The first man never even saw Calder coming.
Dog's Hunger took him low across the knees — a heavy, brutal swing that snapped bone and tendon like wet twigs.
The man screamed as he hit the mud, hands scrambling uselessly at the ground.
Calder ended it with a downward thrust that pinned the man's head into the dirt like a spiked banner.
No pause.
No breath.
Calder moved through the camp like a black wind, cutting through the scattered mercenaries before they could form ranks.
Steel flashed.
Voices rose in panic, barking half-formed orders swallowed by the mist.
One guard charged — sword high, face twisted in fear.
Calder ducked low, let the blow whistle overhead, and slammed his shoulder into the man's gut.
The force lifted the fool clean off his feet.
Calder drove him backward into a half-splintered wagon axle, heard ribs crack, felt the body go slack.
He yanked his dagger free and buried it under the man's chin without breaking stride.
Panic spread through the camp like wildfire.
Prisoners screamed and scrambled for cover.
Guards swung wildly at shadows, hacking at shapes that weren't there.
The mist did Calder's work for him.
It wrapped around him, cloaking every movement, every brutal strike, every corpse falling into the mud.
Another guard stumbled into his path, swinging blindly with a rusted mace.
Calder sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted.
The joint popped.
The weapon fell.
Calder slit his throat in one practiced, merciless stroke.
At the center of the chaos, Branwen still knelt by the wagon.
Too weak or too smart to run.
Maybe both.
Calder cut down two more mercenaries as he carved a path toward them.
One tried to plead, dropping his sword and raising both hands.
Calder didn't even slow.
Mercy was for corpses and fools.
Dog's Hunger opened the man from shoulder to hip, sending steaming guts spilling into the mud.
The prisoner wagon loomed ahead, half-shattered, wheels sunk deep into the muck.
Branwen raised his head weakly, eyes glazed, blood caked down one side of his face.
Recognition flickered there.
Not hope.
Not thanks.
Recognition.
And something colder: fear.
Good.
Fear was honest.
Fear kept you alive.
Calder reached Branwen in three more strides.
He knelt without ceremony, slicing through the crude hemp bindings with the tip of his dagger.
The ropes were soaked, swollen tight, cutting raw trenches into Branwen's wrists.
Branwen flinched when the blade touched him.
Reflex.
No human survived the Marches without it.
"Get up," Calder growled, voice low and hard.
No gentleness.
No questions.
Branwen staggered upright, one knee buckling.
Calder grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet.
Dead weight wouldn't survive the next few minutes.
Only the stubborn and the vicious lived long enough to regret it.
He shoved Branwen toward the cover of the nearest overturned wagon.
"Stay down. Move when I move."
Branwen nodded once, too dazed to argue.
Good enough.
A roar split the mist — guttural, furious.
A squad of Thornhollow's men had regrouped near the first wagon.
Six of them.
Better armed.
Calder recognized the look in their eyes even at a distance:
Cornered animals.
Dead men who hadn't figured it out yet.
He grinned and tightened his grip on Dog's Hunger.
This wasn't survival anymore.
This was work.
The first two mercenaries charged, thinking to overwhelm him with brute force.
Calder sidestepped the first, letting the man stumble past him into the mud.
He caught the second on the swing — Dog's Hunger carving a brutal arc that split shield and forearm in a single blow.
The mercenary howled, dropping his weapon.
Calder kicked him square in the gut, sending him sprawling backward into a shallow trench filled with filthy water.
The first attacker spun, slashing wildly.
Calder closed the distance, slammed an elbow into the man's temple, and finished him with a short, savage thrust to the kidneys.
One down.
He pivoted, yanked the heavy dagger from his belt, and hurled it low and hard.
It punched into another guard's thigh, dropping him with a strangled yelp.
Two more rushed him together, flanking from either side.
Calder ducked low, driving his shoulder into one man's gut while swinging Dog's Hunger in a wide, brutal backhand that caught the other across the jaw.
Teeth and blood sprayed into the mist.
The first man grappled him, trying to force Calder down by sheer weight.
They crashed into the mud, grappling, fists and elbows and knees all driving into each other's guts and throat.
Calder felt something tear in his wounded shoulder — a hot bloom of agony.
He grunted and slammed the crown of his head into the man's face, once, twice, until the wet crunch of breaking bone told him it was over.
He shoved the twitching body off and rolled back to his feet, blood dripping from his armor, breathing ragged.
Three left.
Maybe four.
One grabbed Branwen — yanking him upright, a knife to his throat.
"Hold!" the mercenary bellowed, voice cracking with panic.
"Move and he die!"
Calder paused.
Just long enough for the mercenary to think he might live through this.
Then he moved.
A throwing knife flicked from Calder's fingers — low and fast.
Not to kill.
To disarm.
The blade punched through the man's wrist, sending the dagger spinning into the mud.
The mercenary screamed, releasing Branwen by pure instinct.
Calder was on him a second later, Dog's Hunger cleaving through the soft meat between neck and shoulder.
The body dropped at Branwen's feet like a sack of rotten meat.
The last two mercenaries bolted, panic outweighing loyalty or coin.
Calder let them run.
He was bleeding.
Branwen could barely stand.
Survival first.
Vengeance later.
He staggered back to Branwen, grabbing his arm roughly.
He winced but didn't pull away.
Good.
No room for softness now.
"Move," Calder said.
Voice flat.
A voice that did not allow questions.
Branwen nodded, face pale but set.
There was steel under the ruin after all.
Calder pushed him ahead into the mist.
The ruined Marches swallowed them whole — two broken figures dragging what was left of life through the wreckage of dead men's dreams.