma Gok to punish, too violent for simple accident—and the impact drives a flare of pain through half-healed ribs.
"Road dust hides blood well," Seo adds, breath scented faintly with ginger tonic. "Remember that." One elegant flick of the wrist brushes invisible lint from his sleeve; then he turns, cape snapping, already bored with the conversation. A trail of minor disciples follow, echo-shadows in blue silk.
Jang's ears ring, though no blow followed the threat. Won-Il edges closer, gaze flitting like a sparrow. "Ignore him," he says, not believing it. "Hawks choke on rat bones." It might have sounded braver had his voice not cracked on rat. Still, Jang nods thanks.
A hush slithers over the yard: Core Disciple Han Jeong-il descends the veranda stair, Yun Mi-rhe at his side. Han wears travelling greys trimmed in sober black, every fold knife-creased. As he leans toward his companion the collar gap widens; a fine chain slides free, links glimmering quicksilver. A disc the size of a coin swivels once, lotus-rim catching late noon light, then vanishes beneath cloth.
Heartbeat hitches. A single italicised pulse inside Jang's skull. There is no time to stare; Han's gaze slices across the assembly, weighing, discarding, never quite touching. The chain is gone but the image seeds itself behind Jang's eyes, setting roots alongside charcoal characters and blood-brown petals.
The roster crowd unknots into currents of new errands. Tools must be sharpened, bedrolls beaten free of lice, rations weighed. Jang feels the moment's tremor fade only to be replaced by the heavier vibration of the journey beginning to reel them in. He drags air deep once, twice, and sets about the tasks the day still demands: sludge buckets to empty, kitchen wood to split, each chore stealing another slice of afternoon until the sky bruises violet.
Oil lamps gutter low in the servants' quarter when the door cloth rustles and Kwan slips inside, shoulders hunched around a cloth pack. Lantern light hollows the bruise-shadows beneath his eyes; weapon-polish duty has thieved his sleep. He holds out the bundle. "Boiled leather skin," he whispers, "flint, half-strip of boar. Better than trusting camp kitchens."
Jang accepts with both hands, gratitude too large for voice. Kwan's fingers tighten around the strap before letting go. "Word is Core Han guards something priceless," he says. "They say thieves at Iron-Gale died without raising a single alarm—blood drained like ink into ground." A bleak half-smile. "Inside-lapel pocket won't help if he decides you looked wrong at him."
"I won't look," Jang promises, though both know it is a lie children might believe.
Kwan's palm closes over his wrist, firm, brother-silent. "Jin seals rust, stone cracks, but mouths ruin faster. Keep yours shut."
Then he is gone, duty chains pulling him elsewhere. The pack's weight remains, an oracle made of cured hide and warning.
The dorm settles to uneasy breathing. Outside, Cho Sun-kyu's lantern sweeps past shutters, casting bars of flickering gold that cage every sleeping shape. Jang cannot sleep yet: errands remain unspoken. He slides the pack beneath his pallet, reaches for the ink-stick already hidden there, and lets the coming night pull its veil over Ironshadow's walls.