The air in Thornhollow's forward camp stank of smoke, unwashed bodies, and wet leather.
Captain Trelan Vorn — a thick-set man with a scarred jaw and a permanent sneer — leaned back in his chair as two ragged figures were dragged before him.
Orlen and Jasp.
Traitors.
Rats.
Exactly the kind of men the Marches chewed up and spat out when they were done gnawing on better souls.
Trelan studied them lazily, fingers drumming on the pommel of his sword.
"So," he said.
"Which one of you pissants is lying?"
Orlen, bolder or stupider, spat quickly:
"None of us, ser! We know where the Stonewolf's camp is — numbers, supplies, wounds — all of it!"
Jasp nodded furiously, clutching at the torn hem of his cloak.
"We can draw it out! Every trail, every fallback spot — swear it!"
Trelan tilted his head, amused.
"Funny thing, though."
He rose slowly, towering over the two deserters.
"Only need one tongue wagging for directions."
Before either could stammer a protest, Trelan drew his dagger and rammed it up under Jasp's chin, quick and professional.
The man spasmed once, blood bubbling from his lips, and collapsed sideways in the muck.
Orlen stared, wide-eyed, frozen.
Trelan wiped the blade on Jasp's filthy cloak and smiled thinly.
"Congratulations," he said, voice dripping contempt.
"You're the lucky one."
He jerked his head toward his second-in-command.
"Break camp. Move light. We hit them before sunrise."
Orlen was hauled away, still shaking.
The crows circled higher above the tents, eager for their turn at the feast that was to come.
The smoke rose slow and heavy over the battered remnants of Calder's camp.
A death shroud more than a beacon.
Calder Vane crouched over a rough map etched into the frozen dirt, grimacing as he traced out fallback routes, ambush points, thinning supplies.
He should have noticed sooner.
Should have realized two men missing in the chaos.
But he hadn't.
Too busy counting blades.
Too busy patching plans out of tattered hope.
Branwen stood nearby, arms folded, jaw tight.
No need for words — the boy could feel the wrongness too, now.
Something was coming.
They moved at first light — packs stripped to bare essentials, wounded supported or left behind with muttered apologies and a knife in hand.
Survival wasn't a cause anymore.
It was a reflex.
They were halfway up a narrow path between broken hills when it hit.
Steel flashed atop the ridges.
Arrows hissed through the morning mist.
Horn blasts cracked the silence like hammer blows.
Thornhollow's men poured down in disciplined waves — heavier, smarter, cutting off escape routes, driving them into a killing box.
Calder reacted instantly, barking orders:
Shields up.
Split left and right.
Find cover in the rocks.
But it was too fast.
Too coordinated.
The betrayal had tipped the scale — Thornhollow knew their habits, their fallback routes, their wounds.
And Calder's warband, already stretched thin, started to tear.
Saelen fought savagely, dragging herself through the melee with raw defiance.
Blood soaked her side.
Her sword swung wide and heavy, parrying, cleaving, gasping for air.
A mounted knight broke through the line, spurring directly at her.
Calder turned too late —
Shouted —
The knight's blade caught Saelen across the neck, a spray of dark blood fountaining into the mist.
She dropped without a sound.
Just a hard, final collapse into the muck.
Gone.
Branwen roared, driving forward, shield raised — but the knight wheeled away, lost in the churn.
Calder tightened his grip on Dog's Hunger until the leather bit into his palms.
No time for grief.
No time for rage.
Only the forward fight.
Always forward.
The ground shook under the weight of the clash.
Snow, dirt, and blood churned into a thick slurry around Calder's boots as he carved a path through Thornhollow's men.
He fought with brutal efficiency —
Dog's Hunger swinging in wide, ragged arcs, each blow forcing gaps in the enemy line.
Elbow smashes to helmets, knee strikes into guts, a savage dance of necessity.
Branwen shadowed him — no wasted movement, no wasted breath — a sword in the shape of a man.
But for every man they dropped, two more pressed forward.
The Marches didn't care who you were.
Didn't care what debts you thought you owed.
The Marches only cared that you bled enough to matter.
And Calder could feel it now — the weight pressing down.
The slow, inevitable slide toward the long death.
He spotted Orlen once — a flash of a greasy, panicked face behind a Thornhollow banner — shouting, pointing, directing men toward the folds of rock where Calder's forces bled hardest.
A traitor wearing a new leash.
For a heartbeat, Calder's vision narrowed, rage cold and sharp.
But then the moment passed.
Too many enemies between.
Too much blood already spilled.
Orlen would die.
Just not yet.
Calder slammed his shoulder into a spearman's chest, toppling him into the mud, and barked to Branwen:
"North ridge — break through!"
Branwen grunted acknowledgment, already angling toward the jagged outcrop that might — might — offer a way out.
The remains of the warband rallied.
Not because they believed.
Not because they hoped.
But because Calder Vane still moved, still fought, and survival was a hunger sharper than steel.
The push was savage.
Every step forward was bought with blood.
Saelen's empty boots trampled underfoot.
Shattered shields dropped like broken promises.
Wounded left behind with knives clutched tight for a last, desperate stand.
No heroics.
No clean charges.
Only the raw mechanics of refusal: Not yet. Not here.
They broke the line at the northern ridge with brute force —
Calder cutting a captain's leg out from under him.
Branwen smashing a buckler into another's throat hard enough to hear cartilage snap.
Two others hauling themselves over jagged rocks, pulling bleeding survivors after them.
By the time they staggered onto the far side of the ridge, the warband was a ruin.
Half of them missing.
The rest bleeding, limping, dragging wounded comrades like broken banners.
They didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
The Marches were merciless to the slow.
As they moved deeper into the broken hills, Calder finally called a halt under a crumbling stone arch — some forgotten monument to a forgotten war.
The survivors dropped where they stood, panting, coughing blood, clutching at makeshift bandages.
Branwen leaned against the stones, sword-tip dragging faint lines in the frost.
Calder knelt by the nearest dying man — pressed two fingers against his throat — shook his head once.
Another gone.
Another price paid.
And not the last.
He wiped blood — not his own — from his gauntlets and stood slowly.
The sky above had gone from gray to black without stars.
The snow fell heavier now, blinding, muffling everything into a world of cold ash.
Branwen approached, face set in stone.
"They knew, Calder," he said quietly.
"Everything. Our numbers. Our paths. Our weak points."
Not accusation.
Just bitter fact.
Calder nodded once, a sharp, tired gesture.
"I know."
He hadn't seen it coming.
Hadn't caught the escape in time.
Hadn't moved fast enough to cut out the rot before it hollowed the bones of his warband.
It was an error.
And in the Marches, errors cost blood.
Cost Saelen.
Cost too much.
The survivors stared at him now — not with hope.
Not with loyalty.
Only because he was the last pillar left standing.
The last wolf still breathing.
And Calder Vane — the Stonewolf — would not lay down.
Not until the last debt was paid.
He turned, barking orders hoarse and raw:
"Move.
North again.
We find the river crossing before they pen us against the cliffs."
No protests.
No questions.
Only motion.
Only survival.
Above, in the swirling black sky, the crows circled lower.
Their feast was starting.
They would gorge themselves well.