The hooves came first.A distant thunder rolling through the earth, steady and cold. Garran stood at the edge of the palisade with Haim, watching the horizon bleed gray into dusk. The Bleak Company rode out of the mist like wolves, dark shapes against the failing light.
"Saint's piss," Haim muttered, spitting to ward off whatever curse rode with them. "They're real."
"They've always been real," Orlec's voice came from behind. The old knight limped forward, leaning heavy on his spear. "You just never lived long enough to see them."
Garran said nothing. He watched as the line of riders drew closer. No banners flew above them. No house colors marked their cloaks. Only black scarves, rusted mail, and weapons worn by endless winters.
The men around the palisade muttered old prayers. A few slipped charms from their necks. Others made signs against bad luck.
"See that one?" Orlec pointed with the butt of his spear. "That's Morrick. Captain of the Bleak. They say he slit his own brother's throat for a sack of coin."
"Some brothers deserve it," Garran murmured.
"Aye," Orlec chuckled darkly. "Some do."
The Bleak Company passed through the outer trenches. No cheers greeted them. No songs. Only the low rustle of wind through brittle grass and the steady, grim ring of hooves on frost-hardened earth.
Garran's stomach tightened. These weren't men. They were death on saddles.
The war moot gathered quick. Lord Rowe rode out to meet them, his crimson-clad men forming a hollow ring. Morrick dismounted, pulling down his scarf to reveal a face as pale as old bone, lips cracked and eyes the color of ice.
Words passed between them, too low for Garran to hear. Haim strained, leaning forward.
"Coin's changing hands," Haim guessed. "Bet Rowe sells the whole camp before dawn."
"Wouldn't surprise me."
A black-clad Bleak soldier rode past, his helmet decorated with crow feathers. He glanced toward the gathered levies at the wall, his gaze lingering on Garran. No words. Just a long, empty stare. Then he was gone, following the others toward the far side of camp.
"Think they know we rolled dice for names?" Haim joked, though his voice cracked on it.
"They wouldn't care," Garran said. "They don't leave names."
The moot ended with no speech. Rowe rode back, his cloak stirring mud. Morrick mounted and led his men toward the keep. The Bleak Company didn't camp. They waited on the rise, dark shapes in the mist, weapons drawn.
"Gods help the garrison," Orlec said quietly.
"They're not the ones who need it," Garran answered.
A bell sounded from the trenches. The assault was coming. Men gathered shields, spears, crossbows. The fires hissed as rain began to fall.
"Form ranks!" a sergeant shouted.
Haim elbowed Garran. "If we don't die tonight, I'm drinking the rest of your coin."
"You'll have to pry it from my corpse."
"That's the plan."
They fell into line as the war drums began. The steady beat matched the thrum in Garran's blood. Somewhere behind, a camp priest muttered prayers no one believed. A crone scattered bone dust into the mud.
"Crow-mark," Orlec called from his mount, his voice rough. "You'll stand beside me."
"Aye."
"Watch the walls. Bleak men breach first, but the carrion always come for the marrow. Hold your line or die ugly."
Garran's grip tightened on his sword. The battered sunburst caught a flicker of dying light. Not long now.
As the drums quickened, Garran glanced to the mist-wrapped keep ahead.The siege would end tonight. One way or another.