They reached the outer trench line by second dusk.
The camp hadn't moved. But it had changed. Men looked at Tarn now. Not with trust, not yet — but with recognition. That was worse. Recognition came with expectations. With bets whispered behind fire-smoke and wagers laid in dice.
Brae's limp had worsened, but she made it. Veiss dismounted first, slow and deliberate, then handed Tarn the writ without a word.
They passed through the watchpoint gate without challenge. The guards stepped aside the way men step for thunder.
At the camp's center, the barn had grown quieter, tighter. A fresh sigil now hung outside it — the mark of Field Authority. Burned into a split-branch shield. That meant two things: Calder had petitioned for interim control, and Helgar had allowed it.
Which meant things were worse than before.
Inside the barn, the same table. The same candles. The same men — but the chairs had moved. Calder now sat center. Not flanking.
He didn't rise.
"Tarn," he said, biting the name like a flaw. "And the barrow ghost returns. Did you bring back mud, or just stories?"
Veiss said nothing. He placed the writ down on the cracked grain cart table. Turned it toward them. Waited.
Helgar reached for it, but Calder's hand landed first. He studied it. Saw the glyph. Flinched — just once.
"You let him mark it," Calder said.
"He marked himself," Veiss answered.
"That's not protocol."
"Neither is losing a river post and pretending it was a tactical yield."
Silence folded the barn in half. A soldier outside dropped something. Didn't pick it up.
Helgar sighed through his teeth. "The writ stands. Witnessed by barrow fire. We can't contest it now — not without losing face to the outer camps."
Calder leaned back. "Then let it be your face. I won't vouch this. He's still unseated."
"I'll seat him," Veiss said.
"You're not highborn."
"I'm land-sworn. I have tithing rights. And I speak for the stone that signed him."
A long pause. The kind that tested loyalty, and ears, and future gossip all at once.
Finally, Helgar nodded.
"Then we seat him. At the low table."
Tarn stepped forward.
"No," Veiss said. "At mine."
Calder stood. "You challenge?"
"No," Veiss said. "I remind. You forfeited your trench title when you ceded barrow reach. And I've bled more into this camp than you've ever had in your wine."
Helgar's gaze flicked between them. Calculating.
"Fine," the captain said. "He sits with you. If he fails, it's your tongue that explains why to the next blood-scout envoy."
Veiss grinned. "Good thing I don't lie well."
Tarn didn't move.
Calder's eyes caught his. Held. Then:
"Try not to choke on the stew this time," he said, stepping aside.
Veiss clapped Tarn's shoulder once.
"You made it," he said quietly.
Tarn stared at the seat. Then took it.
The bench didn't bite.
But it remembered.