The bell rang, and Blackstone moved as one body.
But today it moved wrong.
Eryk felt it the moment he swung his legs from the pallet. The yard was already too loud. Boots struck stone in hurried rhythms. Bowls clattered harder than usual. The dogs were being fed early, their snarls sharp and restless behind the pen.
Hala's voice cut through the noise before the boys were even fully lined.
"Bowls clean. Yard swept. I don't want a scrap showing where a Lord's boot might land!"
She wrenched a bowl from a trembling boy's hands, turned it, ran a thumb through the grease and thrust it back at his chest.
"Again. And I'll see my face in it this time."
The boy fled for the wash trough.
Bran leaned in as he and Eryk lifted a pair of water buckets.
"Inspection," he muttered. "Steward's been growling for days."
Eryk's stomach tightened.
Bran added, quieter, "Means Garren's likely in the city. Counting what still breathes for his share."
The name sat in Eryk's ribs like a stone.
Tomas passed them at a near run, words tumbling as always.
"Means boots get shined, means numbers go up, means pit gets covered just enough they pretend it's not what it is."
"Move," Hala snapped, and Tomas scattered.
They scrubbed as if filth itself were the enemy. Ash was swept into corners where visitors wouldn't walk. Fresh straw was packed over old stains. The pigs were driven farther back, and another layer thrown over the trench.
One of the worst-looking boys, thin as split kindling, cough rattling like loose bone, was taken by Gerrit and sent "out of sight."
No one said where.
Lysa pressed a rag into Eryk's hands as she passed.
"When men with tall boots come," she said without looking at him, "keep your eyes low and your hands busy. They like noticing what looks back at them."
"The Lord?" Eryk asked before he could stop himself.
"Sometimes him. Sometimes only his man. Sometimes both." She shrugged. "Doesn't change what we have to scrub."
The quarry hammers were strangely muted that morning, like a beast ordered to breathe shallow.
Blackstone was dressing itself for company.
By late morning Eryk and Bran were ordered to the upper yard with sacks and barrels, stacking them neat near the main traffic path.
"It's theater," Tomas whispered as he passed with a pump handle slung over one shoulder. "All of it. They like their dirt arranged."
Then hoofbeats sounded in the street corridor beyond the wall.
Not many. No raiding cry. Just the steady, professional sound of mounted feet on stone.
Voices followed. Low. Controlled.
Eryk felt Garren before he saw him.
That flat cadence. The familiar absence of urgency.
Bran's elbow touched his.
"Eyes down," he murmured.
From the yard's edge Eryk caught fragments through the work:
"Short on heads this month."
"Fields were thin. Bandits thick. I don't control the rain."
Numbers. Only numbers.
He risked a glance.
Garren stood near the steward's table, cloak cleaner than Eryk remembered, sword hilt dull but cared for. The iron ring turned idly on his thumb as he spoke. His men waited behind him, fewer than before, better equipped. Contractors. Not raiders.
Bran nudged him again.
"Tools don't stare."
Eryk dropped his gaze to the sack at his feet and kept lifting.
The ledger lay open at the steward's elbow by midday.
The quill moved in crisp strokes.
"You claimed three and a half last time," the steward said. "Only three remain in yard work."
"The half went to the pit," Garren replied without interest.
"Then I mark that one as spent."
The quill made a short, decisive line.
The steward's eyes tracked down the page. "We're short again."
Gerrit gestured vaguely toward the lower yard. "Hala's got one that's slow. Small. Coughs. Eats more than he carries."
The steward tilted his head, considering. His gaze slid across the yard and landed, briefly, on Eryk.
"This one's Hollowford," he said. "Teeth still good. Hala says he doesn't drop much?"
Hala was summoned with a snap of fingers.
"Not yet," she said sharply. "But he's new. I can make him earn his bowl."
Garren finally glanced over, eyes flicking to Eryk for the barest moment.
"The boy swings," he said. "Keep him where he's useful. Take someone else."
The steward nodded, already satisfied.
The quill moved again.
Elsewhere, a boy's line vanished.
Eryk felt relief flood him before he could stop it.
Then the sickness followed.
He had done nothing.
He had only stood in the right place with the right arms.
And someone else was now being counted out because of it.
Later, as the inspection wound down, Gerrit barked at him.
"Hollowford. Move that crate. Now."
The crate was heavy with tools or salted meat. He could not tell which. He bent, set his shoulder, and hauled. The edge scraped stone as he dragged it into place beside the horses.
Garren stood only a few paces away.
So close Eryk could see the scuffed leather of his boots, the damp hem of his cloak, the iron ring turning slowly on his thumb.
For a fraction of a breath, Garren's voice cut off.
His gaze flicked down. Not in recognition. Just in reflex.
"Mind the edge," he said calmly. "Don't crack the crate."
That was all.
Inside Eryk, everything surged.
He saw the opening as clearly as if it were drawn in chalk:
The corner of the crate into the knee.
A stumble under the horse.
A hand to the sword.
The thrum did not come.
There was no vibration.
No iron answering in the dark.
Only the weight in his arms.
His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
Behind him Hala snapped, "Drop that crate and I'll have your hide, boy!"
He obeyed.
The crate struck stone with a dull final sound.
Garren had already turned away.
"If the Lord wants more bodies," he was saying to the steward, "he can spare more coin. Men don't grow from stone."
He mounted smoothly.
The small retinue turned for the gate.
Bran murmured, so low only Eryk heard, "Keep moving. He's not worth losing your spot over. Not like this."
The yard swallowed the sound of hooves.
That night the shed was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
One pallet lay empty.
Someone had packed it away without comment.
Tomas stared at the rafters as if counting beams.
Bran broke a crust and said softly, "Inspections are good for some. Bad for others. Lord looks, some get pulled up, some get pushed down. Like a hand in a pile."
Eryk lay with his hands folded on his chest.
He saw again:
The iron ring.
The indifferent boots.
The ledger stroke that spared him.
And the other line disappearing beneath ink.
Killing Garren in that yard would not have stopped the quill.
The steward would still have stood over the book.
The Lord would still have sent another man with an iron ring.
The desire was still there.
Carved deep.
But now it had weight on it, more than rage alone had ever carried.
Eryk pressed his raw wrists together until the rope scars burned.
The thrum stayed silent.
As if waiting for something other than anger.
One man's death would not break Blackstone.
If Garren were ever to look at him in real fear, it would not be in a yard where the ledger still lay open.
It would be on the day the hand that counted finally slipped.
And the stone beneath it shifted.