critical_embargo

In the savage wastelands of the Greyward Marches, honor is a lie the dead tell themselves, and survival is the only victory that matters.
Calder "Stonewolf" Vane has long outlived kings, lords, and ideals — fueled by nothing but stubbornness and a relentless will to endure. He owes loyalty to no man, no banner, no god. Only one debt remains unpaid: a blood promise made long ago to Ser Garran Veyne, the only man who ever spared Calder’s life without demanding a price.
Now Garran is dead, betrayed by those he called allies, and his last surviving heir, Branwen Veyne, is being hunted like an animal.
Calder never believed in honor — but debts are another matter.
Dragging Branwen from the jaws of death, Calder makes one thing clear: this isn’t about loyalty, justice, or love. It's about finishing what was promised — nothing more. But saving Branwen paints a bloody target on Calder’s back. Every petty lord, mercenary, and bounty hunter in the Marches wants them both dead.
Outnumbered and hunted, Calder gathers a brutal warband of deserters, killers, and broken souls — the worst the Marches have to offer. Together, they wage a merciless campaign of survival and revenge, carving a path through the lords who betrayed Garran.
As the fields drown in blood and treachery, Branwen clings to the fading dream of rebuilding a better world — but Calder knows better. The Marches cannot be saved. They can only be ruled.
Through betrayal, slaughter, and grim lessons written in blood, Calder shapes Branwen into a weapon capable of seizing a crown built on ash. But when the heir he saved becomes a tyrant worse than the men they destroyed, Calder must confront the price of the broken oath he swore to keep — and the monster he helped forge.
In the end, Calder Vane will pay his final debt the only way he knows:
With steel. With blood.
And with the last shreds of whatever soul he has left.

The Broken Oath by Critical_Embargo

The cold gnawed through armor and leather.

Calder drove them forward at a brutal pace, boots hammering through the half-frozen slush.

Every man and woman in the warband bled from somewhere.

The grey sky pressed lower with each step.

Only the grind of breath and the slap of blood-soaked cloth against battered armor.

Behind them, somewhere beyond the hills, Thornhollow's trackers followed.

Calder didn't need to hear the hoofbeats to know it.

He felt it in his ribs — an old ache sharpened by years of war.

They didn't have time. Making it to the river seemed less and less an option.

Ahead, a forest tore across the land, black against the dawn's light.

Thick with broken trees and underbrush.

Calder raised a fist, halting the column without a word.

Mud splattered across their legs as they stumbled into a halt.

They obeyed without question, dragging their pain and their weapons with them.

Inside the treeline, Calder moved fast.

His breath steamed the air in short, hard bursts.

He picked ground with the speed of a butcher choosing cuts — fast, brutal, efficient.

Deadfall thick to the north. A rise of stones to the west.

A narrow trail through the center.

"Vryce, Jast — dig shallow pits along the trail. Fast. Hands and knives."

"Branwen — take ten. Spike the south side. Fallen branches, sharpened. Chest height."

"Eddric, Maelen — loose rocks on the rise. Stack 'em. Drop when I call it."

His voice snapped across the cold air like a whip.

They moved, faces pale, blood crusted at their lips, but they moved.

Calder strode the center path, measuring paces in his head.

He stopped near a crooked elm, where the ground narrowed tight between two rises.

He planted Dog's Hunger into the mud beside him, the blade sinking deep.

Branwen moved up, breathing hard, sweat streaking the grime on his face.

Branches snapped at the woodland edge.

Calder yanked Dog's Hunger free from the mud and rolled his shoulders loose.

He moved down the line, checking placements.

When he spoke, it was low and sure.

"Let 'em come close. Bleed 'em quick."

A few grunted their understanding.

Most just tightened their grips on shields and blades.

Calder crouched behind the broken elm, mud soaking into the battered mail along his knees.

The Long Death