The frost hung heavier by nightfall. Fires burned low, ringed by men hunched in rough cloaks and sweat-stiffened gambesons. The camp muttered like a restless beast — dice clattered, wine-skins passed hand to hand, and somewhere a pair of men brawled over a chicken bone.
Garran sat alone by a narrow trench, the mud thick against his boots. He worked the edge of his sword with a whetstone, though the blade was so nicked and rusted it barely mattered.
"Still scraping that relic, eh?" Haim dropped onto a log nearby, chewing a sprig of something green and sour-smelling. "By the bones, that thing's seen better wars."
"It was my father's," Garran said without looking up.
Haim snorted. "Didn't think you lot had fathers."
Garran grinned. "Some of us are unlucky that way."
A silence settled, broken only by the distant ring of a hammer against a helm. Garran let it stretch. The cold gnawed at his fingers, and the whetstone slipped against the dull steel.
"You never told me your place," Haim said, watching the firelight dance. "Where you came from. What gutter spat you out."
Garran's hand stilled. The blade caught the light, and for a moment the worn sigil on its pommel glinted through the grime. A broken sunburst. Faint, almost lost.
"Doesn't matter," Garran said.
Haim eyed him. "Stone's a bastard's name."
"I know."
"Bastard names mean something out here. No inheritance. No claim. No blood to call on if you're taken for ransom. Just mud and an open throat."
"That's the way of it."
Haim spat into the dirt. "Still, you fight like a man with something left to lose."
Before Garran could answer, a cackle split the dark.
"Stone-born's got grit, I'll give him that," came a voice. Vek the Butcher, a thick-shouldered mercenary with a nose like a smashed potato and a dozen crude tokens hanging from his belt. He sauntered up, a crude bone die rolling in his palm.
"Don't see many mud-cubs swing a blade like you," Vek said. "Or carry old steel like that."
"It's mine."
"Could be worth a silver or two in Rowe's camp."
Garran's voice went flat. "It's not for sale."
Vek grinned, missing two teeth. "Didn't say I'd buy it, Stone. Said it'd fetch coin. Different thing."
Haim shifted uncomfortably. "Easy, Vek."
"Relax, dice-rat. Just saying, man walks around with old blood steel, folks start wondering whose name's buried under all that rust."
"I'm no lord," Garran said.
"Good," Vek muttered. "We hang lords around here."
He spat and moved on, whistling a war chant about crows and unburied men. Garran set the sword aside and picked up his wine-skin.
"Best keep your head down," Haim murmured. "Names get you killed quicker than swords."
"I know what mine's worth."
"Then why keep the blade?"
"Because it's mine," Garran said. "And one day, I might bury it in a man who deserves it."
Haim gave a crooked grin. "If you live that long."
"I plan to."
The dice ring called to them, a circle of raucous laughter and shouted curses. Men wagered coin, bone charms, stolen relic tokens, and the right to pick first from the next loot haul. An old mercenary named Corven sang a tune about a whore with a silver tongue, half-drunk and slurring.
"I heard they strung another rebel up this dusk," Haim said as they made for the circle.
"Which?"
"Some lad they caught crawling through the ditch. Claimed he was fetching water for his kin."
"What did Rowe's man say?"
"Called it treason. Gave him the rope and a crow for company."
Garran grunted. "Better than being taken by the Bleak Company."
"Aye," Haim shivered. "I'd rather hang clean than wear a Bleak collar."
They reached the dice ring, where a cluster of men sat hunched over a flattish stone, bones clattering. A copper cup, a leather pouch, and a ragged wool cloak marked the stakes.
"New blood," Corven rasped. "Come to bleed your coin, Stone?"
"Only if you'll lose it fair."
The men laughed, some genuine, some thin. Garran sat, felt the cold bite through his trousers, and took the offered die.
As he prepared to throw, a shadow fell across them. Ser Orlec Marnis stood there, arms folded, his one good eye hard as flint.
"No riding at dawn," the old knight said.
Garran looked up. "Why?"
"Orders changed. Rowe's called for a war moot. Word is the Bleak Company rides by night."
Muttered curses filled the air.
"Godless bastards," someone spat.
"I'd rather eat my own fingers than march beside them," Corven grumbled.
"War's war," Orlec said. "And coin's thin. Moot's at first light. Don't come hungover."
He left without another word. The dice rolled again, laughter resuming, but softer now.
Garran tossed the die. A six and a one.
Haim chuckled. "Luck's luck."
"Luck's what you make it," Garran said, watching the flame flicker in the night.
Somewhere, a crow called three times.
No one spoke.
Bad omen.
Better than good ones. Those always came before the worst.