Daggerlight wasn't a fort. It was a warning.
Three hills wide. Fog-covered. Held once, lost twice. The only landmark was the Shrine of Screams — a collapsed bell tower with no bell. The rats were known to scream at night. No man knew why.
Veiss laid out the map.
"Daggerlight's pass must hold," he said. "The Hollow's flank is exposed, and the Mirehold's scout line is folding inward."
Calder didn't speak. He stirred his cup with a relic spoon — wood traced with saint-bone, gifted during the River Compact. He hadn't used it in years. Now he brought it to every council.
Helgar tapped the pass on the map. "Three days' ride. A hundred men, no more. Enough to signal we're still biting."
"And who commands it?" Calder asked. The question was not innocent.
Veiss glanced at Tarn. "I would."
"No," Calder said at once. "You're worth more behind the trench than buried in a fog shrine."
"I'm not leading it," Veiss said, voice light. "I'm assigning it."
A long pause.
Helgar leaned forward. "We're sending the trench-boy."
"No," Calder said. "We're feeding him to wolves."
"Wolves bark louder than saints," Veiss murmured.
Tarn said nothing.
The decision was made.
Outside, in the gear yard, Tarn checked his saddle cinch. Rikk approached. Tossed him a scarf soaked in salt and bitterroot.
"Wear it at dusk," Rikk said. "Keeps the scream-rot off."
"You believe in it?"
"I believe in stories that outlive men who mock them."
Veiss came last.
"The soldiers you take," he said quietly, "aren't loyal yet. Some want you dead. Some just want the bonus for survival."
Tarn didn't ask which was worse.
Veiss added, "Calder will wait for failure. Don't give it."
"What if I do everything right and still bleed?"
"Then bleed uphill."
They rode at dawn.
Eighteen soldiers, one priest-scout, two relic mules, and Tarn at the head — no plume, no sigil, just mud-wrapped reins.
Behind them, the Hollow's campfire smoke vanished into a sky that watched but did not bless.
Ahead: fog, rats, Daggerlight.
And whatever screamed there after nightfall.