Dawn came mean and wet, the mist hanging low over the field like a curse. Smoke still drifted from the broken walls of Stonegrave, though the rain had smothered most of the fires. Garran woke stiff and sore, the ache of battle clinging to his bones.
The camp stank worse now. Burnt cloth, blood, wet earth, and the sour stink of men who had no clean water and too much wine.
"You alive, Crow-mark?" Haim's voice came, hoarse but bright. He crouched by the fire, holding a hunk of half-burned bread.
"Barely."
"Good. Means you can buy me drink with your share."
Garran sat up, pulling his cloak close. "Is coin being paid already?"
"Soon," Haim grinned. "Rowe's reeve's posted the lists. Names marked. Heads claimed. Those with a body to prove get silver. Those without, copper. Dice rats like me get scraps."
"And the Bleak?"
Haim spat into the mud. "They claim first pick. Spoils, relics, ransom, everything short of the stones themselves. That was the price."
Garran's jaw tightened. He knew how it worked. Men like Rowe played at war. The Bleak Company finished it. Then the carrion came.
A horn sounded near the ruined keep. Men gathered toward the pay tables, where Rowe's reeve, Halden, sat flanked by guards in crimson cloaks.
"Come on," Haim said, rising. "Let's see what we bleed for."
They made their way through the churned mud. Men haggled over scraps of armor, a few arguing over who'd struck which corpse. Garran passed a pile of rebel dead, already picked clean, faces slack in the dawn light.
At the pay table, Halden called names from a parchment, his voice sharp and cold.
"Corven of the South Line."
"Aye!" the old soldier pushed forward.
Halden tossed a leather pouch at him. "One confirmed head. Copper. No relic."
Corven spat on the ground, took his coin, and moved on.
"Crow-mark."
The name hung in the air. A few men glanced Garran's way.
He stepped forward. Halden's eyes were pale, calculating.
"Harren of the Gate," Halden said. "Claimed by your sword."
"Aye."
"You have proof?"
"Orlec saw it."
The old knight stepped from the line, his cloak still damp with blood.
"He struck the blow," Orlec rasped. "I stake my name on it."
Halden nodded. A weighty purse dropped to the table.
"Silver, as decreed. Bloodline kill."
Garran took the pouch. It felt too heavy, the weight of it cold in his palm.
"Spend it wisely, Stone," Halden said. "Names cling to men like curses."
"I'll remember," Garran said, turning away.
Haim was grinning. "Silver. By the gods, you'll drink half the camp dry."
"Maybe."
As they left, a figure stepped from the shadows. Morrick. His black scarf was down, his face still pale as frost, blood dried on his cheek.
"A word, Crow-mark."
Haim gave a quick nod and melted into the crowd.
Garran met the Bleak captain's gaze.
"You carry old steel," Morrick said. "Not just any blade."
"It's mine."
"For now."
Silence stretched between them. Rain tapped the ruined stones.
"Your name's not Stone," Morrick said, voice low. "Men like you don't crawl from mud. They fall from high places."
Garran's grip tightened on his sword hilt.
"Be careful, Captain."
Morrick gave a thin smile. "I admire ambition. I buried my own name years ago. But names are dangerous things here."
"I know."
"Good." Morrick stepped past him, cloak stirring the mud. "We ride soon. Storm coming. Be ready."
Garran watched him go. The purse weighed heavy in his hand.
Haim appeared at his shoulder. "What was that about?"
"Nothing yet."
Haim grinned. "That's the best kind of nothing."
They walked toward the dice ring, the camp around them still steeped in blood and ruin. The war was over, for now.
But war never truly ended in the March.