Thornholt stank of blood and wet earth.
The rain had eased by dawn, leaving behind a sky the color of old iron. Smoke drifted from the smoldering heaps where the bodies of Ser Kestrel's men were burned. Crows gathered thick in the trees beyond the palisade, fat from feasting.
The walls held, though barely. Half-built stakes torn up, gaps wide enough to drive a horse through. Men worked in grim silence, binding wounds, hauling timbers, reforging spearheads. The Black Harp had lost near twenty men. A hard toll.
But they were still breathing.
And Garran had no intention of waiting for the next blow.
He stood with Jorik, Mera, and Dannic by the battered gate, overlooking the trail south. A map, stained with rain and blood, lay spread over a barrel. Garran's finger traced a line along the hills.
"There," he said. "Kestrel's forward post at Hollowmere. Staging ground for the last push east. Stores, horses, fifty men, maybe more. I mean to burn it."
Dannic grunted. "We've not the numbers for a siege."
"No siege," Garran said. "We slip in like shadows. Kill in their sleep. Burn the wagons. Put steel through their officers. Then we leave."
Jorik grinned. "I like it. Been too long since we sent a message proper."
Mera nodded. "If we move tonight, we'll have the cover."
It was settled.
By nightfall, thirty picked men rode south.
No banners. No horns. Just black-clad killers moving through the mist, faces streaked with mud and ash. Garran rode at their head, axe at his saddle, a stolen raven-feather token tied to his belt.
The road to Hollowmere was old and broken, lined with dying trees. No patrols this far out, not after the last rout. Garran's men moved swift, teeth bared against the cold.
Hollowmere appeared near midnight.
A rough palisade of timber and wagons, hastily built. A dozen low tents. Two fires still guttering. Guards half-dozing in the wet.
It would be a slaughter.
Garran gave the signal.A hand raised.A clenched fist.Then silence broke like glass.
Knives in throats. Crossbow bolts through sleeping chests. One man's dying gasp was all the warning they gave.
Jorik led a charge through the supply tent, torch in one hand, axe in the other. Fire leapt to canvas, caught dry timber. The camp turned to chaos, men stumbling from sleep into death.
Garran cut down a pair of officers trying to rally at the central fire. One, a grizzled sergeant, managed a swing before Garran drove his sword under the man's chin.
The night screamed with flame and blood.
By the time the last defender fell, the whole post was ablaze. Horses panicked, wagons burned. The scent of scorched flesh thick in the air.
The Black Harp gathered at the treeline, slick with sweat and blood. Thirty men rode in.
Twenty-eight rode out.
They reached Thornholt by dawn.
Smoke still hung on the horizon behind them. A warning to Kestrel's forces. Garran stood at the gate as the sun rose, watching the sky flush with bruised light.
Mera approached, hair damp, a smudge of soot on her cheek. "It's done?"
He nodded.
"Good," she said. "The men needed this."
Garran said nothing. His eyes stayed on the southern road.
This wasn't over. Not by half.
But for now, the wolves had bared their teeth and Thornholt's name would be whispered with fear.