The crows came with the dawn.Dozens of them, fat and black, feasting on the heads Garran's men had hung from the ridge road. The air stank of rot and damp earth. Wolves circled the fringes of the slaughter ground, but none dared come closer with so many black wings flapping above.
Garran stood by the crude palisade they'd begun to raise at Thornholt, watching the hills. His sword hung loose at his hip, but his hand stayed close to it out of habit. The scent of fresh timber and woodsmoke clung to the morning.
"Never seen so many crows in one place," Dannic muttered beside him.
"They follow war," Garran said. "Like we all do."
A horn sounded from the southern path.
Jorik came up quick, chewing a strip of dried meat. "Rider, captain. Single banner."
Garran squinted into the mist.
Sure enough — a lone figure approached on a tall grey horse, the banner at his back marked with a crimson raven on a field of black.
Not Ranmere's colors.
Not friendly.
He called to the gate guards."Open it. But not wide."
The rider came to a halt before the half-built gate, reined in his horse, and raised a hand in peace.
"Message for the steward of Thornholt," the man called.
He was lean, pale, clean-faced — a court man, by the look. Good cloak, finer boots than anyone had business wearing this far out. He bore no sword.
"I'm listening," Garran called back.
The man dismounted, eyes wary but composed. "My lord, Ser Kestrel Harrowmont, sends greetings and an offer. He commends your… decisive handling of the Dagger Hills scum."
At that, Jorik spat into the dirt. "Wasn't a greeting."
Garran stepped forward. "Speak your master's offer plain."
The envoy drew a sealed letter from his cloak. The wax was crimson, marked with the raven sigil.
Garran didn't take it. "Speak."
The man hesitated. "Ser Kestrel invites you to parley at Hollowmere. A council of men who see where this war is headed. Lords and captains alike. There'll be talk of banners raised, land claimed, crowns worn by those with strength to keep them."
The words hung in the air like hanging ropes.
Jorik's grin was sharp."Ah. So it begins."
Garran's gaze didn't leave the envoy. "And why should I ride to another man's table?"
"Because, captain," the man said carefully, "those who aren't at that table will soon find themselves beneath it."
A cold, honest thing. Garran almost respected it.
He took the letter then, weighing it in his hand.
"I'll send my answer tomorrow."
The envoy bowed, mounted, and rode off at a steady pace — too quick to be casual, too slow to show fear.
Jorik let out a low whistle.
"Well. There's your invitation to the wolves' den."
Garran broke the wax, scanned the contents. The message inside was as sharp and merciless as the man's voice had been. Names of lords gathering in secret. Promises of spoils. Talk of a crown in waiting — for whoever could seize it.
Thornholt was a speck on that map. But it wouldn't stay that way for long.
Garran closed the letter.
"Double the watch," he said. "And gather the men by dusk. If war's coming, I'll not have us caught with our breeches down."
Jorik chuckled. "You'll go to this parley?"
"I'll send a message first," Garran said, eyes fixed on the hills. "Let them know Thornholt's no man's vassal."
The crows wheeled above the ridge road.
And somewhere, a kingless crown waited for a man bold — or mad — enough to reach for it.